Leo

Diving on Anna's keel in the cooler waters of the southern winter.

IMPERVIOUS TO THE PROGRESS OF STABLE WEATHER, typical of the South Pacific at this time of the year, the low- and high-pressure systems that co-exist between the equator and the great Southern Ocean persist in delivering squally weather and squash zones (compressed isobars; i.e. high winds) to French Polynesia.  These are systems that are steeped in vice. Unless of course you are focused on generating wind energy or rainwater collecting, and then these systems might be construed as a virtue. The months of July and August generally bring cooler temperatures and reinforced trades to the South Pacific and a type of system known locally, in French Polynesia, as Maraamu winds - very strong southeasterlies cycling every couple of weeks and lasting five to ten days at a stretch.  And it is at times like this that anchoring out in the lagoons of the Society Islands, behind the protection of the reefs and motus in flat, balmy calms, is a most welcome pleasure, notwithstanding the merging, bipolar high- and low-pressure systems that appear to run rampant during the southern hemisphere's winter. We think that sometime in September the weather will transition and moderate, which might be a good time to depart Polynesia.

 
But today, the sky had turned a dirty bilious yellow color, and the downpour and gusts had begun in earnest. The run-off from the surrounding mountains flowed into the river outlet and had produced turbid water the color of milky tea. Within twenty minutes the sky had transformed to a cadet-gray uniform overcast, with a hint of drizzle. The surface winds calmed down and left behind a languorous sea state within the confines of the lagoon. Scattered, isolated swatches of hot blue, overhead, had begun to appear as the high level bands of cirrus drifted quickly to the north and west. And before long we could see particles of dust that glimmered in oval beams of sunlight, which poured through the portholes and lit up the cabin below decks like halogen floodlights. Beyond the minty green barrier reef, at the edge of the ocean, a small, sparkling aluminium skiff made slow progress in a developing chop against the current. A cold front was passing through and the breeze had picked up yet again.

Anna, at anchor on Raiatea waits out a period of showery, gusty weather.

The forecast had been reasonably right for once but when you think about it, when every permutation of weather is forecast to occur at some point during the course of the day and throughout the night and into the next two to five days, aren't the forecasters simply gambling without risk? Eventually the forecast is going to be right, eventually the forecast won't seem like an illusion, won't seem like gobbledygook, in retrospect. Here's a typical forecast for our location - the leeward islands of French Polynesia:  winds today SE 10 to 15 knots, possible gusting to 35 kts, partly sunny with isolated showers in the north, squalls in the southern sector, and sporadic thunderstorms in the evening. Clearing, then rain beginning in the morning with winds turning light and variable mid day, before backing to the NW and then SW, and then strengthening to 25 knots from the SE to ESE within 24 to 36 hrs, followed by breezy, white-capping conditions and partly sunny skies. Well, that pretty much covers most possibilities; how can you go wrong with a forecast like that?

A Huahine boy escorts us out the channel, riding in Anna's wake.

We lived aboard and at anchor, virtually alone for six months, through the season of cyclones and, as the weather services to like point out, the strongest El Nino event in the recorded memory of the South Pacific (which is now returning to a 'neutral' status, as evidenced by much cooler air and sea water temperatures - the coolest we've experienced in tropical waters for at least the last five years). Away from the litter of civilization, and in the protection of the lagoon, barrier reef, motus and deep sapphire bays that are surrounded by jungle mountains on its west coast, Huahine turned out to be a stupendously good decision. And when cyclone season was finished we were tempted to stay on longer but Anna wanted to visit Raiatea and Tahaa, twenty-two nautical miles to the west. So we waited for the weather to moderate - in between systems - and then let go the mooring lines, rolled out the Yankee headsail, set the course for 285 degrees true and downwind, and said to Anna, okay, let's go. Anna was obsequious. And five hours later we rolled into Passe Iriru Ou Maire, on Raiatea's central, eastern coast.

