The ZAFU Chronicles

San Blas Islands, 14 March 2003

There is nothing here in San Blas, a Caribbean province of Panama, but islands and
Indians. Haven’t seen a single Mac Donald’s or Home Depot. But the fact that
civilization has neglected these islands is what makes them charming, or so I am
told.
ZAFU took 4 days to sail the 711 miles from Bonaire to Porvenir. If we’d been
willing to sail among the islands and through the reefs at night or suffer
discomfort, we could have done it in three days and change. Sailors familiar with
the route told us to stay at least 100 miles off Columbia—the trade winds, we were
told, blow 35 to 40 knots along Columbia’s north coast. In a pig’s eye I thought;
so we stayed 40 miles off. It is now my personal experience that the trade winds
do in fact blow 30 to 40 knots continually off the coast of Columbia at this time
of year—or at least they did for us.
ZAFU is presently at anchor in a lagoon between two small islands in Cayos
Chichimé, four mile west of Porvenir. There are several yachts here. Two of them
are American. The other flags are German, Austrian, Italian, and Swiss.
Porvenir is the westernmost island east and north of Pointe San Blas. It’s about
80 miles from Cristóbol (Colon). The municipal building where we cleared customs
and immigration looked like it had been used for target practice in war maneuvers;
electrical wiring—unneeded considering electricity is such a rare commodity—hangs
from broken ceiling tiles like the exposed industrial ganglia it is. Several
shoulder high stacks of ancient Panamanian newspapers serve as foodstuff for
insects and bedding for local rodents – though we haven’t seen either.
The port captain and custom’s agent were helpful. Zarpa (the cruising permit) cost
$77 US. That seems a bit pricey until one realizes that bureaucracy is everywhere
and at all times self-justifying, self-perpetuating, and has power to levy fees
necessary to fund its ostensive purposes. The rubrics of bureaucracy demand that
the smaller the fiefdom the more complicated the paper work and the higher the
tariffs.
These islands, in contrast with Bonaire, are sparsely populated, sandy, and lush.
The fronds on the coconut trees are huge. Coconuts are the Kuna Yala Indians’
principle agricultural export.
Kuna Indians are pleasant. Hemmie towers over them like a Titan. For
transportation, they push, paddle, and pole leaky dugout canoes, some of which are
occasionally fitted with spritsails. Most of their sails are made from recycled
cruising jibs, and most are transparent from years of use.
There is no need for a North or Hood sail loft here. The locals know how to sew.
Everyone, men and boys included, makes molas. Molas are squares of cloth decorated
with colorful jungle flora and fauna. We were told that Lisa is the best sewer and
mola designer in San Blas. Lisa, we are also given to understand, is a man who
dresses like a woman. Seems a bit curious in such natural surroundings.
Whenever we move to a new anchorage, women and children selling molas swarm around
Z’s deck with their wares. They don’t even wait for her to set her anchor. They
cluster like sand fleas. This practice is tough on Z’s topsides and discourages
frequent changes of scenery.
Hemmie and Sandy (Sandy and Don Mackenzie, old sailing pals, came aboard ZAFU in
Bonaire) and I went ashore in Porvenir to size up the metropolis. Don stayed
aboard as anchor watch. (Don turns 80 this December.)
Our exploration took twenty minutes. There was the aforementioned municipal
building plus an airport terminal with port-o-lets projecting out over the sea, a
cluster of thatched roof buildings, a runway, and the Hotel.
We had lunch at the hotel, sharing a family style repast with its guests. The
hotel operates on the American plan. Mimi, a Caucasian American in her sixties,
was married to Victor, an African-American in his seventies and a retired
psychologist. Mimi and Victor operate a therapeutic honey business online from
their home in Baltimore. We sampled the product. Not bad! It was completely
organic, blended, and uncontaminated with preservatives. Barbara and Wolfgang sat
next to me. They were German expatriates and naturalized Americans. Barbara wanted
to know if we’d heard, as she had, the War in Iraq would start on the17th. I told
her that was not likely. March 17 is a fabulous religious holiday during which
millions of Americans pay obeisance to their patron saint by sitting around pubs
consuming huge quantities of green beer, and singing Old Danny Boy. The
seventeenth is definitely out. But I have to wonder where she got her information.

