On the way to Australia ... Goodbye South Pacific

It's a bit hard to say goodbye to what I feel will be the highlight of the this magnificent journey, and quite honestly, at times, a trying crucible. We are now leaving Polynesia. I shall miss the Marquesas and their rugged, jagged basalt peaks and octopus and grouper-rich waters, and hunting feral goats on volcanic rock that burned my calves and shredded my foot-wear and left me begging for my next breath.  I shall miss the Tuamotos and their labyrinth of coral-rich waters and nights that so lit up with stars I felt like I was embedded into Van Gogh's "Starry Night" from a low-lying palm and white, sugar-sand island.  I doubt I shall ever again breath air as pure as it was there  The Isles of Tahiti, Huahine, Bora Bora, Rarotonga, and Niue leave me reminiscing about the great memories of vibrant open markets, black Tahitian pearls,  beautiful venomous sea-snakes that may just give you a love tap with their nose, old US W.W. II gun-emplacements now rusty and forever-silenced, volcanic and verdant slopes falling into gin-blue waters teeming with fish ready to be viewed...or put on the table, and people that are genuine, tradition and family-oriented, and friendly.  Fiji still calls to me with her giant clams with iridescent green and blue lips that when disturbed shut their shells so forcibly that the water around you moves.  The diverse nature of native Fijians living now with their Indo-Fijian and Chinese neighbors could quite possibly be a social lesson for the world to follow.  The first invite and participation in a Kava ceremony/social is something that will change you...and I will leave it at that in the hope that you force yourself to take that trip you know you have earned with so many days in the 8-5 grind and are still making excuses as to why you can't go.  Go, my friends!  Today is a gift, there is only false promise in tomorrow, and everything is fleeting.

Vanuatu, which is only several hundred miles to our rudder and dancing in my mind entails the experience of ceremonial dance entrancing one, orchid-laden ficus trees as large as a soccer field shading out the sun in a misty jungle, volcanos so active and accessible you look down at the magma being projected at you and followed by the thunderous crash of the cooled rock as it rolls back into the abyss of the mad mountain, and a real pig-hunt where one feels as if you should paint your face with mud and blood before a mad dash through the jungle.  This is magic of Vanuatu.  For those of us who feel, at times, like we were born a bit too late and missed out on the great discoveries and adventures in human history; the isle of Tanaa is where the Skip and I were able to put that inner-need to rest (well, at least for a while).  Discovery is still possible, we've found, from within and tangible if one is willing to trek out a little bit beyond the tired, worn paths of humanity. We ran through the jungle in pursuit of a fleeing animal and bathed in all the glory of her steep peaks and towering canopy of foreign hills.  We learned to drink and eat from the trees and the chase and the kill of a wild boar became a distant thought as we melted into bush.  Our clothes drenched and dirtied, our sweat mixed with the volcanic dirt we wore and dripped off of us to the forest floor below, leaving a faint trace of us on her hills.  She, too, became a part of us leaving an indelible mark on our souls.

Our short stay in Port Villa, was taken up by the usual tasks of provisioning, fueling, taking on water, and maintenance checks but we did manage to buys some DVDs and other items we hadn't seen in quite a while (hey, I'm not completely ready to trade it all in and live in a tree), soak up the open-market which rivals the one in Tahiti, and grab a bite in a local eatery.  The Skip even got a haircut (well-overdue).

We make our way at a blistering 8.5 knts over ground, with apparent winds at 22 knts. to a land down under.  We find ourselves in the Coral Sea and night-watches are not to be taken lightly.  The ARC lost a vessel here last year and we allow ourselves not a minute of shut-eye when its our turn on watch.  It's a mine field of patch coral and tiny isles.  This is the start of day three of what will possibly be six days.  We push forward with no water-maker but with the happiness of having a great, new crew-member aboard the "BEG" by the name of Oisin who hails from Ireland and was previously aboard "Tucanon" and the sublime, often surreal memories of our cultural and natural experiences in the South Pacific.  Life is good, the world is a wilder place than I once thought, and we see beauty in the people who welcome us with open arms and open hearts as we venture around this spinning, blue and green marble.  Talk to you in Australia.  I'm looking forward to making friends with a duck-billed, venomous, egg-laying, mammal and, if lucky, finding one of those truly large toothy critters swimming around the Great Barrier Reef w/o it finding me first.  I have a feeling that Australia will be a strangely, beautiful place; a land of paradox.    As always, love and miss you all.  Te amo, Merce.  Brown Eyed Girl out....

Lords of the Flies

As we made arrival to the isle of Tanaa, the extremely active volcano, Mt. Yasur, greeted us with huge plumes of black smoke rising into the azure sky and its bellows carried across the water and met us with intensity. We made the narrow passage around the coral surrounding the isle and entered the anchorage below the rumbling volcano. Gazing into the steep slopes and verdant jungle, plumes of smoke rose from various points among the hills. Geothermal hot spots oozed smoke above the jungle canopy. The sound of people exchanging conch calls from one side of the bay to the other, carried over the water. I wondered what messages they were conveying. Melanesian women were seen cooking along the shoreline in a boiling, geothermal pool. A small, white sandy beach lay just beyond a labyrinth of coral heads waiting to chew up a prop. Even before stepping foot on her wild slopes, the Skip and I knew we had arrived to a special place, far from civilization and the lives we left behind. Little did we know, how surreal the entire experience would be. We were quick to find that this would be the isle where we could become lords of the flies in our own time.

Tanaa is an isle among a chain of isles called Vanuatu. You won't find wireless here and if you find the one guy with a satellite dish and a television, he will charge you an hourly rate. Well, he charges his neighbors anyway. Malaria is prevalent, will be found, and anti-malarial's are a must. The people are tribal oriented and bound to the land and shores in tradition, ceremony, and work. They are extremely friendly to sailors and are quick to invite people to a Kava ceremony (guys only-and no I didn't go but I heard it was very different than those in Fiji-no talking, Kava powder is mixed strongly with spit of all those participating, and two cups may take down an elephant-no thanks), let you observe ritualistic tribal dance where males wear only grass penis sheaths, or help you make your way up to the most accessible active volcano in the world. If you really extend yourselves, you may just line up a wild boar hunt through the brush as we did by making friends with the local chief, Whery.

The road to Mt. Yasur had been washed out in areas by a major rainstorm storm that hit a couple weeks ago. As we piled into the flat beds of pick-ups, we ascended the jungle road, amazed at the size of the wild Ficus with their aerial roots drooping down and obscuring the sun. Our driver precariously avoided the huge wash-outs in the road while maintaining a pretty good clip. One tire in those massive washouts and we all would have been flying like rag-dolls. Dust kicked up from the road and domestic pigs darted across in front of us, headed to their beds. Epiphytic orchids adorned much of the landscape. As we passed by, people were proud to show off their English skills with a resounding and genuine, "Hello!" As we encroached upon the volcano, the landscape changed dramatically and ash and lava rock dominated the scenery and turned into a moonscape. We hiked only 300 meters and there we were at the edge of the rim, looking down into the abyss of lava. Boom! Boom! The volcano thundered every 2 minutes, sometimes more often, and because of the vertical trajectory of the lava, we were looking directly at and above the chunks of lava being hurled thousands of feet. Truly spectacular and slightly dangerous. From time to time, they do lose a tourist or two here when the rocks take an unexpected trajectory. Four were killed a couple of years ago in one explosion. We stayed into the night to take some delayed-aperture shots. The Skip and I have been lived around volcanoes (he in Hawaii and I, in Costa Rica) and I have to say that Mt. Yasur earns its reputation because of its deep crater as being the most accessible active volcano and therefore quite likely the best way to truly feel what an active volcano is like up close and personal and get remarkable photos. I love an angry mountain and this one has a bad temper. After several hours of jaw-dropping viewing, we reluctantly piled back into the trucks and descended down the mountain and back to the village and our dinghy ride back to the "BEG".

The following day, the village extended an invite to a gift-giving ceremony with dance and blessing of the fleet from the Chief. Boats in the Arc assembled together bags of school supplies, fishing tackle, dive gear, medical supplies, building material, and anything else we could think of that would be hard for them to acquirer. We made our way to shore with bags in tote and were greeted by the village elders singing song and performing ceremonial dance. Entranced by the music and dance, we all made our way to grass veranda. Everyone in the fleet was presented a grass-weaved hat and necklace upon passing into the ceremonial center. Captains then lined up on one side of a grass field and the village patriarchs and matriarchs on the other, gift-bags were walked to the middle and placed down, first by the tribe and then by the Captains. The women of the tribe had weaved together fruit baskets filled with bananas, grapefruit, cacao, and limes and adorned them with a feathered dart stuck into the fruit. Amazing, experience. When the children started to sing, "This Land is Your Land" to lyrics written for Tanaa, some of us actually become a little teary-eyed. Not me, of course. Ha! That evening, the village invited us to a pig-feast of epic proportion. We ate pig, yucca, taro, rice, and various fruits with our fingers while reliving what only occurred a few hours ago and talking about the next venture on this isle. Great time.

