The Voyage of Yacht Zulu: Port Maurelle and Nuku

June 15 to June 22, 2010

Port Maurelle

The bay of Port Maurelle. See the spec of Zulu at anchor extreme right off the southern point.

Southern tip of Port Maurelle

We’ve anchored off the Southern tip of Port Maurelle, named after the explorer Don Francisco Maurelle who arrived in Vava’u May 5, 1781. His ship, La Princesa, was leaking and his men were sick and he was low on food. The friendly Tongan chief, Tupou, gave him fresh food and Maurelle watered and made some repairs to his ship. He named the bay Port of Refuge, which now applies to the whole Vava’u harbor. Maurelle stayed only a short time as he was on his way to San Blas Mexico with dispatches from Manila.

Always Russ anchors way back on the periphery. Zulu swings wide. The wind hits us at 20 knots off the nose and pushes us around like a merry go round. The KISS wind generator spins making amps, making energy just the way Russ likes it.

I sit on my deck chair eating the last of the precious Minerva yellow fin tuna, a gift from SV Windborne. The wind blows my forkful of sautéed potatoes with onions and peas and a morsel of the yellow fin tuna in soya and ginger and lime and olive oil to the winds. Such is the velocity of wind here!

I read from the book Russ’ beautiful mother gave him: Ship of Gold in the Deep Blue Sea by Gary Kinder. The ship of gold was the steamship Central America bound for New York and carrying 592 passengers from California and their gold to the value of $2,000,000 in 1857.

It sunk in a hurricane off Cape Hatteras about 200 miles off the Carolina coast and all its treasure and most of its men were lost and gone to the bottom of the deep blue sea.

The story tells of Tommy Thompson, a 33-year-old research engineer’s methodical search for the ship —along with his friends’ search: a geologist and journalist -- against all odds and question and competition and greed.

True he was a genius, but he thought in the simplest terms, outside of the box, and came up with break-through technology that enabled him to discover the ship and recover its vast treasure in 1985 after 130 years of it being at the bottom of the sea.

His dream of finding the treasure-- against insurmountable odds--was fulfilled through his determination and discipline. “Discipline, the mother of good luck.” This treasure is the greatest ever found in the deep blue sea.

I lie down in the shade on the deck and I dream. I am out at sea and recovering treasure—gold bars and coins—from the deep. 9,000 ft down. First I see the trails of the sea cucumbers on the ocean floor. Sea cucumbers found that deep?

Then, I paraphrase my dream images as the book describes: the sea stars and the fiery red-orange or canary yellow anemones and gorgonian corals with arms of coral pink around trunks and beams and bricks of gold. I see broken crockery, porcelain tea cups, bottles, vases, leather suitcases with books of poetry—the pieces that make up personal life stories of the California Gold Rush days. I see the ships bell and anchor, chunks of coal, and tube worms boring holes into wood. Fragments of the whole—the whole having succumbed to the elements of a hurricane and which became enveloped in a watery grave. Still, dark, and final at rest.

I awake! My book lies open next to my pillow. It is unfinished. I do not want it to finish. I sit up. The wind is howling and the deck on which I lie is hard. I squint and blink to realize I am in Port Morelle, Vava'u, Kingdom of Tonga. I have to close the book. Seize the present moment in my life, being here in the Friendly Islands. This place will not return. There are treasures to be found here.

I slip overboard into the warm, translucent waters and swim toward a white coral beach with tall palms, the trunks of which are a rust red, and with green frond tops that twist and rustle in the wind. I swim on the surface of the underworld—waters of liquid blues. Black and white tipped reef sharks are out there, but have not met up with me. There are caves with swallows and caves with coral snakes and caves with folktales of lovers eloping not far off from this bay.

A huge slice of limestone sits precariously in the balance.

I keep my head above the turquoise, beyond the reefs, and swim parallel to the undermined base of the limestone that edges the island, ever etched away by wind and waves. A huge slice of limestone sits precariously in the balance as I swim by. I feel light and energized and alive. Like my life is treasure, golden in hue. And that I have just discovered it.

Russ comes on behind me and beaches the dinghy. We tie it to a palm tree. Take a walk along a two-wheel track through red earth toward a village. It is empty of people. Three horses are tethered. Pigs and piglets roam. Perhaps the people are in church. It is Sunday. We veer off to the right—to Barnacle beach and see the sign of invitation to a feast on a Saturday night.