On our tour, we peeked into a couple of the hotel’s rooms – not difficult to do.
The woven bamboo mat doors are left open when the rooms are unoccupied. They’re
off the ground about 18 inches at the bottom and down from the top about the same.
I presume this feature facilitates the movement of air. Floors are concrete; the
beds are simple mattresses resting on some kind of foundational support. One room
has mosquito netting, though I haven’t seen a mosquito in months. That may change
in Colon.
When we returned to ZAFU, I dove on the anchor to check its security and cool off.
After three nights with 20-knot winds, I found the rascal lying on its side on top
of the sand. The cruising guide did say holding was good, but this was amazing.
After my discovery, we moved Z to Cayos Chichimé, five or six miles to the south.
There the anchor buried itself in the sandy bottom of a pristine western Caribbean
lagoon.
I’ve been surprised by the number of cruising yachts we encounter in these
anchorages off the beaten track and most of them are European.
On her way to the Canal, Z stopped in Portobelo, a 16th C treasure port. Portobelo
is poor, gritty, and thirty minutes from Colon by bus. It is also a tourist
destination for Panamanians – along with the international tie-die and Birkenstock
crowd or whatever they have metamorphosed into.
Buses are independently owned in Panama. Each is decorated with airbrushed cartoon
or comic book characters, and each keeps its own schedule. It is possible that
there will have been no bus to Colon for over an hour when, suddenly, three will
arrive at the same time.
Portobelo has not recovered from the depredations of pirates like Drake, Morgan,
Dampier, et al. The port had once been heavily fortified. Battlements and walls
from several of the old fortresses run across the hillsides and through the town.
It would be scenic, if the town weren’t so dinghy.
Portobelo was the last Caribbean port where the Spanish loaded cargo bound for
Madrid, cargo that had been sailed up from Cartagena or trekked across the isthmus
from the Pacific. We were told that the ATOSHA, a treasure ship lost during a
storm in the Florida straits – the wreckage was discovered in the Keys several
years ago – had the equivalent of $400,000,000 in gold and silver on board when
she departed Portobelo.
The buzzard is the signature bird of the town. They are everywhere—very tame—
somewhat disconcerting. I’m certain they would take food from your hand if you
were to offer it. An American couple, Patricia and Dick McGahee, called the
vultures the good citizens of Portobelo in that they do a more conscientious job
of cleaning the community than its human denizens.
Pat and Dick, a thoroughly likeable couple who moved to Portobelo to stretch their
social security checks, have acquired considerable knowledge of local history. Pat
authored a book on the area, which she prints and binds herself. She charges an
extra quarter for an autographed copy.
Their domicile, I wouldn’t use the word house—it’s more like a storage place with
a bed and office – is open to the anchorage and contiguous with the dingy dock.
Nobody comes or goes by yacht without meeting the McGahees.

March 19, 2003 Colon, Panama

ZAFU arrived in Colon this morning. She is poised to cross the isthmus.
The Panama Canal Yacht Club is a... a..., well, it’s a Panamanian yacht club.
(First impression) ZAFU found the only possible space that could accommodate her,
forty-five feet along a crumbling concrete T-dock. She hangs over a bit. The yacht
we share it with is a steel sailboat whose owner doesn’t believe in fenders. Nor
does he believe in sails, paint, port lights, or any other accessories that make
small boats useable and livable. The boat viciously grinds away at the dock all
day and all night, and the dock, not without weaponry of its own, grinds back. In
the fullness of time, Newton’s Third Law will see to it that the dock becomes a
pulverized pile of powder and the boat a heap of rusty iron filings.
When I checked in at the office, I described our location as the dock where the
fleet of derelict yachts is berthed. I was informed with understandable hauteur
that Z was in the membership area, and that she could not remain there more than a
month. A month! Perish the thought!
The brochure claims that the yacht club water is potable and they have both 220
VAC and 110 VAC electric services. The electricity available on our dock was not
available to us; the wiring had clearly been done by the same electrician who
wired the municipal building on Porvenir. As for the dockside water pressure—well,
even in my current state of decrepitude, I can pee a better stream.
The town of Colon looks hellish at night. Dark figures lurk everywhere. Even the
neon signs advertising bars and bodegas and shops selling things imported from the
orient—electronic paraphernalia—inform but dimly. They give off a paucity of light
and color contributing to the general sense of malaise. Who knows what merchandise
is passed from hand to hand in the shadows. However, everything is cheap. Last
night we paid less than $15 for a fresh fish dinner for two. I had Snapper; Hemmie
had Wahoo.
Panamanians are friendly and helpful – at least those without guns and knives, and
they are the overwhelmingly majority. Panamanians tell us it is Columbian
immigrants who cause problems.