The next day, Dad and I had to let our savage inner-souls out and prepped ourselves for the hunt, the kill. Dad, with M-16 bayonet affixed via cable and electrical tape to a short aluminum pole and I with a hunting pack and switch-blade, we picked up Silvio, a Brazilian sailor/hunter aboard "Matajusi" we'd meet the day before and made our way to shore to meet up with a local hunter with dogs for a jungle pig-hunt. Over the course of the next four hours, we covered 4-5 miles through mountainous, jungle terrain chasing the wild boar that reside and do a lot of destruction to crops on the island. Running, walking, treading lightly; we pursued them and managed to take a very small one; perfect for eating. An A-frame pack was made from branches and vines to carry dinner out. Over the course of the hunt, we learned different species of plants to eat, saw hundreds of flying fox bats with a wing-span of 2 feet or more, wore the jungle dirt and mud with pride, and received a great cardio-vascular work-out (well-overdue). For the Skip's birthday dinner, I basted the pig with a special BBQ sweet sauce and baked in whole, with bananas and pears stuffed inside and around the pig with a side of boiled taro and curried rice. The Skip said I out-did myself and Silvio was impressed. Meals are crucial to happiness aboard a boat and I take my cooking very seriously. Thanks! Happy Birthday, Skip!

Today has been a work-day, with this edition of the blog being a nice break. With all the maintenance issues and gift-giving, we have torn the boat apart and are slowly putting her back together. We are still without a water-maker but the good crew aboard "Wild Tigris" offered to bring us some. Let's hope we can get it fixed today or we may just have to take them up on their offer. We are down to 200 liters. Just another normal day aboard the "BEG". No-shower policy in effect and dish-washing is a scientific endeavor. Wind has just shifted and black ash from the volcano is now raining down on the boat. As always love and miss you all. Te amo, Merce. BEG out.
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Link to gallery of photos from my mom

Click on picture below for an album of photos from my mom after she flew back from South Pacific...  Covers wide range of locations...

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Kava and Jim Morrison

We leave Fiji in our wake, headed to the isle country of Vanuatu with truly a sense of having stepped into and been welcomed by the people of Nirvana. Is Fiji as amazing as everyone says? No. It's a thousand times better if you take the time to get to know the people, do the rituals, and explore the waters and lands. Sorry to have been so long without writing a blog for you loyal readers of this truly amazing experience. One has to realize the Fiji experience is, at times, like feeling you are at the end of the earth. Communications, as one travels around the outer isles, even with a SSB radio is truly unreliable and furthermore, to be in a place where one is forced to get away from these "things and necessities" is actually a nice cleansing of the soul for an internet and radio junky like me.

To arrive in Savusavu, a large city by Fijian standards (40,000) and to immediately be welcomed to dinner and a Kava ceremony by a Indian-Fijian family was a heart-warming experience. To understand a people, of course, one must get to know them and the best way is to accept an invitation to a Kava ceremony. Your notion of what that might be may be quite different than what the reality is. So let me explain, before you all start imagining us dancing around like Jim Morrison on a peyote trip in a south-west desert and chanting ridiculous things about a snake being seven-miles long. First, Kava is in the botanical pepper family and the root has a mild toxin that when grounded and mixed with water produces a bitter drink that numbs the lips and mouth within seconds of ingestion. What happens next, varies slightly from person to person, but its medicinal qualities produce the effect of a mild muscle relaxant. Imagine a strong aspirin that provides the calming effects of tea. That's basically the physical effect. But what a Kava ceremony is truly about is sharing, talking, showing respect, and making an offering to the inviting family (usually unground Kava root). The powder is mixed in a wooden bowl by the Chief of a village or patriarch of a house. We were fortunate enough to experience both on sperate occasions. After saying a prayer in Fijian for the visitors and the family, the bowl made from coconut shell is passed to the patriarch or leader of the visitors. The bowl is to be drunk in one constant tip of the shell at which point, once consumed, everyone else clap hands (usually three times). At any point when someone is offered and they have had enough they can decline but must stay within the group and socialize. Since families in this region can be quite large and members of the extended family are often invited, one spends more time socializing than drinking the bitter, light green liquid. I'll be frank with you. I've been on a boat now for seven months and that can make a body sore and mine has been and the Skip's has been pretty beat up in some harsh weather and the non-stop rocking motions of the boat. The Kava came at a good time, socially and medicinally.

After Savusava, we sailed to the island of Mokangai, an island known for its great diving and being home to the giant sea clams that get to be several hundred pounds. Upon arrival, one must make way to find the Chief and present an offering of Kava roots, which we did and then were invited to a Kava Ceremony where the Chief blessed us and wished us safe passage in a beautifully rhythmic chant with his family members. Once you join a Kava ceremony, you become a member of that tribe or family. Neat experience. It was such a nice way to be greeted and accepted to the isle. But we couldn't spend too much time partaking in the ceremony as the waters were calling us and we needed to see the great giant sea-clams.

Some of you have probably heard stories of free-divers sticking their arm inside and being drowned as the clam forcible shuts its shell. I haven't be able to confirm or deny these stories but having swam around them and made these iridescent green and blue-lipped giant clams shut their massive shells, we tend to believe that one would be in a world of hurt should they ever make that mistake. When they shut their shells, it is so forcible it can be felt and heard through the water. Amazingly beautiful creatures and the island has a reintroduction program where one can tour different tanks and see the various life-stages of the clams, including the mother clam, plus two green-sea turtles that loved feeding on a six-foot moray eel that dad shot for them and produced to the Chief. After spending a couple nights here, we had to unfurl the sails. Dad blew on the conch and the Chief came out and waved his arms profusely to say good-bye. I think he may have been wearing our boat's t-shirt that the Skip presented to him.

Next we made way to Nadia where we could deal with a slew of issues that went awry and that we dealt with accordingly. Nadi has the best marina we've yet to see as far as availability of good mechanics, a tremendous social scene and the comfort of knowing the security guards are doing their work. On this last passage our water-maker's solenoid went shutting it down, a circuit breaker caught on fire, hydraulics on the autopilot went and shut it down. Re-wiring needed to be done due to compounding issues. In all probability, some of the breakdowns were do to the fact that, in the past, someone wired our 24 v cooling fans in the engine room with 12 volts. Twenty-four volts will kill a 12 v motor and vice-versa. We are a good-way into the trip and we have had tremendous luck with things running smoothly but this last passage was hellish in the break-down department. Luckily, our temporary 2nd Mate, Fabien, was as diligent a worker as I have ever seen and a classically trained engineer. At twenty-six years of age, he's wise well-beyond his years and was able to diagnose a lot of troubles so when we made it to port, it made it easy for the electricians to do their work. The amazing thing about him is that he did what he was able to do and confident enough in his skill that he didn't have to praise himself or seek praise from others. The man just did what he was trained to do and did it extremely well. Furthermore, he is a helluva' guy to have around and socialize with and spend time. He works hard and plays hard. When the work is done, he makes it a point to pull out the ukelele and I the guitar, and we'd play a little Izzy and sing "Somewhere over the Rainbow" Hawaiian-style. I like that. The man understands the important balances of life. We will miss you, Fabien! Bon voyage, our friend! We shall meet again. As always, love and miss you all. Te amo, Merce. Brown-Eyed Girl out.

Jared did not like Tonga....

Remember the days when you were driving down the road and you waved to everyone you passed coming the other way and everyone waved back? If you do, do you remember why you did it? Typically you knew the person and to do anything different would be rude or you didn't know the person and to do anything different would be, well, rude. Keep that thought in mind. Now add a tropical paradise isle which is constantly ranked in the top five dive sights of the world for its visibility that often reaches 70 meters (not a typo-meters) and has such an abundance of coral patch reef that you could spend days just diving in the mooring field alone, amazing rain-forests with the elusive coconut crab, underwater and shoreline cave systems, great food, some powder-sand beaches, amazing cuisine, and a Commodore of the yacht club (Keith Vail) who is such a nice guy he may just hail you on the radio out of the blue(as he did us) and take you on an afternoon dive of some of their premier sights. That is the great isle of Niue.

As we make our way to Fiji via Tonga, we wish we had just stayed in Niue and bypassed Tonga altogether. Niue has everything good that Tonga has and far more, and none of the bad. Tonga, from what we experienced in our days in Nieafu and around Vava'u, is a self-imploding society that could take a lesson from former Mayor Guilianni in "broken-windows theory" crackdown on crime and a good category 5 Cyclone to clean its streets of the rubbish. Alright, the cyclone comment may be a bit harsh but the so-called "successful street clean-up" projects that were hailed by the local yachties on the morning net were not noticed by us. It is a place of filth.

The tiny island nation of Niue, at the other end of the spectrum, is blessed with that small-town feel that I hope most of you reading this will understand and if you never experienced it, you still can and do it in a verdant tropical paradise. Be aware, though that Niue is also known for its abundance of sea-kraits, a highly venomous, front-fanged member of the Elapidae family (cousin of the cobra packing one of the most potent neurotoxins in the world). But it seems, even the snakes know to be nice as bites are basically unheard of, though quite possibly fatal if you are the one to foolishly grab one in the water while impressing your love for the last time. I swam with hundreds of them over the course of a few days. At one point while photographing three while I was on the surface, I felt something tap me on the back. Turning around, the tail section of a banded sea-krait rubbed against me and the snake bolted for the bottom. I'm quite sure the snake's intent was to give me a little krait love-rub with its head because I saw this same behavior shared among the snakes on the surface as they came up for air. So, even the snakes know to behave here. Though, even for a herpetologist like me, that was a little too close for comfort.

