Living the Dream

That night, I predicted that we should see Nuku Hiva’s neighboring island of Ua Huka off the starboard bow at about 6:00 the next morning, providing the wind held and our navigation had been accurate. Connie had conscientiously marked our probable progress with little “xs”, on a chart, but tomorrow would be the acid test. We were very excited, but I was a little apprehensive—I dreaded having to figure out what to do and what to tell Connie if we did not spot land.

Ua Huka, like the rest of the Marquises, was a high, lush green island visible from about 35 miles in normal conditions. I had the early morning watch, and at first light I climbed up on the cabin top, pointed the binoculars a little off the starboard bow, and searched the horizon. I did not see an island, but there was a pile of clouds where I thought the island should be. This was a good sign, because tropical islands often attracted their own cloud cap. As the sun rose higher and the day brightened, I saw the unmistakable shape of the tip of a blue-green “mountain” rising out of the sea—even without the binoculars. I woke up Connie,  and we stood on the deck and hugged each other as we watched our first land after 33 days at sea slowly rising above the horizon, right where it was supposed to be. I cannot fully express how emotional that moment was for us. The sighting was a great relief. The tension and worries of the long passage melted away. We had made it! We also felt a sense of pride and accomplishment for having met the challenges of the voyage and satisfaction that our navigation was successful. Finally, we were excited in anticipation of our arrival in an exotic new world. The excitement of a landfall never got old, but this time, after our first and longest ocean passage, was our most exciting landfall.

We sailed under the south side of Ua Huka surrounded by birds and marveling at the velvety green hills. I looked for Nuku Hiva when we passed Ua Huka, but it was not there. Oops! Maybe I congratulated myself too soon! I consulted our charts and the last Sat Nav fix and found I was looking in the wrong direction. Reoriented, I made out Nuku Hiva, almost lost in the clouds. We crossed the channel between the two islands and coasted along the southern shoreline of Nuku Hiva, passing the Omoo valley, made famous by Melville’s books Omoo and Billy Budd, and continued to the entrance of Taiahoae Bay. We turned in and passed between the red and green buoys that marked the harbor entrance. Ahead of us, a dozen or so yachts were anchored in the back of the bay. Connie started the engine, and I dropped the foresails and stuffed them into their bags to clear the bowsprit for anchoring. Then I pulled the mainsail down and lashed it to the boom. Connie steered us to an open spot in the bay, and I went forward and extricated the anchor from its storm lashings, which had held it securely through all that the seas had thrown at it. I signaled Connie to shift into neutral and, as the boat slowed, I released the brake on the anchor windlass and kicked the reluctant anchor free. The sound of the chain rattling out was sweet music after so long a time. When enough had run out, I locked the brake on the windlass and gave Connie a thumbs-up signal for full reverse to test the holding of the anchor. The chain stretched tight and then sank down again, pulling Tainui gently forward, and I knew the anchor had held. I gave Connie the cut signal, and she killed the engine. When the sound of the diesel died away, there was an immediate, incredible silence as Tainui sat absolutely motionless in the flat water. It felt as if the whole world gave a collective sigh of relief. We were there!