Hemmie and I took a two-week break while Z was in Colon. We left her in Don and
Sandy’s care, and flew to the Galapagos to rendezvous with two sons (Willy and
Jim), our daughter-in-law (Linda), and three grandchildren.
The Galapagos lived up to their reputation though the Islands are not in
themselves especially attractive. They are far too arid. But the tameness and
variety of fauna is amazing. Early sailors who killed these beasts for sport must
surely have betrayed a sacred trust as much as the putative Eve did in the Garden
of Eden. The innocence and playfulness of the turtles and sea lions must be seen
to be appreciated.
One island was so densely inhabited with boobies and frigate birds the congestion
reminded me of Grand Central Station at rush hour. It was here that an owl landed
on a branch in our midst. He was so close to me, I could have touched him. The
birds were completely unafraid. They wouldn’t even move out of the way as we
wandered about. We had to step over them or around them. These avian residents
expected civility and courtesy from their guests. That was true for all the fauna,
marine animals as well as land animals.
It is a nice feeling to walk among a population of strange little creatures
without exciting fear. One could feel a preternatural Rousseauian sympathy among
this diverse population. It was obvious to everybody that the sea lions and
turtles recognized our grandchildren as immature members of the species and
treated them with particular forbearance.

Meanwhile, back in Colon, nothing had been done to further Z’s progress
through the canal. The Canal authority had taken pilots off canal duty and put
them on patrol. The Iraqi situation managed to conflict even Panama.
Panama is hotter than Ecuador and much hotter and dirtier than the
Galapagos. The air pollution in Panama City is overwhelming. A two-hour taxi ride
from the airport to the boat was the worst I’ve experienced. Traffic in Panama is
chaotic.
Our driver—known as Dracula to his associates—wore dark glasses everywhere
and all the time to hide the fact that he was blind in one eye. He drove slowly
but recklessly. Hemmie kept telling him that he was an excellent cabby, but her
flattery didn’t improve his technique. Dracula never dimmed his lights, never used
the right lane, and honked at every car entering the highway. Unforgivably, he
never turned on the air conditioning or turned off the radio. The radio droned on
and on. However, Dracula did tie the trunk down with a stout rope, so we had no
fear for the safety of our luggage.
ZAFU looked good. Don and Sandy had kept her safe. There was only one
exigent “Oh, dear!” as Capt. Derek would have put it. The forward holding tank was
full. It had become seriously plugged. That may have accounted for Z’s slight list
to port. When we’d flush the head, a half-inch jet of shit would fire out the vent
spattering everything within its range. Victor, a local mechanic, fixed the
problem. He worked on it all day for $50.
Eventually ZAFU received a transit date – praise the Lord! The crew was on the
verge of mutiny. One can sojourn too long in a place where no one raises an
eyebrow when a half-inch stream of foul smelling effluent jets out of the side of
a yacht painting everything within its trajectory brown.
Once Z began to transit, her passage continued efficiently through to the Pacific
without interruption. Many yachts had to overnight in Gatun Lake about half way.
ZAFU made it to Balboa just in time for Hemmie to catch her flight home.

21 May 2003 Marquesas, French Polynesia

The French are excellent island administrators. Nuku Hiva is immaculate.
There are people raking the public places (prisoners as it turned out), picking up
trash, and generally looking after the village’s esthetic facade. Nuku Hiva and
the Marquesas in general are typical of Polynesia. They are verdant, they are
rugged, and they have a gazillion Coconut palms. The harbor, however, rocks and
rolls; it is open to a southerly swell.
There are 60 yachts anchored in the bay, but no one seems interested in the
commercial implications. There is no dinghy dock. Going ashore at low water
requires either a grunt and drag, pulling your dinghy up onto the beach then
dragging it over sand well above the tide line while being guaranteed a serious
case of dinghy butt and wet feet to boot, or a desperate climb up a rusty, broken,
encrusted ladder to a crumbling quay and leaving the dinghy on a long tether to
take its chances in the surge.
Prices in French Polynesia are astronomical. I went to the bank for some exchange—
they don’t use Euros or dollars here—and came away with 100,000 Polynesian Francs.
Obviously they don’t bother with fractional denominations. That should have made
counting change easy, but I never quite understood the currency. I solved
transaction problems by handing vendors a large denomination bill and trusting
them to do the right thing. The merit of my system relates to ignorance; if I
don’t know I’m being overcharged, I don’t have to get exercised over it.