Christian values are the norm here and regardless of one's religious beliefs, the notion that tourists be treated with respect and friendliness is carried on from the elders to the young ones. Crime is not tolerated here and nearly unheard of. On Sunday, not only do people not work; fishing and swimming is considered taboo. Besides, most of the people are dressed in their lovely white suits and dresses to give praise to the Lord and then head to the family cook-out. Sound familiar for some of you?

Niue, translated, means "Behold, the coconut tree!". It is also know as "The Rock" because it is one of the largest uplifted coral islands and because it is a diamond of a place. The beauty of it lies in the fact that the locals don't let on that they known how special their island is. They don't rest on their laurels and treated us as in a genuine way while being a unpaid welcoming committee. They understand how much a smile as you pass by and a wave from a car means to a new arrival. Because this place is a little difficult to get to, even though it has an international airport (one flight a week, I believe) it is a place that is not yet commercialized, nor over-run with resorts. I know in my writing, I may sound as if I have been paid off by the tourism board, but from the amazing time I had in Niue, if I get just one of you to go there and experience it, I will be happy that I helped their economy that was hurt and still a little scarred by a Category 5 cyclone that washed over the island causing catastrophic damage. Considering the way we were treated in Niue, I feel like I owe it to them to sing their praise. Since the cyclone, they have rebuilt and put on a campaign for tourism. Now's the time to go and when you arrive you will notice how cheap crafts, food, car rentals, and all other touristy things are. That's a nice bonus to mitigate the cost of what it will put you back if you intend to fly here.

Dad and I had a great time driving the back roads at night looking for one of the 1300 coconut crabs that reside on the island. That's actually a healthy population and we found many signs of their existence in the coconuts on the ground that had been peeled and snipped into by their extremely powerful claws, but no luck in actually seeing a live one. The health of their numbers is more land-dependent which is why 12,000 acres of this tiny island has been protected as the Huvalu Conservation Area A limited harvest of coconut crabs is allowed and we were fortunate enough to get to try this delicacy. It has a nice, sweet smoky flavor.

As for our time sailing around Tonga it wasn't all that much to be praised. The islands are pretty, but the coral was not as vibrant nor as abundant as Niue or the Tuamotos, which surprised me, and the number of ornamental species far outweighed those of the game species. However we did manage to find one chunk of coral where I did take a couple of nice grouper and lost a monster peacock grouper. The only place we found any spiny lobster was on our plates at the local eatery. Our great excitement occurred at the isle of Ovalau, oddly a pick-me-up after the burglary, was awakening to realize our anchor had pulled in the heavy winds (a first for our marvelous, 40 kilo rocna due to steep anchorage and heavy winds) and to find our boat adrift. Tragedy possibly averted as it is a labyrinth of islands in those parts. One has to put things in perspective. The Skip, treated our short-term crew-member, Fabian, and me to a steak and lobster dinner for saving the "BEG". Well, at least, for preventing us from waking up in a different anchorage. As always, love and miss you all. Te amo, Merce.

"Brown-Eyed Girl" out...

the Hell of Neiafu

I'm a firm believer that 99% of the people of the world are fundamentally good people. That other 1% that rear their heads up from time to time are evil and can ruin a day quickly. The vast majority of the places we've have had the privilege to see has been sublime and the people divine. I can't say that for the vast majority of the encounters we have had in the city of Neiafu in the Northern Group of Isles in Tonga. Below is a true story of burglary, dirty streets, inept (possibly corrupt) government, and a people that for the most part I don't like.

We arrived in Neiafu on Thursday the 10th of June. We had more a four day passage from the splendid isle of Niue without the aid of autopilot with four hour shifts on and off for those four days. Needless to say we were very tired when we arrived in Neiafu. As winds had been non-existent, we had run our engine a lot and were thus down to the very last of our fuel and decided not to run the generator that night. We waited on the fishing wharf (guarded by a guard we now know sleeps on shift) for the fuel delivery by truck the next morning. As I was down below, I heard two unfamiliar voices calling, "Anybody Aboard?", several times. I did not answer and the boys put hand to rails. I ran up and confronted the boys who sheepishly stood there while I chewed them out, asked them for their names which they gave as "John and Moses" and then offered them a Coke. I took a picture of them while they watched and told them if anything came up missing, the first people I would come looking for would be them. Before going to sleep, I had mingled a little with people on a boat called the "Royal Princess", two young Indonesian males. Exhausted, I headed to bed. In the morning, I awoke and quickly saw that my camera, laptop, and one of dad's knives were gone. We couldn't believe that someone/s would have the audacity to make their way into the salon where my camera and laptop were. The knife was in the cockpit above. It could have been very bad for everyone involved had we awakened

Of course, the camera with the photo of the young Tongan boys was gone with the camera and computer. I quickly made my way up to the police department, that lacked a filing system, a photocopier, and cops with much interest in helping. One detective followed me down to the "Royal Princess" where I approached the boat asking to talk to the young Indonesians, one of whom ducked quickly into the cabin. The detective was afraid to approach the boat. I received a very defensive response from the owner of the boat. When I explained that I just "wanted to ask a few questions to see if his crew saw anything," he angrily told me to get the police which I did. I told the detective that he needed to board the boat. He was hesitant but finally did, missing the opportunity to possibly see the kid stashing our belongings.

Over the course of the next four days, I talked to several hundred people and offered a large reward with no questions asked, sent a message over the sailor's net, and had friends in the Arc keep a sharp look-out. Talking to Tongans in a very respectful manner, they seemed disinterested in helping, some even lied about finding the two boys "John and Moses". As I walked the streets, looking at the filth, the chains and locks on the doors, the garbage strewn everywhere, kids making obscene gestures as we passed by, I wished I had never made landfall in this wretched place. Coincidentally, in my investigation I found the young Indonesians walking the street who then saw me, turned to each other, and changed direction when I approached them. I got them to stop and got them to show me their sandals (a track had been left on the boat). They didn't match, unfortunately, but then again, it's possible to have more than one pair of sandals, right? One of the kids quickly showed me his sandals as the other looked down at his before lifting his feet. I found out later, the boat "Royal Princess" is aptly named for it is owned by the relative of the King of Tonga. Think that may have something to do with the fear the police had in boarding it? Sailors, if you must stop here to fuel up, do so and be on your way. If you have to stay the night, lock up and don't be as trusting as we were. Most of the boats in the Arc would agree with me on this one. Much beauty to be had around here, but not here in Neiafu.

As far as the boys: "John and Moses". Fairly common names here, actually, and the kids here all look pretty similar. To add to our wonderful time here, a 220 volt/30 milliamp circuit breaker caught on fire. Luckily all that burned was the breaker. We could have had a major electrical fire and lost the boat. Look at the sunny side of life. We were fortunate in the fact that we didn't join some of the crowd in port who had one of the myriad jellyfish get sucked up into the intake of the generator and destroy the impeller. One boat actually had one get sucked up into their toilet bowl. Beats a sea-krait, I guess.

The fourth time that I went to the police station to find a detective, I actually found one, the one who had approached the young Indonesians on the boat. The boys had said that they had at no point during the night left the boat. There's where they put the foot in the trap. They had indeed left the boat that night, as I had been talking to them on the pier. I told the Detective that he had been lied to and there's never a reason to lie in an investigation, unless there is a reason to lie in an investigation. He actually looked at me as though, he had learned an investigative technique. So, they will continue to "keep a keen eye out" (laughable). I will, too (not laughable). I will also not let my guard down again.

I'm thankful for the fact that I and/or my father didn't lose our lives and/or take two. I'm thankful I had backed up my photos, have more than they ever will(not just possessions), and that currently this wretched place is in our wake. I still wear a smile. I look forward to the next dive, seeing my wonderful family and all of you, and seeing my beautiful Merce. I have to go and set a fishing line out. A tuna is waiting for us. As always miss and love you all. Te amo, Merce.

"Brown-Eyed Girl" out...

Old Men and the Sea

"A man can be destroyed, but not defeated." I always liked that line from " The Old Man and the Sea". This morning, as the Skip and I awake with bruises on our forearms and aching backs from a battle with a 250-300lb blue marlin on 80lb test line yesterday, we have a new-found appreciation for that novel. We keep talking about the battle and how well we did and what a prize-fighter that fish was. Here begins a fish story.

After a fun morning of untangling a balled up jib and fouled fishing lines, the Skip and I took a few minutes to rest. He decided to take advantage of the lull in the action to shave and I, to prop my body against some nice soft, cushions and read over some stuff about Niue while keeping a watchful eye on the newly-set fishing lines. Two rods and one handline were set with hula skirts plugs in vibrant greens and yellows with blood-red eyes and a delectable mackerel plug with blunt forehead that is quite beautiful to watch swimming in the water.