The islands of Raiatea and Tahaa, connected by a common barrier reef/

Raiatea and Tahaa are two distinct islands that are separated by a two mile stretch of lagoon (Raiatea to the south and Tahaa to the north).  While separate islands they are connected by a rather large lagoon and surrounded by a common barrier reef. Each island has its own advantages. Raiatea is the Tahiti of the outlying Society Island chain. It is smaller and less populated than Tahiti but it has convenient government administrative services for foreigners (for instance, one can apply for a visa extension in Raiatea). Additionally, Raiatea has a large enough population to merit   three supermarkets, a hardware store, marine chandler, plumbing supply, a couple of fuel stations, a small airport, freighter dock, and a boatyard with haul out services, if needed.  In other words, it is remote, yet has services and supplies that make returning to Tahiti (a rigorous upwind slog), for parts, or provisioning, or administrative services unnecessary for the most part. So while it doesn't offer the equivalent level of protection that the cyclone holes in pristine Huahine offer, it manages to provide a reasonably convenient outpost to Tahiti for services and supplies that can't be obtained easily on Huahine. That is the trade off in a nutshell. And while Raiatea and Tahaa are not in a sense, as remote, protected and pristine as Huahine, there are some astounding anchorages to be found on Raiatea and Tahaa, and depending upon which way the winds and seas are running, one can determine the most suitable. 

Anna's protected anchorage location on Raiatea's east coast.

Behind the motu and reef the anchorage is calm; outside the waves are breaking.

 Common to South Pacific island anchorages, most are very deep (50-100 feet) or very shallow (5-10 feet), with a limited selection of moderate depth (15-40 feet) sand or sticky-mud bottoms that provide excellent holding, clear of coral heads. But there are a few to be found with a compelling natural verve, where one can remain for a time, insouciantly. Tahaa is less populated than Raiatea and there are limited services, but again it's only five to ten nautical miles away from the conveniences of Uturoa, Raiatea's main (only) port town.

Reef fishing on Raiatea's east coast, just off our anchorage.

 Both Tahaa and Raiatea have a few spectacular spots woven into the asperity of the coral reefs, if one is willing to take certain navigational risks with the potential for untoward consequences. And in an assiduous effort to explore and understand new places, the willingness to make mistakes and take some risks are to an extent, demanded.

The mountains of Faaroa, on Raiatea, near our reef anchorage provides cool night  air..

An outstanding feature of Tahaa, at least purely from a sailing perspective, is that one can sail downwind in a counter-clockwise direction for about twenty unobstructed nautical miles, in a moderate to strong southeasterly breeze (the prevailing wind direction and strength in the winter months), circumnavigating three-quarters of the island before running into a head wind. The nature of the terrain tends to drive the winds along the east coast from south to north, then over the top of the island from east to west, and finally half way down the west side from north to south before switching to a head wind near the bottom of island, at the southwestern end.

Anna is on the move within the lagoon's calm waters.

And being that Tahaa is completely surrounded by a barrier reef and virtually contained within a pristine lagoon, there are no waves of any significance to contend with and so a dry, ripping sail around the island is easily achieved in about four hours, leaving plenty of time to find an anchorage for the night. Outside the barrier reef , however, the waves can be big and confused, sloppy and unpleasant.

Pearl farm off the reef surrounds our anchorage.

We plan to remain on Anna in French Polynesia's Society Islands, until perhaps September, when we anticipate that the weather will transition from very strong and squally tradewinds, to more moderate conditions. And then we will decide which direction to point Anna's bow. The wind and waves will drive our decision.

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Leo!

When we returned to Uturoa, a place where we could pick up the beastly satellite-based Internet connection, we found a message and a picture in the Inbox. The message said that he had finally arrived. He had flipped himself into the proper position and arrived fashionably late.  He was already picking up the skills of the navigator and correcting for errors and making a long single-handed voyage, dauntless. He looked confident and relaxed and yare after a nine month expedition en route from the back of the back of the out. And he landed in the arms of Shayna and Olly, who will protect and guide him into his future. He is a perfect fifth. He is our first grand sonny boy. He is Leo!  And the world is already a cut above, because of him.

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