Bora Bora—Leaving French Polynesia

September 6 through 11, 2009

Leaving the door ajar


Bora Bora seems empty.

Bora Bora seems empty. Zulu lies at anchor. We look out over the most beautiful waters to the reefs and sky beyond. Let the images turn. Fill them with memories. Soon, with heavy heart, we will leave French Polynesia.

Mt Pahia stands high at 2160 ft and behind it is Otemanu at 2384 ft--towering volcanic peaks with sheer black rock. Their verdant green slopes are filled with tropical foliage. Flat-topped trees point to those similar in Africa. The island rests in the large lagoon, rippled by the wind so that colour demarcation is all but erased into gray today.

Yesterday morning, September 10, my eldest brother, Brian, passed away from cancer. I remember him in healthy times: handsome and tanned with sandy blond hair and blue-gray eyes and a beautiful smile. I sit awhile and contemplate. My heart overflows.

Sailboats are at anchor: blue, black, white, green hulls. Ketches, sloops, cutters, catamarans. In the distance between the main island and Motu Toopua the 4-masted schooner, Star Flyer, silhouettes the sky in a quiet, classic, romantic way.

Out beyond the reefs ships and sailboats come and go, like ghosts they leave and enter between the red and green markers that guide them through the pass. They disappear into the void invisible or move into a place of anchorage, their flags and names and ports of destination becoming visible.

The air is pungent with sweet smoke from coconut fires and cars circle the perimeter like toys, now visible, now not visible between the swaying palms.

I've almost closed the door on Bora Bora. On its roadside fruit and fish stands; its black pearl shops; hedges of red, apricot, peach, yellow Chinese hibiscus; crystal turquoise waters where my precious girls and Russ and I swam; motus that exude tranquility with cooling palms and white-rimmed beaches and sea breezes; sleek multi-coloured outriggers with honey-coloured Polynesian torsos bent to paddle, the Bora Bora yacht club buzz of music with tattooed islanders and happy travelers; the waning moon; and night beats of the dance troupe drums.

Black clouds gather and the wind blows stronger. The rain beats down, splashes on the deck. Thunder rumbles. Bora Bora is protected and so is Zulu: enclosed to the east by Motus and by reefs in the west. There will be no stars visible tonight. No more 'ia ora na' (let your life be) greetings ...perhaps until another time. So I leave this door ajar. The sun will shine as we leave French Polynesia.


A motu exudes sweet tranquility.


There will be no stars tonight.


Black clouds gather.