I looked up from my reading and watched our out-rover (plastic device attached to line several yards in front of plug that disturbs water and keeps line away from boat-highly recommended for sailors-we love 'em) doing its water-dance. A bill violently pierced the water, cutting back and forth, and a leviathan's head raised up from the depths to investigate its prey, our lure just out of reach of the beast's mouth. Water exploded in white, frothy foam. The fish dropped back and launched itself again at the lure, this time resulting in the rod doubling over and the sweet scream of a Penn Gold breaking the afternoon silence.

"Holy S---! Dad, get up here quick! Big Bill fish! He's on! He's on!" The fish tailed-walked upon feeling the sting of the hook, which I could see was well-placed in the corner of its mouth.

"Slow the boat down! Slow the boat down!," Dad yelled from his quarters.

Winds had been nill and we were slugging away with the diesel. I ran to the helm and threw the boat in neutral. Dad appeared, Johnny-on-the-spot, in shorts, with shaving cream still on his face. That furious fish was tail-walking and launching himself out of the water, violently shaking his head back and forth to throw the hook. He repeated hellacious tail-walks, vertical-launching, and porpoising 12-15 times on his first-run. We could clearly see him, his left-eye, large bill, splendid colors, and dorsal-fin and blue striations and size that quickly gave his identity away. nice-sized blue marlin. Organized pandemonium ensued as the other lines were brought in, boat was positioned to follow fish, harnesses were donned, and gaffs and spear-gun were readied. Line stripped out, as Dad ran back and grabbed the rod. "He's going to spool us! I'll have to tighten the drag" I winced as I expected to hear the resounding "Twang!" of a snapped line and battle lost before it was ever fought. The line didn't snap and the game was on. For the next hour and ten minutes , Dad and I alternated between fighting the fish and running the boat. Three times it ran off 450 yards of the 500 yards we have on the spool. Each time, we reeled it back up. The final run, the fish went for the abyss. Imagine, folks, that fish hit a depth of over 1200 feet in the fight. Our muscles burning, our fore-arms beat-to-hell from being pinned to the rail, and our feet aching from fighting the fish standing-up while trying to balance ourselves. We brought him back up and gazed at the king of the deep-blue.

There he was. There, straight below us, his colors shined, showing his agitation. Dad worked quickly as I told him to ready the gun. The fish made a run with such tenacity that he actually pivoted the rod-holder toward the water (not good) leaving me holding a rod that was now pointed straight down. I screamed for Dad to get aft and pivot the rod upright while all I could do was hold on to it. The rod was secured with a safety line, but I didn't want that reel getting wet under any circumstance. Dad bolted back and heaved the rod up and repositioned to its correct upright position. Both of us took a second to savor the moment and looked down at all nine feet of him (not including the bill). Here was a fighter below us, tired like us and taking a momentary break, but unwilling to give up to accept defeat. Destruction, yes. Defeat, not a chance. He made a sudden surge directly toward the boat's deep keel (an unfortunate reality when fighting from a sailboat) and the resounding snap of the line, told us the battle was over. Dad and I looked at each other and remained silent for merely a moment, and then we laughed. "Go back to the depths, you glorious bastard, and procreate!", Dad yelled. Dad looked at me and said, "Don't be sad, Son. That's was the perfect fight. We couldn't have done it any better." I have to admit with those words, I wasn't. That fish earned his freedom and though, we lost him, I believe with all the fish we have ever caught and harvested, the Skip and I have never fought a better, more concerted fight together. We headed down below for a well-deserved ice-water and later, steaks garnished with olive-oiled fried mushrooms and wilted-lettuce salad. It was a glorious day! Live long, you glorious bastard. You earned your freedom.

As always, love you and miss you all. Te amo, Merce.

"Brown-Eyed Girl" out...

The boat ...

As I have traveled round this sphere since November 28th, 2009, when I came aboard in Tortola and now find myself nearing Niue and Tonga on the far end of the Pacific, I find that I have been remiss in my duties as writer to properly introduce you to the lady we call home: "Brown-Eyed Girl". She's quite a lady, too, and like a lady if she's treated right she'll give you the world in the palm of her loving hands and if you don't, well, you'll find yourself high and dry or adrift on a sea of loneliness. One might object to the way I give life to an inanimate object. But she's not inanimate. She's very much a living, breathing entity and I am a better man for having made her friendship.

She's a 53' foot Amel ketch. Amel's are built in France and were designed by none other than the great French engineer, Henri Amel. She was born in 1992 in La Rochelle, France and is number 86 out of 490 plus or minus made. Yes, she's a beautiful French dame and one of a kind to us. Unlike the Skip and me, this lady has already been around the world under a previous owner, Bill Gilmore, who clearly understood how to treat her like a lady. We have always like dark-hulled boats, so very atypical of Amel's, she changed the white dress of her youth into a sleek hull of dark blue as she matured and it suits her well, even if it requires more upkeep with salt stains. I thinks she likes the pampering. She has smooth, fine lines and makes good speed when the winds are fair. Apparently, she loves to come in first in her class, as she rocketed us to a first-place finish on the first leg of the trip from St. Lucia to the San Blas, Islands. Her interior is adorned with teak floors and African mahogany wood, which always requires quite a bit of cleaning but lets her show her internal beauty. She has a bench freezer as well as an upright freezer and fridge, all powered by the generator and battery banks. Her holds are filled with bottled water, coke, and all the foods non-perishables we can store, should the refrigeration ever fail us again. She even has a television that helps make those long night-watches go by a little quicker when one doesn't feel like reading or gazing at the stars. How many more times, though, can I watch "The Patriot?" As she rocks in high-seas, she flexes and creaks, and reminds us that she has more miles under her belt than us and we had better remember it. She's a fighter, too. She's the luckiest boat in the fleet when it comes to fishing, but that's to be expected as she's been round these parts before and gently hints to us as to what lures to troll and when. Her legs are the Genny, Main, and Mizzen we fly when the winds are there and the Perkins diesel when we find ourselves in the horse latitudes and doldrums. The Perkins has more miles on it than we shall ever know as the first meter broke, but as long as it gets copious amounts of 40 weight and changes, she keeps on truckin' on. Like any lady, she has her quirks but her beauty, strength, and practicality far outweigh those.

She carries a lot of gear in all the right places. A lifeboat, cooler, emergency jump bag, scuba gear and compressor :), gaffs, extra lines, and other fishing gear adorn her aft deck and lockers. Her cockpit is warm and inviting and the Captain's chair gives you the feel of freedom and power as you allow her to guide you through one of the harshest environments man has ever taken to. Autopilot control, self-furling sail controls, and large chart-plotter offer the creature comforts of a sophisticated, modern lady. But these things add to the list of gear to be maintained and watched with an eagle eye. Jerry cans of extra diesel are found on starboard and port secured tightly to her stanchions. An inflatable dinghy is secured on the fore-deck and gives us the mobility we love in port. We lift her with line and winch and gingerly drop the dink in the water and mover her aft to lower the motor using a pulley. Brilliant set-up. Her VHF radios and Single-Side Band radio are our connection to the world and other boats in the fleet and we keep scheduled contact with our brethren to lend a hand if need be, or heaven forbid, receive help should it be beyond our ability to rectify.

She's a lady through and through and now you have made her acquaintance. Maybe, one day, if you haven't already you'll get to appreciate her up close. Words don't do her justice. As always, love and miss you all. Te amo, Merce.

"Brown-Eyed Girl" out...

Leaving Rarotonga (from Jared)

Fishing lines are out and we leave Rarotonga behind us along with its amazing fish and chips, incredibly nice people, rugged peaks, beautiful lagoons, and horrific marina. Yes, horrific marina, due to its tiny entrance and precarious ladders mounted alongside a crumbling pier. Add to the fact that the port of Avatiu has a tight, North entrance and we had prevailing winds from the North for the entire week, reaching 22 knts yesterday and we anchored med-style (stern to pier with lines running from starboard and port stern to pier and anchor off bow); one can understand how we were concerned at times of our anchor pulling and the seas bashing the boat into that crumbling, harsh concrete. The ladders leading up the pier were treacherous in and of themselves. I'm quite certain they were made for Sir Edmund Hillary's training routine before his conquest of Everest. Furthermore, the ladders didn't account for the range of tide, leaving one precariously dangling at low-tide while managing his/her best pull-up to exit dinghy to make it ashore. It was good exercise, though, and since we were consuming more than our share of fish and chips at the roadside stands, mango and guava ice-cream, and pork at the traditional island dance festival; perhaps there was some method to the madness behind the engineers of the marina. Splash! Another embarrassed sailor falls into the water as onlookers gawk. Maybe not.

We will all look back at Rarotonga as an amazing place. Its name means "in the direction of the prevailing wind, south." It certainly did not live up to that but it was much more. The Cook Isle people of Rarotonga understand that their lagoons probably aren't as pretty (still amazingly gorgeous) as some that can be seen further East and perhaps topographically the island may not be as impressive of those of the Marquesas (still lush, verdant, and volcanic) but that being said, these people know how far a smile and good conversation go. Community is everything to them and to watch a ceremonial dancer describing the various traditional dances at a marae (holy place made of stone where Gods are worshipped and heads were rolled) ceremony is impressive. We spent a Friday night at Highland Paradise, a botanical garden/cultural center that has various archaeological sites on premises including a pit where people were kept before they succumbed to their cannibalistic conquerors. Table fare was excellent that night, especially since we weren't on the menu. As we dined on traditional taro, raw tuna marinated in coconut milk, smoked pig, and inexpensive, yet excellent New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc; we were enthralled by the scantily clad girls shaking those hips (chiste, Merce)...I mean, we enjoyed the fluid nature of the dances in regard to tempo, rhythm, and use of ceremonial garb while telling the history of the native people of Rarotonga. Yeah, that's the ticket.