A horse tethered in one of the villages.

Four little pigs munching on grass while mom is away.

A village house with a beautiful view of Barnacle Beach.

“You Well Come To Barnacle Beach.” Tongan feasts are held here.

A wall of a home topped with giant clam shells.

A butterfly alights atop of a flower.

We walk on. Into the interior--on and on in the hot, hot sun. Butterflies are everywhere. Small yellow butterflies, orange Monarch-like butterflies, black winged butterflies with periwinkle blue circles and white centers, white butterflies. They surround us making for a butterfly heaven. Flittering and alighting. My homemade words.

One flies into a spider’s web. The spider has long black and orange legs. I see the butterfly struggle with wings imprisoned in silk. I pull it from the web and set it free. Russ calls me the Butterfly goddess. It flies away. I am happy.

I think of the yachtsman, Steve, from the island of Jersey in the Atlantic, who went to a village of a tiny island here in Tonga. The islanders were preparing for a feast. Steve saw a small turtle and asked what they intended to do with it. They responded—eat it. So he bought it from them and took it far away off another uninhabited island and set it free. He being the Turtle god.

We walk the opposite way now from the previous village. Russ carries his panga (bush wacker) hoping to find a green coconut. But all the groves are set behind barbed wire fences--out of bounds. We walk on. Up a hill an elderly Tongan man with salt and pepper hair pushes a wheel barrow along the two-track red ‘road’. He is going to collect coconuts.

Six dogs make for me. Their ribs are showing. They growl. I try to act relaxed, but do not want any fangs buried in my ankles. I hold the back of my hand toward them and speak quietly. The old man stops and calls to the dogs to no avail.

Russ arrives and makes the Gggggggghhhhh sound from way back of his throat. This sound he heard the Tongans use on dogs thirty years ago! The dogs miraculously freeze and stop their barking. We smile, say hello, a few words of pleasantries. Then walk on.

There is a women coming up the path dressed modestly in worn clothes with a small boy carrying a woven matt and a panga. The small boy waves and smiles at us. The woman gives a warm smile too. A tiny boy walks wide-eyed at her side—holding her hand-- and starts to cry with fright as we get closer.

He has seen Palangi (white people) apparitions: Russ is in a cut-off yellow shirt breast high and has a large, battered straw hat askew on his head. His shorts are worn and stained from previous coconut tree climbs. I am in an orange pareo with a yellow Boeing cap on back to front and wearing scratched sun glasses. What a sight. Enough to scare any island child. The little boy is in his underpants and a T-shirt. Bare feet. His nose runs and tears flow and his mouth is twisted, and his eyes are white with fear.

We try to soothe him. But he continues to cry. So we walk on and wave and his Mom tells him to wave back. And he gains a sense of safety at our leaving and tentatively lifts his little hand. He forces a smile--a smile of relief. Tear stained. Poor darling little treasure boy.

Russ says these villagers are definitely not part of the cash flow commoners. They are subsistence farmers mainly. They have VERY LITTLE. But their smiles are wide and they exude calm. They have so little, yet so much. Their simple, yet neat little houses perch in places that offer views of the waters blue.

On we walk until we get to another village gate, which is closed. I turn around and retrace my steps. Russ must have gained access to the village. I hear a rustle. I get a fright. So does the cow. His hoof gets tangled in the lianas. I want to help it, but it just stands there. Eventually it frees itself and moves into the bush.

The beach on which I sat waiting for Russ at Port Maurelle—my back on fire from sand flies.

I walk on. Pick wild flowers with a pungent smell. Things bite my back. Sand flies? I burn and itch all over. I must get to the beach quickly. There is the beach. I sit on a coconut log in the shade. But my back burns on. I cannot wait any longer for Russ. I must get in the water. I’m on fire.

Cool, clear, water. It soothes my back. Russ eventually appears. I pull the dinghy out into the water, pointing into the passage through the reefs. He talks to a Swedish cruiser with a big fat stomach. About some Spanish people who have a restaurant on a small island called Tapana. They serve sea food and chicken paella and tapas. The whole family is involved. And they come out and sing Spanish songs and dance Flamenco while you eat. He wants to go there sometime.

