Day Two: From Tahiti to Rangiroa

After several awakenings with the sky still dark, I finally arose to a typically beautiful Tahitian morning. I walked around me room, careful to not step too heavily so that any remaining glass shards I might step upon would stick to my foot, but not cut it. Satisfied that I had left no unhappy surprises for the next person to occupy the room, I checked to see if I had any clothes left that needed rinsing. Two shirts still smelled strongly of rum, so I showered with them (I could tell that I'd be in the water a lot this trip, as the heat and humidity made frequent rinsing very attractive). It was still quite early, so I retired to the front landing and hung my shirts on a chair while I did some reading. The view was of the airport down the hill, and I could see small squalls out on the sea, although on the island it was bright and sunny.

Once the shirts had dried as much as they were likely to, I packed all my surviving goods back up and checked out. In the absence of a taxi, I decided I would walk my cement lined bags down the hill to the airport. It was not a long trip, but in order to complete it I had to make several, surely illegal, cross road waddles. Traffic was light, as I imagine it always is in this remote part of the world, and I arrived at the airport with my arms and shoulders aching and beads of sweat dripping off my nose.

I happily checked in my bags and got a light brunch at the concessions stand. I had a few hours, so I wrote the previous day's journal while watching the locals and tourists mill about the airport until my laptop reached dangerously low power levels. I considered getting a magazine but they were all in French, except for a few copies of People and Vogue. I had packed my book in my luggage, so I moved through security resigned to reading the tourist pamphlets that were available in the kiosks. My flight was at 12:15, but as it reached noon I noticed that my flight number was now reading 1:30pm. They had probably announced this earlier, but seeing as how they did so in French, I had somehow missed it. I left the security area to return to the gift shop and bought the only thing that would help me pass the time. Suduko book in hand, I returned to the secure area and took my first steps into an addiction that has already become dated.

Eventually, the flight arrived and I joined the throng marching across the tarmac to the plane. I was reassured that it seemed large enough that I should have no problem catching a flight back to Tahiti from whichever island we happen to be at, at the end of my trip.

At last, we landed on the atoll of Rangiroa and I was greeted by bright and shining Bill and Linda. As we waited for my luggage I related my travails and we all had a good laugh. There were no taxis at the airport, so we waited by the road for someone to give us a lift. The only taxi on the atoll eventually came by and picked us up. This is the way of travel, it seems. Stick out your thumb and people will help out if they can. There had been a local who had offered me a beer at the airport, but his truck was full of the folks he was already picking up.

The ride cost 250 FPC, which is about $2.50. This confirmed that I had been ripped off for my 3 block cab ride the previous night, which had charged me 1500 FPC, or $15. I suspected as much at the time, but I had not yet figured out the exchange rate and was unwilling to get into a debate with the cab driver at that time.

I tried to tip this cab driver, but he absolutely refused it, clearly not sure what I was trying to do. It seems that tipping is pretty much unknown outside the main tourist areas of Tahiti.

As we walked down the dock to where Spicy, the dinghy, was tied up, my jaw dropped at the water. It was easily the clearest water I had ever seen. The water here is like green glass. I can see things ten feet below the surface as clearly as if they were right in front of me. I see manta rays, and fish of all descriptions, and rock outcroppings. The water is clearer and more pure than most pools I have seen, and as I would soon discover when I entered it, offers little refraction. Place your arm in the water, and there is no foreshortening. No space displacement.

As soon as we're on Creola, it's into this water which is cool but not cold, and I rapidly learn that I float in the salt water without effort. I cease my strong strokes, and find that I have little desire to return to the dry air. I know that I will be spending a lot of time in the sea while I am here.

After our swim, we dig into some of the food provisions I brought with me and catch up on what life has been like for the McKeevers since I last saw them in the docks of San Diego two years earlier. Life on the water is not easy, by any stretch, but tales of wonder and beauty are as common as tales of hardship and struggle. The hardship seems especially close, as they have just completed a 22 day voyage across the open sea with virtually no wind by which to sail.

As the sun sets, we hear a "knock, knock" and find a neighboring captain in his dinghy off the side of the boat. We talk for about an hour, and I find myself continually distracted by the stars. I don't see stars in Oakland. Maybe one or two of the brightest stars, but the urban sky is a jealous one that dislikes any light in the sky but its own.

Here, in the lagoon, only a few lights on the shore, the stars spread out like shards of broken glass, shining steadily through the thin clouds. Or are they thin clouds, or are they star clouds? The sky looks like a NASA photograph of nebulas, drifting through the heavens.

How do we live without the wonder of the stars above?

After our visitor departs we take Spicy to shore and try out the hotel restaurant, which is fabulous. I have duck in a honey sauce, with little potatoes and some other dish that seems to be a kind of fruit goulash. The only fruit I recognize is raisins, which would be odd had I not read earlier that day about an early settler who was obsessed with cultivating a vineyard on the islands.

By the time we arrive back, I am full, slightly tipsy, and deeply tired. I retire to my cabin, open the hatch above me, and drift off to sleep. Above me, I see the mast stretching high, the moon, and the stars. Creola rocks me softly to sleep.