Scooters seem to be the most popular mode of transportation here. Someone said there are 3 for every person. I believe it. People enjoy driving them while hauling various goods... like little children with no helmets, produce, farm animals, building material. Using headlights at night seems to be optional for a significant percentage of the locals driving. Rentals are fun and cheap but really not worth it as our friend, Donal, from "A Lady" found out. There is a lot of loose gravel on the somewhat poorly paved roads here. As Donal was making his way down a hill, he hit a patch of loose gravel and applied the front brake a little too hard and summersaulted over his scooter. He was not wearing a helmet and after seeing him in the hospital after being x-rayed and diagnosed with a concussion; my desire to get on a scooter quickly waned. He is headed to the states to get a CT-Scan and carry-on with some other business that had been planned before the accident. Good luck, Donal! We hope to see you back in the Rally soon! It was great to see Donal cutting a rug with Mom at a beachside bar'b'q just a few days later. These Irish are tough!

We rented a convertible VW and though I probably could have pushed it over onto its side or carried it had we broken down, it made for a fun way to see the island and get us to the Vaka ceremony. We happened to be in luck in our timing at making our arrival for the first traditional Vaka ceremony since 1994. What's a Vaka ceremony? A Vaka is a traditional, wood, double-hauled sailing vessel that is a the heart of these people's ties to the ocean. Per chance, we happened to be on Rarotonga to witness the arrival of the five Vakas in race from Tahiti, each representing various islands in Polynesia and Cook Isles. Chiefs and politicians were dressed in black-lipped oyster shell ceremonial dresses carrying long spears and standing in the water to welcome their respective sailors as the media covered it all. The ladies put the final touches on the feast as they were dressed in flowing pareus and dresses made of palm fronds adorned with hibiscus flowers. It was a real happening and something the crew of the "Brown-Eyed Girl" shall treasure. "Home are the sailors from sea and the hunters from the hills", I thought as the Cook Isle team came aground. Speaking of Robert Lewis Stevenson's' epitaph to himself, Mom actually saw an original with the missing second verse (only a few in the world) and was able to get the lady to take it off the wall and photo-copy it. No photographs allowed. That's my Mom. Way to go, girl!

As the boat is concerned, we have had a rough day. Autopilot went out and then decided to come back on. Mainsheet outhaul went kablooey but we got that fixed. Just tried to start generator and it wants to turn over but won't start. We are presently working on that one (possibly some water in diesel-changing fuel filter). Earlier, winds picked up as we were untying lines from dock drifting us close to boat anchored next to us. We quickly averted collision and got underway. These problems raise their heads like cobras from the basket and we knock 'em back down with a big stick and we sail on! These cobras will raise their heads again, but we always have our sticks ready. On the bright side, the "BEG" received a healthy cleaning topside and along the haul. The salt that has permeated the hull after many a mile was washed away with a healthy application of hot water, soap, and vinegar (heavy on the vinegar). She's radiant and this 1st Mate doesn't out-source his work.

We bid farewell to our loving Brown-Eyed Girl. She is headed stateside and will return to us in Australia, if not before. We love ya, Momma! It's just the Skip and me sailing this baby, now. We are headed 600NM to Niue, where I read the sea-kraits are "plentiful, highly-toxic, but will not bite you unless you stick your finger into their mouth." I know this not to be entirely accurate about the not-biting thing. A famous herpetologist by the name of Bill Haaust from Florida was almost killed by one and Haaust actually injects himself with various snake venoms to keep his immunity up. What a man! Do tell me who this bloke was who had such a brilliant notion as to stuff his finger in the snake's mouth? A short honeymoon for his lady. Haaust was attempting to milk the snake to make anti-venin. Far different. The Skip and I just want to swim with them and photograph them. I'll be happy with that. As always, love and miss you all. Te amo, Merce.

"Brown-Eyed Girl" out...

Pix from Bora Bora

Mountain peaks in Bora Bora with Jared's ugly toes

Most expensive pearl from Robert Wan's

WWII US Navy or Army Gun from 1942

Jared is an idiot

Bora Bora ahead (May 20th) (from Jared)

It's May 20th and I find myself celebrating my birthday as we get underway and put rudder to Bora Bora and begin our 3-4 day journey to Rarotonga. As we leave port, "Happy Birthdays!" come from the good crews aboard "Crazy Horse" and "Wild Tigris". Great sailors and even better people. We have diverted a bit from the Arc itinerary to head directly to Suwarrow. Our good friends, Jeanne and Mike Beswick agreed to accompany us to Raratonga and left on Tuesday aboard their vessel "Jeannius". We had planned to leave on Wednesday, but as the Captain had been having what we thought were premature ventricular contractions, we stayed another day to get him worked up. It was a great birthday present as Dad was given a clean bill of health after being forced by doctor (and crew) to wear a heart monitor for a day and return to have the rhythms evaluated. Total cost for ECG, 2 consults, and a good work-up: bottle of good French Bordeaux and a yacht club t-shirt. Knowing the Captain has a clean bill of health: priceless. With sails up, good-byes being said over radio, and spirits lifted from good news from Doc; we begin to make way out of harbor but before we cleared the pass, a loud piercing alarms comes from the engine room and strikes as quickly as a tiger shark launching itself from the depths to its unsuspecting prey. A hose has torn on the engine's heat exchanger, leaking coolant over the floor of the engine room. The engine has overheated and the alarm dissolves our good humor...for an instant. Oh well. We can't be bothered, at the moment. We are behind schedule a day, Dad's hell-bent to get on the deep-blue, and we need to reach the next experience. It will get fixed and we are, after all, a sailing vessel.

We make it a rule on this boat not to fixate too much on what needs to be done, nor let the insanity of what is a boat in terms of maintenance and upkeep prevent us from basking in the glory of the moment. We could have spent our day being bummed about the engine problem at hand and not being able to fix it readily as we are making 8.5 kts. and heeling a wee-bit. Instead, Mom treated me to a bag of birthday goodies. Oreo cookies, Cheetos, and a pearl(not that $50,000 one, aww shucks :). In French Polynesia, the cheapest of the three being the pearl... and it's a nice pearl. I have managed to tone up a bit on this trip by spending more time in the water than a fish and eliminating garbage (not the pearl) like this out of my diet, but hey, it's my birthday and sailors get weird food cravings. The Skip fixed me a rib-eye and peas and rice for a birthday treat. I'm in heaven but now I need to swim a few laps around the boat (while underway ;). Thanks, Guys!

Bora Bora was sublime. Whether you are into trying on a $300,000 string of Tahitian black pearls at the famous Robert Wan's (like Mom did), having a cold Hinano beer with a sesame-seared Ahi appetizer at "Bloody Mary's" while trying to catch a glimpse of Paris Hilton up to her latest antics, diving with 9 foot lemon sharks that swim by you with mouths agape that seem to be wondering why you aren't the guy from the tour-boat with that smelly bag of fish, learning about the art of grafting black-lipped oysters to culture pearls at a local pearl farm, or simply practicing keeping your feet together as you dive off the boat in the clearest gin-blue waters of the world; Bora Bora is as close to nirvana as one can get in this lifetime. It really does have something for everyone. I still find myself thinking of that one pearl at Robert Wan's that was priced at $50,000. What does one do with the one perfect, black pearl? I loved trekking up the steep, volcanic hillsides and finding an old U.S. W.W. II artillery battery that has long since become rusty and almost swallowed by the jungle. Large gun, probably 10-inch bore, pointed out to sea, reminded us of different times. In some concrete near the base of the piece, we could see where some soldiers and sailors had etched, "May, 1942. U.S. Army and U.S Navy" into drying cement. Inspection of the barrel showed the rifling, though rusty, to still be in excellent shape. Way to go, Steel-Town, U.S.A.!

As we watched Bora Bora, shrink into our wake, it hit us that this is the last of French Polynesia. We threw flowers in our wake to remember our dear friend, Mona. From the Marquesas, to the Tuamotos, to the Society Isles; we have been blessed with the new friends we've made, those we've gotten to know better, magnificent sailing, and beauty that knows no limits everywhere we look. French Polynesia has been blessed by some of God's finer brush-strokes on this magnificent canvas called Earth. Looking forward to the marvels and beauty that await us. As always, love and miss you all. Te amo, Merce. Brown-Eyed Girl out ....