5 August 2003 Rarotonga, Cook Islands

I am struck by the date. There is no particular reason except that it represents
the passage of time; i.e., the rapid passage of time, and it is my sister-in-law
Lizzie’s birthday. (The fact that I know it is Lizzie’s B’day should indicate that
Hemmie has returned.) I imagine, in another fifty years people will be saying
things like “Let’s see ... that happened around the turn of the century. I think
it was back in ’03.” In fifty years, my youngest son will be 89 and I shall be
117. These days I keep time by noting the frequency with which I fill my weekly
pill organizer. Scary, huh?
It’s nice to have Hemmie back on board. She returned to ZAFU when we were in Bora
Bora in The Society Islands. She makes a splendid companion for indulgent
gastronomy. I’ve come to think of her as my enabler. I will no doubt gain 20
pounds between now and when she flies back to NH.
Yesterday we went to Trader Jack’s Restaurant in Avarua, the principle village on
Rarotonga. Hemmie had Mahi Mahi, the fish once known as Dolphin or Dorado and a
staple for those cruising sailors who drag a hook and line. I had lamb shanks.
Both dishes were excellent, especially considering the fact that we are no longer
in French Polynesia. When Hemmie asked if the fish she was about to order was
fresh, the waitress said “two days old. We got it Wednesday.” What an amazingly
direct answer. I’m used to something vague and uninformed like “Everything we
serve is fresh.”
All the Polynesian people we encounter have been pleasant, generous, and quick to
smile, though they don’t seem to “frolic” like the African people in the
Caribbean. They appear to be genuinely pleased to have us on their islands.
Rarotonga was a New Zealand possession until 1965 when they voted for
independence. Fortunately NZ has not abandoned them. They do some fishing and
engage in some agriculture and support some tourism, but other than that they are
a wee bit short of the means to make their way in the world.
This last week was Constitution Week, a period of general celebration. The
featured attraction was a native music and dance competition held annually among
the various Cook Islands. The dancers were brilliant. Their costuming and
choreography was equal to anything Hollywood has produced. I suppose Cook
islanders have watched a lot of movies about life in the South Pacific and know
what the world expects of them. Then too, they have time to practice.
After a week here, I’m still tempted to speak Pidgin even though the Rarotongans
all speak English – albeit with a decidedly New Zealand accent. They have
excellent schools and medical clinics, or so I am told by John Milligan.
John is a solo sailor on a 37-foot yacht anchored next to ZAFU. He’s a native New
Zealander and never been out of the Pacific Basin. He speaks Maori and is a font
of information. Interestingly John is not ashamed to admit he is a lawyer though
he retired from general practice and now devotes his time to environmental ethics.
He knows the Pacific islands, their customs and histories. He is also a student of
classical philosophy. We’ve had some stirring discussions, which invariably lead
to restlessness and the glazing of eyes among casual auditors.
Tomorrow we leave this pleasant little island and sail for American Samoa.