I call to Russ, my back is burning. I want to go out where the limestone is etched away and drops into the turquoise waters and swim. He comes. And we go out there.

I tie the dingy to the branch of a tree and enter the deeper water and close my eyes and swim through the liquid blues. I see the gray herons with yellow legs take off over the waters. Low flying. High above are the marked boobies and frigate birds diving. I tumble through the cool blues.

I am back into my dream. Back down to the bottom of the ocean deep. Back to where the sea stars and the fiery red-orange or canary yellow anemones and gorgonian corals with arms of coral pink wrap around things. But this time they are not wrapped around trunks and beams and bricks of gold. I do not see broken crockery, porcelain tea cups, bottles, vases, leather suitcases with books of poetry—the pieces that make up personal life stories of the California Gold Rush days. I do not see the ships bell and anchor, chunks of coal, and tube worms boring holes into wood.

The arms of coral pink wrap around Spanish discoverers in Tongan bays of blue translucent waters; around white coral beaches that flow into gentle curves; around wild pungent flowers; around green coconuts; around dogs and horses and cows and pigs and butterflies and turtles and herons and boobies and frigate birds and sharks and coral snakes; around quiet villages; around simple little homes with views of waters blue; around Tongan feasts; around smiles of old men and women; around the tear-stained broken smile of a tiny bare foot child.

The world turns, and lives in the passage of time turn too in a kaleidoscope of history and place. I’ve discovered these treasures and know time has a way of giving them to you and taking them away. I feel light and energized and alive. Like my life is treasure, golden in hue. And that I have just discovered it too.

“Diligence is the mother of luck.” Vast treasures await. But it is in the determination and discipline of the search that we find them. Seize the present moments. Fulfill the dream. Time is still here for us. I swim on.

The sun sets to the west of Port Maurelle and on my beautiful day of fulfilled dreams.

Nuku

We take the dinghy to Nuku, around the point from Port Morelle. A gray heron with yellow legs stands gingerly on the reef at low tide as we wiz by. Another takes off low, like a 747.

“Look at the flying fish!” we both exclaim. Schools of flying fish fly inches above the water parallel to the dinghy on both sides! Wow! Silver streaks with tinge of blue. I have never seen flying fish fly so far. They are either energized by us or by bigger fish.

We beach the dinghy on the perfect coral spit of Nuku. It is so perfect I feel loathe to leave an imprint. The water all around is shallow over sand—turquoise. A sign further in from the beach reads: private house enjoy the beach. There tucked in behind pandanus and palm trees is a small square house with a water tank in the foreground.

Russ walks on along the low-tide reefs and soon disappears, his usual style. I like to walk alone and drink in the vistas to the south that frame white sails against the island of Eukafa. I think I might like to live in that house all alone for a month with books and blank paper and music and tropical fruit.

I walk on slowly and find a little cove in which to meditate. I investigate the tidal pools to find starfish and other creatures. Up on top of craggy limestone outcroppings the roots of the pandanus trees push through the stone, such tenaciousness. The water laps at my feet. Is the tide coming in or out?

I get to where my knees rather than my ankles become the measuring stick and decide to turn back. Russ has either walked around or up over. I retrace my steps slowly making the most of the silence and beauty.

I’m back on the spit. Smoothed in texture and a peach-yellow in colour. A white chicken ventures out from the house yard to the edge of the beach. It struts its stuff, waddling stiffly from one leg to another stretching its neck in rapid forward jerky motion and disappears behind the bush as I approach.

Here comes Russ. I have to laugh at the image. He has rounded the whole island. I take a photograph for the record. He walks on across the edge of the spit. I see his footsteps and think about those of his mother and father who visited here with us long, long ago. They walked this very spit and time and elements have washed away all trace of them having been here.

So I bend down low and photograph Russ’ footprints so they will last through time and element for those who love him to see for years to come. Zulu awaits us. We must pull up the dinghy anchor and return.

The rain falls heavily as I write. It comforts and soothes my soul. It helps me appreciate shelter. I can hear the water pouring down. Slowly with time there is quiet. The drops tinkle, drip drip splash, then cease to drop. And all that remains is empty silence.