A couple of pictures from Jared

Brown Eyed Girl at anchor in Port Fare on Hua Hina (still in French Polynesian Islands)

Gaugin Museum on Tahiti

Huahine (from Jared)

We sit in the port of Fare on the island of Huahine as wave after wave of torrential downpour washes the boat down.. and our clothes that we've been trying to dry now for a day. They say there are two seasons here: wet and wetter. I believe it and as we traversed and winded our way around the mountainous roads one can understand why the wild orchids and hibiscus look like they have been tended to by the loving hands of a green-thumb. When the rains pass, which is usually quickly, the sun shines so bright and the gin-blue waters are so clear that it feels like we have anchored in an aquarium. We are in 25 feet at our present anchorage and we can watch small grouper carry on their grouper chores as if on display. One must remember, I had the privilege and opportunity to spend most of my working life for 5 years before this adventure cruising the waters of the Florida Keys among sea-grasses and coral beds. Visibility was pretty good there but I've never seen water clarity like this before in my life, nor abundance of species. When we fueled the "BEG" up in Papeete, Tahiti, there were live star corals and brain corals encrusted all over the fueling dock. That, my friends, is a pretty good sign of the health of the water in these regions. It is a diver's paradise. Heck, it's just paradise.
The French have been great to us, as well, the native Polynesians. The other day as we were provisioning and facing an hour or more walk with several hundred pounds of groceries, a nice lady saw us with our provisioning bags and Tahiti sweat rolling down our faces and said, "Where are you going? I take you in my car and drop you off. It's too much to carry your supplies." That's the norm, rather than the exception for the warm reception and genuine kindness of character we find here. As one shops for pearls, I've noticed merchants actually direct me and others to purchase less expensive individual pearls and pearl strands because the less expensive pearls had a hue that suited the individual or the individual described. I like that. In the end, merchant and buyer are both winners. Yes, they gain the almighty dollar, but they also gain the respect of the buyer. In a market with thousands of people, I saw a merchant chase down a lady through a throng of people before she disappeared into the abyss, to give her glasses back which she had accidentally left on his table. Simple act. Everlasting impression. I love the market in Papeete Tahiti. It is a living, dynamic entity. $1,000 dollar strand of Tahitian pearls (above my pay grade :)) can be purchased alongside a nice chunk of tuna, mahi, or grouper which can be purchased not far from great Chinese dim-sum served at lightning speed. Pareu dresses (think of those beautiful Polynesian girls in long flowery wraps) are sold just a flight of stairs up. Mom purchased one that is a copy of a Gaugin painting that is tied together with a black-lipped pearl fastener. She looks the part and the Tahitian ladies love to see her in it. To compliment her beauty a wonderful, loving, handsome, highly intelligent (alright b.s. stops here) son of hers bought her a black-lipped mother of pearl necklace for Mother's day to compliment the dress. She looks lovely. Photos of her when my folks were stationed at Tripler in Hawaii look akin. Circle of life, baby.

It is with sadness, that we say good-bye to our dear friend Mona who passed away after fighting a warrior's fight against an extremely rare, malignant, esophageal cancer. Mona was always a sweetheart to me and to all of us. A good Maine girl with ties to the sea, I think she appreciated the flower ceremony we had in her behalf in the beauty of Cook's Bay, Moorea where we floated a flowered tiara and said our not good-bye, but until we meet again. Our prayers are with Abby and family. We are still deciding on which star in the Southern Cross to pick out and rename Mona. It will have to be the brightest, as that was her smile, and from what Mom tells me it never faltered. That doesn't surprise me.

Yesterday, we waded in the waters of this tiny stream on a far corner of this beauty of an isle called Huahine. As a man waded among us drizzling the juice from a can of mackerel, six-foot long blue-eyed eels swam up to us. I decided to see how well the underwater camera would take photos of these, well, beautifully ugly creatures. The eels, not being blessed with intelligence as much as a voracious appetite; took my camera as food and time after time came screaming through the water toward it making for some excellent frontal shots. Don't think they appreciated the flash, but then again, they continued to try to eat my camera, so the flash couldn't have been that bad.
We head for Raiatea and Tahaa tomorrow, weather and God-willing, and then to Bora Bora. As always, love and miss you all. Te amo, Merce

"Brown-Eyed Girl" out...

Pictures from Jared from Tahiti

Sunset, Cooks Bay, Moorea

Look carefully -- Blacktip Reef Shark


Idiot

Tahiti... (from Jared)

Yesterday, the good skip and crew headed into the fueling dock at the marina at Papeete, Tahiti after a wonderful three days of provisioning, buying air compressor to fill scuba tanks, fixing refrigeration, pearl shopping, and eating some great Chinese food. I have been dying for some good Chinese and when those sesame sticky buns and won-tons hit my lips, I was in culinary heaven and at market price. To get a good deal here on anything is kinda' like finding a diamond ring in a lost and found in a border town. Good luck. Tahiti is the most expensive country we have been to yet. Everything in this country is expensive, but then again the merchants can afford to miss a deal or two, it's a socialistic government, so they are assured their checks from France will be arriving shortly.

So, we were fueling up our near empty diesel tank (generator is a must at night as heat makes Panama feel like a crisp, New England apple-picking day) and out of the blue I hear the Star-Spangled Banner blasting from a sailboat flying french colors fuel ling up next to us with people waving back at me with large smiles on their faces, genuine smiles. I put my hand to my chest and faced their boat for the duration of the greatest song in the world and they watched me the whole while. At the end, I yelled "Merci Beau coup." The smiled and said, "Your welcome!" I had to wonder if it was just a friendly gesture between those who sail the seas or something more. Had their parents been subjected to the horrors and atrocities of the 3rd Reich? Were these a section of the French populace still grateful for the sacrifice our country made to liberate their beloved France? Perhaps, just another group of the multitude of friendly sailors we have met along the way? I don't know. I will never know. What I do know is that as we find ourselves sailing and meeting the most beautiful people from myriad countries, we find ourselves more akin to people than different. The other day, a Polynesian guy about my age with the coolest geometrical tattoos, saw the name of our boat, "Brown-Eyed Girl" and without pause began singing the Van Morrison song. I piped in and the two of us stood there with people looking on as these two, very different looking guys who could communicate only through hand gestures moments before, were now singing a great tune together. He knew the words verbatim and carried the tune very well. One of many cool experiences I have experienced.

Then I heard the news of the "failed car-bombing" (trial run in my opinion of something worse to come) in Times Square. It brought me down. I see far more good as I travel around this beautiful blue and green sphere. I see innocence in the eyes of children playing in the surf and learning to paddle their outrigger canoes. These kids will never grow up to want to take human life. They have food, love, community, safety, and the next wave to catch. But evil in this world is a tangible thing and must be confronted and eliminated. It saddened me to read that my president seemed more interested in Miranda Vs. Arizona than making sure my relatives back home would be safe from a future attack. I don't mean to politicize this blog but what I write here is what I see, feel, and hear as I make this wonderful journey. As I am very far removed from my relatives and other loved ones, I find these things affect me more. What saddens me is how little talk there is of this latest incident among those I find myself sailing with. It's like they don't care, it's no big deal, or they accept it. My family had a relative murdered on 9/11. Raymond Metz, III was a great guy. His memory, and the memory of 3,000 others deserves a little more attention to the matter than review of Miranda Vs. Arizona. I hope our President has the strength to see this through, to prevent another Fort Hood under his watch or the planned upcoming attack on Times Square.

It will be a great day when I can safely sail the Suez or along the banks of the Euphrates, and meet Middle-Easterners of all ages from all different countries, whose major concern is finding the next big wave or catching a fish slightly bigger than that of their buddies.

Te amo, Merce

"Brown-Eyed Girl"... out

Atolls and sharks....

"We are at play in the field of the Lord," to paraphrase a great piece of work. Well, yesterday, at least at play in the lagoons of atolls. It is interesting to see how different boats deal (or not deal) with the commonality of all the laborious tasks that make a sailing venture like this possible. I have seen crews become so lost in the beast that they constantly search to find some task to do while they let a jeweled isle of paradise pass them up, probably never to be seen again. If one looks hard enough, there is always a mundane task one could find to kill a day. I have also seen the opposite in sloppy crew, where those necessary tasks are not addressed and eventually have come back to haunt those sailors and without fail, always at the worst times. They are typically the first to call themselves sailors and the first ones on the VHF calling and cursing the boat or a chart for the their failures. Never curse the boat. We, the fair crew of the BEG, have found the happy-medium in chores, preventive maintenance, and doing what we all have come here to do: experience the world in all its beauty and harshness and to see it looking through eyes of truth. What I have seen, what I have learned is that we share more commonalities in the people we meet from these many cultures than differences. We may not speak their language in prose, but we always manage to make friends wherever we go (if there are people to be found). I am at play in the field of the Lord. We are at play in the field of the Lord.

We have experienced the greatest of the Tuamotos on the isles of Makemo and Tahanea (aka shark city-more about that in a few). We have lived the reason why they call this the "Dangerous Archipelago" and "Labyrinth" and so far have managed well (the sound of knocking on wood). The passages into the lagoons had coral heads, narrow entrances, and extreme currents if you hit them at anything other than slack tide. We hit our entrances, well-timed by the Captain, and still we feared the possibility of being spun. It's spectacular to see and even better to be done with, with an anchor set firm and another sunset casting purples and oranges beams across the paling sky. After the sun went to sleep, Mom fixed a wonderful rib-eye dinner with baked potato and green beans. It was the best dinner we have had in months. Between her cooking and our not having had such a luxury for months, our plates barely needed to be rinsed off.