12 August 2003 Pago Pago, American Samoa The passage:

We hooked and lost three large fish but managed to land a fourth – a 15 pound Mahi
Mahi. He was spectacular. The form and coloring of the dolphin fish is exquisite.
They flash, changing colors as they are pulled from the sea. I hate to think about
it. The idea of killing this extraordinary creature is grievous, but ... if I
weren’t expected to catch him and eat him, surely God would not have made him so
yummy. We devoured the fish in jig time, forgetting his elegant beauty in our lust
of appetite.
Later we hooked a fish that peeled nearly all the line off our reel before shaking
the hook. Two of us were on deck watching when the line sprung back toward the
boat as the fish “spit” the lure. We were still on deck watching as a second fish,
a Mahi, immediately grabbed the ejected lure no doubt mistaking it for a Flying
fish. But the hook had been straightened with the first strike, and as we
struggled to retrieve the line and the Mahi, the Mahi also gained his freedom.
During this episodic mini-drama, a pair of leviathans breached several yards off
Z’s stern quarters and remained on the surface for several minutes watching the
spectacle. I cannot help wondering if they were Paracletes of Poseidon appearing
as a reproach for eating the beautiful Mahi. That night, while I was on watch from
2 a.m. to 4 a.m., a huge Flying Fish glided through my hatch and landed on my bunk
where he thrashed about giving up blood and scales ‘til he finally gave up his
life. It was a mess.
Was his an act of immolation? Was this too a reproach? Coincidence you say? What
is coincidence? I don’t know if there are any events in the universe at large that
are not ultimately related from ontological necessity, David Hume not-with-
standing. If the universe is an organic whole then everything must be connected to
everything else and every event to every event.
The fish & whales incident reminded me that I do not believes intelligence is a
proprietary attribute of the human condition, but the Providence of God – if you
are not too particular how you use the term God. (In this case, I use the word as
a semantic wildcard to express that category of cosmic behavior that is rationally
luminous but physically unexplained.) We creatures are only granted a limited
license of use. It is, therefore, within the purview of my epistemology that
cetaceans and scaly fish think, have rudimentary culture, are curious in observing
their environment, feel emotions, and make moral judgments – though these
judgments are not discerned as dogma but are subtly expressed in behavior.
We had excellent sailing to Samoa. We motored 40 hours in a calm, but after that
ZAFU enjoyed decent breezes.
We found Pago Pago to be a splendid commercial harbor – meaning it is trashy,
industrial, run down, and filled with fishing boats from China and Korea. Samoa is
a beautiful island populated with pleasant Polynesians and a mix of Asians and
Caucasians. Someone told me the natives were so prosperous that they weighted on
average ten pounds more than Western Samoans. That could easily be true. They are
huge. I remember that the world champion Sumo wrestler is a Samoan.
We arrived off Pago Pago at 11:30 in the morning. Following published protocols, I
called Harbor Control on the radio. There was no answer. I called diligently every
15 minutes thereafter for the next hour. Still there was no answer. Finally, when
we were in the harbor off the customs dock, sailing in circles trying to decide
what to do – there was a rusty old Brigantine laying to with a 60 foot motor
sailor rafted alongside – the harbor master came on the radio. We were instructed
to raft alongside the motor sailor, hoist our Q flag and wait for: 1. The
agriculture inspector, 2. The health inspector, 3. The port authority, 4. The
immigration officer, and 5. Customs. Each, we were told, would be aboard in due
course. Once we had cleared this legion of bureaucrats, we could walk the mile to
the Harbor Master’s office and receive written permission to anchor. It was 10:00
am the next morning when we finished and went out to drop our hook. (We missed the
immigration officer. The Port Captain and the Custom’s Agent said it was okay. I
guess we’ll get our passports stamped when we clear out.)
It was never clear who had overall jurisdiction, but it looked to me like it was
the Port Captain. He was sympathetic to our problem, volunteering to lodge an
official complaint on our behalf. I had not in fact complained, nor did I want to
complain and antagonize any petty bureaucrat who could at his whim make life
unpleasant. There was obviously dissention among the agencies. But there you have
it. The French invented bureaucracy, but we appear to be refining it.
The next day and night it blew like stink. South African friends in a boat named
SEA TJALM (?) dragged – as did several other yachts. The locals tell me the bottom
is mud covered with junk – old engine blocks, boiler plate, chain, cardboard,
cans, and plastic bags and bottles. I believe it. The surface of the harbor
reflects it. I’ve watched all the above-mentioned refuse float by. I was just a
little startling to see an old truck engine bobbing out to sea toward the end of
cocktail hour.
The principle reason we chose to be in American Samoa was to fill gaps in our
equipment and provisions list ... and eat a Big Mac. But so far we have not been
able to find any of the equipment we wanted – most particularly a 3 hp outboard
motor. But there is a Mac Donalds.
American Samoa is as lush as any tropical island we’ve seen. It should be; it
rains everyday; sometimes it rains all day ... as it did yesterday, the day we did
laundry.
So far we have had lunch at Sadie Thompson’s and visited a fish cannery – at least
Hemmie and the crew visited the fish cannery. I stood anchor watch. The visit
reassured everybody that our Tuna was properly cooked and canned and fit to eat,
but no one described a great esthetic experience or a desire to return.
Today we provision. In this case take on groceries. It is my intention to sail the
322 nautical miles to Vava’u on Monday. We’ll stay there a week then head for
Fiji where Hemmie will leave the boat and I will begin to diet.