Our last anchorage, I could have spent a week at and still wanted more. Her name was Tahanea and her beauty more alluring than the call of a siren. But like a siren, she certainly had her dangers in the form of packs of black tip sharks. Now, I'm a friend of sharks and have defended them in my duties as a Ranger for the great state of Florida. I encouraged people at all times to release them. A set of jaws makes for a nice mantle-piece but such over-harvesting of certain species has depleted the populations of many of the apex and some of the smaller species. Not the case in Tahanea. As soon as we had anchor set, 6 black tip reef sharks began to circle the boat and continued for the majority of our day stay there. After accomplishing some tasks on the boat, Dad and I wanted to get in some spear-fishing. Typically, we are not the type to be afraid if we see one or two sharks circling around but when there are more, they take on a pack mentality. I only know this, from a dive yesterday on a beautiful ledge of coral. Thirty feet down, I began seeing grouper in the 3 foot range and better (impressive) but as I was hunting the grouper a pack (yes, pack) of black-tips began following me around. That brought me concern level up a bit. After I took a shot at a grouper and missed, the pack got closer and every now and then, one would make a quick turn in and come directly toward, veering off at about three feet as I pointed the bang-stick (.357 Magnum shell in a pressure activated head attached to pole when hit against something makes that something have a very bad day). This worked for a while. I continued to see some of the largest and closely-grouped grouper of my life. I carried on and was pursuing them while keeping count of the sharks and where they were in relation to me. Safety off on bang-stick, check. I caught something out of the corner of my eye and the largest of the pack (200 lbs or more?-didn't grab him to weigh him), was closing in fast and directly for me. Kicking out of the way, I hit the shark just behind the gills with the bang-stick. No discharge of the gun (backward motion of me did not allow enough power to drive firing pin into primer?). That shark bolted a distance but remained in the ever-tightening circle. I spun around like a top keeping my eyes on all of them. I found a rock and tested the bang-stick. Boom! It seemed only to interest them. After a quick reload, I decided to call it quits and headed for the surface while the sharks followed me up. "We are out of here!" As I kept my face in the water and on the sharks, I could see large grouper from the surface, ironically, protected by beasts that would eat them if I speared them. Dad helped me into the boat and we continued on to find another less sharky area (meaning only 2 or 3 sharks around you at any one time)not too far away. It ended up being another great day and I didn't lose any appendages over it. Fresh grouper is on the menu for tonight. I have been requested to do my coconut carrot curry sauce drizzled over a sautéed panko breaded grouper filet a la San Blas (archipelago off of Panama). :)

I did have to use the bang-stick on two sharks that day (quick, humane kills). I have a new love for that piece of necessary equipment for diving in these waters for there is no shortage of sharks in this locale, nor shortage of grouper, and there is only one of me.

We are now, en route for a two-day sail to Papeete, Tahiti. The only sharks I intend to find there are the merchants selling black, gold, and all different color iridescent pearls. I think, in the end, I will have more respect for the sharks that swim in the water. We celebrate today, as the Skip has been 6 months sailing the "Brown-Eyed Girl" and doing it well. As always, love and miss you all. Te amo, Merce.

"Brown-Eyed Girl" out...

On the way to the Tuamotos (from Jared)...

We find ourselves in squally seas but making 8.5 knots toward the Tuamotos, our first land-fall (God-willing and good captaining and crewing) being Makemo. With 77 beautiful isles in this chain, how does one choose an atoll to approach? Factors include danger of the pass-entrances into the atolls, depth of the pass and draft of your boat, time of your arrival and how long is one willing to wait for the proper tide to enter (entrances through atolls must be made no more than one hour before or after slack-currents at other times may reach 13 knots and the passes are extremely narrow and coral ridden), and what are your desires (ladies-Pearls, guys-places to buy pearls for ladies while managing to hunt the elusive spiny lobster and grouper). Keeping the boat off the coral will be our primary concern, obviously. These waters are riddled with the holed hulls and broken dreams of those who underestimated the dangers of the Labyrinth. After all, they are known as the Dangerous Archipelago and The Labyrinth. Not too sure I like those names. This will be a crucible and one of the most dangerous of all parts of the journey. The upside being, in the last few weeks the crew of "the Brown-eyed Girl" has never run better. We continue to become one cohesive unit, a well-oiled machine. We have been tested in our night watches with torrential squalls. The radar at night looks like a mine-field exposed with the squall lines exposed by the green radar returns. We go from 4.5 knots to 9 knots SOG in the snap of a finger with winds of 35 knts. or more. We usually are not looking at the anemometer but popping the jib and reefing the main. We always try to "shorten sail while wind's still fair, to keep our keel from hitting air." Occasionally, though, they slip up on you and take you by surprise. Radar isn't 100% effective in determining whether one will be dodged or slogged. Either way, The Cap, the BEG, and I have managed to keep the lady afloat and flying. We made 176 miles yesterday, often more. Not too shabby.

As I look back in our wake and think of the Marquesas, I know I will always recall her being one of the greatest times of my life and most beautiful places I've laid eyes on in this world. Her rugged, volcanic terrain intermixed with the greenest, lush tropical hillsides and her people who are genuinely fond of sailors as they feel a kinship with our nautical wheelings and recognized my love for the hunt (great goat hunt), make this a place to be remembered. It is easy to see why so many artists like Gaugin, Matisse, Stevenson, and a slew more became entrenched in this lifestyle. It holds something for everyone, unless of course you need honking horns, traffic jams, congestion, and light pollution. You won't find those here. I don't know if I've ever seen stars shine so bright or breathed cleaner air, though sultry. Fishing and spear fishing were top-notch. I harvested, among other things, a large octopus while free-diving that once I wrangled it out of the rocks, began to crawl up my arm. I know Octopus taste good, but I was unaware of their battle tactics. I'm convinced he was going for my mask and snorkel (can't blame him). They are the smartest of the phylum Mollusca, but is that saying much? What does it say about me that he almost got the better of me? haha. For a minute, I didn't know who had whom. In the end, though, dinner was exceptional, though slightly chewy, that night. They tell me the Tuamotos will be better in the fishing and spear fishing departments. I don't know how they could be. But I'll continue to be optimistic.

So in 24 hours, we will hopefully have made landfall and donned our dive gear. As always love and miss you all. Te amo, Merce.

"Brown-Eyed Girl"...out

Goat curry (from Jared)

We set the anchor in the little harbor as the sun began to make its fall into a deep sleep. Gazing ashore, we saw a Polynesian family having a beach party and carrying on no differently than we all have done. Parked nearby we noticed a truck. Mom was arriving after a several day, multiple-leg flight from the states with many bags of goodies the Captain and I had asked for and the prospect of hoofing it up to the airport on that dusty road and then making our way back with the luggage didn't seem too appealing. Maybe, if we could speak a little French, we could arrange a way to get one of them to take us to the airport to pick up the Brown Eyed Girl. I ran down into the cabin and got on the computer. I typed in my English-French dictionary what we needed to say and made our way via dingy to the pier and hopefully, to the family before they packed up their gear and headed on their way.

As we wound our way down the path to the beach, I hoped we could befriend these people, if only to be nice and hopefully to make our lives a little easier. As the Skip and I made our way onto the beach, a resounding "Bon Soir!" came from the family and smiles flashed on their faces. One of the young boys was carrying some spear guns up to the truck. I liked these people already. "Bon soir!", we returned and walked over to the patriarch of the family, a large Polynesian guy with a big grin and Polynesian tattoos adorning his body. At one glance, you could size this guy up as being the best of friends or worst of enemies, with best of friends most likely being his choice and definitely being ours. I handed him the paper explaining our situation and he agreed to meet us in the morning. He looked at me and looked at his boys and in English far better than my French or Polynesian said, "You hunt?"

"Love to hunt," I said with a big grin on my face hoping he was about to invite me on a goat hunt.

"I take your dad to airport. Pick up mom. You hunt with my boys the goat in the morning. 9 AM you be ready," he said with a smile from ear to ear.

I looked at the Skip and he gave me a nod. He wanted to see the lady, right away, and knew how much I needed to get a hunt in. The skip and I shook hands with the man and headed back to the BEG.

At 0900hrs sharp, there was the truck pulling in as we headed into the pier. We piled into the back and shook hands with the boys, the eldest proud to be carrying a single-shot shotgun and a few shells tucked in his pocket. His empty rucksack told me the possibilities of getting one would be good as surely the meat would be processed in the field and stuffed in the pack to be carried back down the rugged volcanic hills we began to climb in the truck. 10 minutes into the truck ride, the truck stopped and the boys piled out.

The eldest looked at me, broke open the shotgun, dumped a 00 Buck shell into it, and said, "We go!"

I'm in fairly good shape, do a lot of diving, hunting, most of my activities revolve around outdoor sports but I will tell you these boys were more goat-like than the goats in climbing up and down the large volcanic boulders as we made our way to the peak on the isle of Nuka Hiva. They were great hunters. They moved quickly and yet, their feet cupped the ground and little noise was made as we made our way through the sage and loose basalt. I kept up with them and was happy with that but my eyes had to keep checking my footing, when a hunter who knows his land eye's are looking for a slight movement in the brush, the glint of a horn in the morning sun, or the horizontal line of a back in terrain that stands vertical. They knew the food source, a small seed the younger son showed me and pretended to eat. We moved quickly and then it happened quickly, as it often does. A wise animal trying to hide was found and the gun roared once and two families from different cultures, half a world apart, would eat from the same animal. Time was not wasted in getting to business and I wasted no time in getting photographs of us all and our future meal as the young men hung the ewe from the tree and dressed it out.