23 August 2003 Neiafu, Vava’u Group, Kingdom of Tonga

By the time we arrived at Vava’u, the sun had set. We dropped the hook in the
first anchorage we could find. The place was brimming with boats – reminded me of
a New England anchorage in the middle of June, someplace like Duxbury or
Marblehead. There were 18 sailboats including ZAFU. Many were bareboat charters
from the Moorings Company in Neiafu. That always makes me uneasy.
None of us was pleased with the situation. The anchorage was not only crowded, but
in a wind shift we could find ourselves close by a dangerous lee shore. However,
given the fading light and three days of calm – we motored all the way from Pago
Pago, 330 nm – the monotony of which tends to make one forget how quickly things
can change; we accepted the situation. We were tired. We went to bed.
During the night things did change. A cold front approached Tonga; the wind backed
northwest and gusted 20 to 25 knots. Rain fell in buckets. It was so dark, we
couldn’t see beyond ZAFU’s deck, and the deluge reflected the illumination from
our spotlight like a giant mirror.
ZAFU swung. We knew we were close to the beach. We couldn’t see the shore, but we
could hear the surf. It was a nervous night.
At daybreak we saw a rim of coral along the shore not more than a dozen yards from
ZAFU’s stern. We got underway immediately and motored the three miles to Neiafu
Harbor where we picked up a mooring.

Monday, August 25, 2003:

I have just returned from completing the clearing in formalities. As it turned
out, we lost a day. Vava’u is 7° east of the International Date Line; however, the
Tongans prefer to think of themselves as being in the Eastern Hemisphere where
they share the day with Australia, New Zealand and Fiji, ...so they took a day
away from us.

Later:
Shortly after we cleared customs and immigration, a large, dark, and homely Tongan
(or more likely a Fijian) named Lofi, with feet that would make a Sasquatch proud,
paddled his skiff up to ZAFU and invited us to a traditional Tongan feast. He was
scruffy. His skiff was scruffy, but, heck fire, we’d heard a lot about Tongan
feasts, and we didn’t think he would reflect the level of orderliness or
cleanliness we could expect at a feast. He promised us Tongan style chicken,
Tongan style pork, Pacific Tuna, native vegetables, and kava! How could we resist.

I’m certain we all had the classic Hollywood style Hawaiian luau in mind – a pig
roasting slowly over hot coals, fresh pineapple, yams, coconuts and bananas,
native dancers doing a traditional fire dance. We agreed to pay Lofi 30 pa’angas a
head – about $12 each. It seemed a reasonable sum for a sumptuous Polynesian
feast.
There were ten of us feasters: four sailors from ZAFU, three from the yacht DRAGON
FLY, and three backpackers from the Paradise Hotel. The ladies outnumbered the men
six to four.
The feast was in Lofi’s home. It was humble; it was much like other houses in the
neighborhood. The houses were evidently designed by an architect who had been
profoundly influenced by the shoebox.
We had to climb over a corrugated sheet metal gate stretched across the path to
the feast. We speculated it was a devise to keep pigs out. Pigs are everywhere in
Vava’u and tend to roam at will much like goats in the Virgin Islands or dogs in
Guadeloupe and French Polynesia. Unfortunately, pigs are not friends of grass;
they root. Goats do not. There were also the ubiquitous free-range island chickens
to be restrained as well. They too roam at will through the neighborhood and they
scratch. (I’ve become so used to hearing roosters herald the dawning of day, I may
purchase a couple for our Mann’s Hill digs. I don’t think chickens would do well
on a boat.)
We could see bananas, paw paws, yams, taro, and breadfruit growing in one near-by
yard or another. The only food on the putative feast menu that was not common to
the neighborhood was Tuna and rice.
We removed our shoes when we entered the house, apparently part of the
Tongan tradition; though Tongans – or at least Lofi – are clearly less fastidious
than say ... the Japanese or Dutch or Germans, and it is doubtful that the removal
of our shoes had anything to do with sanitation. If sanitation were an issue, we
would have been given rubber boots considering the condition of the floors inside.
I still check now and again to see if I’ve developed any round, red, vesiculated
skin lesions. I have a phobia about worms that bore into flesh, even though I know
ringworm is a fungus.
The food was being prepared on the porch. There was no kitchen nor did I see any
running water.
In the living room where the feast was to be held, an old boom box blared
Polynesian music. The concrete floor was covered with ragged linoleum over which a
brown drop cloth marked with colorful stains from past events was casually laid.
There was no furniture other than a rough table used as a kind of catchall. We sat
on the floor, a feat that reminded me I must resume yoga exercises when I return.
The feast began with kava. Only a couple of us intrepid feasters would try it. I
was one, of course. It was so awful I had to go back for seconds just to be sure
of my initial impression. However, there was no need to put myself through that.
Two other kava drinkers confirmed my initial impression.
Kava, once prepared, looks like the floodwaters of the muddy Mississippi and
tastes like rinse water after grandma starches grandpa’s sox. I don’t think kava
bars are likely to spring up in the US the way Starbucks or Krispy Kremes did. But
... one never knows. Who would have believed Budweiser could become the world’s
most popular beer.
After passing kava around, the Lofi passed out plates filled with things 9 of ten
feasters judged to be inedible. I of course ate most of mine, or at least all that
I could chew and wasn’t pure fat, bone or gristle. I tend to be more of a gourmand
than a gourmet. In my mind a gross quantity of food will nearly always make up for
any lack of quality.
Most of the diners mistook the Tuna for Parrot Fish. The sausage was misidentified
as a cold, uncooked Oscar Meyer wiener. The chicken part – I got a tiny, muscular,
free-range drumstick, others weren’t so lucky – was fried over a hotplate in a
casserole coated with vegetable oil. The yams were delicious. The meat wrapped in
Taro leaves remains to be identified. And the tomatoes were home grown.
The feasters all agreed it was “quite an experience.” Hemmie did not ask for a
doggie bag. There was plenty left for the pigs.
Having said all of the above, I want to add that Tongan’s are easily the most
pleasant people in the world. They are polite to a fault. They have beautiful
smiles and they smile easily. They prefer not to accept tips – though Lofi might
be the exception, if he is not a Melanesian rather than a Maori Tongan. The male
Tongans have little ambition as we think of it in the US. Most Tongans are
religious and family oriented. They sing everywhere, at meetings, at work, at
play. They have large families. Indeed, I have come to think of them as the Irish
of the Pacific, and no doubt they have a residual drop of Irish blood in them from
days gone by.
Hemmie flies to Boston on the 6th of September. ZAFU will sail for Opua, New
Zealand two or three weeks after her departure.
When we arrive in Opua, I’ll put Z in a boatyard and have some work done to her.
She has acquired a few minor “issues.” The list of discrepancies is not daunting.
I’d like to check the rig, go over the electrical system, clean and paint the
engine room, touch-up the spars, update her communications equipment, renew some
running rigging, and clean and repair her sails – that sort of thing.
Of course, I don’t need to be present for boatyard work, right? — though it seems
to proceed more efficiently when I am. I will follow Hemmie to Littleton as soon
as I’ve made the appropriate arrangements.
The two of us will return to New Zealand on January 8th. Summer in the Southern
Hemisphere will be in full bloom then. We’ll hangout, use ZAFU as an apartment,
lease a car, and tour the two big islands.
ZAFU has sailed 12,000 miles since October 2002. She has 18,000 to go to return
home – unless we take a shortcut and sail around Cape Horn. Unlikely! The plan at
present is to sail to New Caledonia, thence to Australia where Z will spend some
time sailing in the sheltered waters behind the Great Barrier Reef before
continuing on to Darwin. From Darwin Z will sail to Cocos Keeling, cross the India
Ocean to Mauritius, duck south of Mozambique and visit Durban, Port Elizabeth, and
Cape Town. That will be another 10,000 miles. In November 2004, we’ll head across
the South Atlantic, probably stop at St. Helena then continue on to the Caribbean.

There are a bunch of ports of call that we will just have to miss. Life is short
and the world is large. There is only time for a taste.
Enough! I’ve sent 12 pages. More than I have any right to expect friends to read.
So ... happy urban living,

Bill