Hours later the young men, gazed at the printer on the boat with amazement. They shouted in glee, words I will never know, but understand, as the printer kicked out the photos of the two brothers with their trophy. Mom, Dad, and the patriarch arrived shortly afterward and our two families drank coke with ice and communicated with the best language of all, smiles (with some hand gestures and the patriarch's English thrown in a times). It was a superb morning. Tonight I shall fix goat with a carrot coconut curry sauce. I will think of them and wonder if the young men are looking at their photographs.

Brown-Eyed Girl out ...

Some pictures from Jared.... Naturally mostly of Jared

Jared has added a little weight on the trip...


Dinner. (And probably breakfast and lunch as well.)

Nope, no risk of skin cancer here.

Unclear who can run faster....

Mom arrives (from Travis)

My mom has arrived on the boat in Nuka Hiva (in the Northern Marquesas) as of Monday night our time, having traveled from West Palm to Charlotte to LA to Tahiti to Nuka Hiva. Quite a series of flights! But I heard from my dad tonight and she is happily there. Eventually they work their way down to Tahiti over the next few weeks. If you are on Google Earth check out the cool atolls that they will hit on the way down....

Map (from Travis)

This screen shot from Google Earth gives you a sense of the scale of the passage across the Pacific. The line is their track....

Scars (from Jared)

You all know that scene from the movie "Jaws" when Brody, Quint, and Richard Dreyfuss's character are sitting around the salon showing off their scars and laughing about them? I lived that the other night. There we were, the Captain and me and some speared fish on the deck of the "Brown-Eyed Girl" anchored of Hiva Oa in the paradise of the Marquesas. We had just dived with Manta rays and the Skip had taken a couple nice fish.

"Hey Captain, you think these black sea-urchin spines stuck in my index finger will fester?", I asked. He had tried to remove them several days back with no success. They were and still are buried too deep to remove with the prying of a needle and no lidocain (ouch).

"Nah, they will probably work their way to the top", the Captain replied. Probably? I have never like "probably" as an answer when it comes to things regarding my health and I've always hated needles and that's what a black sea-urchin spine (or five- have a couple in my forearm from wrestling with an octopus to get him out of his hole free-diving at 45 feet-Octopus won)is. The sodium bicarbonate and water solution I had made to dissolve the spines had helped but not alleviated the problem.

"Hey Cap, what about this numbness in my index finger from the yellow fin tuna caught on the handline? Will that go away? It's been like three weeks."
He returned with a factual and not-so-reassuring, "Probably. Nerve regeneration occurs at one mm. a day, if it occurs at all."

I must have had a perplexed, possibly worried, look on my face when I said, "The tip of my finger isn't that big, Skip. How's your arm doing, by the way?" He flexed it and looked at the scars from the surgery that connected tendon to muscle.

"Yeah, it's doing well. Not a hundred percent, but coming along. My ribs are the problem. That dinghy ride the other day beat the hell out of me. You mind cleaning off our dive gear while I clean some fish? Look at those scars on your feet. Those are from you not wearing your dive boots in the San Blas islands, right? Were the conch, worth it?"

"Affirmative. Not a problem. Stay the hell away from those wasps that keep checking in on us. One nailed me on the tip of the finger as I entered the cockpit and placed my hand on the canvas." The wasps here have some special Marquesan Tiki mojo going on to punish those who spear fish. I am convinced. We had just hours before visited the largest of all Tikis in the Marquesas before I was stung. After a long climb up a verdant mountain we found ourselves among the basalt stone remains of the Chief's hut and this large stone face placed among smaller stone heads. I wondered if my scream and epithets from that wasp sting made that face cringe or smile.

The Captain grinned and asked, "Weren't those the same wasps you said would leave us alone if we left them alone?"

"Apparently, accidentally placing one's finger on one isn't leaving them alone. Time to wage war on 'em.", I laughed and sprayed another one in mid-air with the fresh-water hose and watched it fall to the deck. I grabbed a dive-fin and sent it to the happy stinging grounds in wasp heaven. "I doubt it will leave a scar like this bullet ant left on my left index finger", I said holding my finger out. "That was Guatemala in the year of '93 and still there is a scar..from a miserable little ant. Just once, why can't I get a cool scar? Why can't I just have one of these black-tip reef sharks I keep seeing leave a little rub-burn wound as it passes by me in the water and does one of those 'food or not food checks'? Now, that would be a scar worth taking my shirt off in a bar and bragging about."

The Captain just shook his head, smiled, and grabbed the filet knife and got to work. I could see the wheels turning in his head as he thought about the next leg, the next anchorage, and soon, being reunited with the lady on the isle of Nuka Hiva. I returned to cleaning the gear and began thinking of my lady and when we would be reunited.

Well, you all get the picture. The Skip and I are a little beat-up and wouldn't change it for the world. Scars remind us of our wins, draws, and losses. As always, miss and love you all. Merce, te amo. Will be posting pics as soon as I get that thing I remember as "internet?".

"Brown-Eyed Girl" out...

Changes in Longitudes, Changes in the Crew, Yellow fin Tuna, and a saved life and lost finger

From Jared:

We arrived from Hiva Oa to our present anchorage on the paradise isle of Tuhuata. My apologies for not for not keeping up with the blog but I have a good excuse in the fact that we have been terribly busy with boat repairs and the like (April Fool's!). Well, in all honesty, we have been busy with trying to fix continued failing refrigeration, finding lost anchors (turbulent anchorage) in 40 feet of depth with 6" of visibility, hauling diesel from the station in 5 gallon jerry cans, provisioning after our eighteen day and 2950 NM journey from the Galapagos (go there, make it happen, nature lovers), fixing halyards, changing filters, giving and receiving help as being part of a team, and accomplishing myriad other details that keep us away from becoming complete bums (we are working really hard on that one). All you sailors out there reading this can relate to these things and can relate to why we keep on doing 'em :). In our 6? days (remember what I said, time is relative..relatively unimportant on a journey like this one..except for the racers in the crowd, they love to run, gun and keep time), the only land-fall downtime was spent walking up to Paul Gaugin's grave and paying "respect" to a guy who left behind his wife and kids to apply oil to canvas. Eccentrics are, well...eccentric. Luckily there are none of those around here (April Fool's!). We also had a nice lunch and dinner at Alex's, a family run ordeal run by a great guy who served 23 years in the French Foreign Legion. He decided to put down the rifle, marry his Polynesian love, and pick up the skillet. Excellent cooking! Tres Bon!

18 days. 18 days. Not seeing land for 18 days (and fortunately our winds were excellent) can be quite trying at times but I guess that is what makes landfall all the sweeter. Even with all the details of sailing, one still must manage a way to keep his/her mind occupied. Dreaming of monster fish that broke our lines helped me out. Thinking of loved ones does me better, though. The whales kept us company, though we are still looking for sperm whales, especially a white one. If we see him, we shall bid him a long, happy life.

Previous First Mate Tom Toohey, has decided to leave the Brown-Eyed Girl and help out our friends Jochemm and Jutta on the boat "Chessie". We wish all of them safety and happiness in their journeys. I would like to commend Jutta on her saving the life of her husband when he fell overboard in the middle of the Pacific (in transit from the Galapagos to the Marquesas) while cleaning a fish. These fish are dangerous business...even when expired! Jutta managed to toss line, drop sail, and lift her husband over the transom in inclement weather. She is quite a petite lady so it goes to show you that it is the size of the fight in the lion and not the lion in the fight that really counts. Divine intervention and skill played a major role, too. Way to go, Jutta!

Speaking of fish, First Mate Bucky Metz landed a beautiful 46 lb. yellow fin tuna on handline with much help from Captain and crew in backing down the boat and dropping sail. Without the mechanical advantage of rod and reel and me being too darn stubborn to put gloves on (helps me feel the vibration of the tail and the inception of the next run), I have lost some sensation in my right index finger. We caught that fish one hour before arrival in Hiva Oa last week after losing every fished we hooked over 2950 NM of passage (big bills, black and blue marlin we are pretty sure). Perseverance paid off and once in port, we fed ourselves and a lot of people in the World Arc with great sashimi, but my finger keeps telling me that the tuna really won. If I can find some time today, I will varnish the tuna tail so I can try to convince myself that I won that battle.

On a sadder note, our new friend Patrick (S/V Thetis) lost his entire left index finger in a coconut-chopping mishap while trying feed people at a beach party. He has been sailed back to Hiva OA where he will receive proper medical attention in Papeete. We all wish you the best, Patrick! We hope to see you again and soon. God speed! A proper shout-out to the Captain for responding in the dark of night and for trying to render as much medical attention as he could given the situation.

On April 12th, the fair lady and namesake of the boat will be joining us again. We gladly anticipate the day. Hi, mom! We love you and miss you. My fiancee, Mercedes, will be joining us in South Africa. Such a long time away. Te amo, bebe!

"Brown-Eyed Girl" out...
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