In these Notes: Why Tahiti is French; How we were unwittingly radiated; The Aegre story in La Depeche de Tahiti; Our neighbours in Puna’auia, Varua and Bobbes; breakfast with French yacht racing star Alain Colas; plus cruising companions and friends in Tahiti.
Julie and I paused in Tahiti to give The Aegre a refit. In Chapter 17, I tell of pulling The Aegre up onto the beach at Puna’auia and stripping the boat for a complete repaint and re-rig while continuing to live aboard her.
Heading Chapter 17 is a quote from The Voyage of the Dreamship, by Ralph Stock.
Here is a photo of the Dreamship moored stern-to on the waterfront in Papeete in about 1920.
And (looking the other way) cruising yachts moored in much the same location in 1974:
In the book, I write of Tahiti being a tourism hotspot since at least 1767 when Samuel Wallis advertised it as having a perfect climate, the island being ‘one of the most healthy as well as delightful spots in the world’. Not that he saw much of it, spending the entire two weeks his ship was there, sick in his cabin. Had he gone ashore, he might have mentioned other delights. Wallis was the British Naval Officer commanding HMS Dolphin. He was making the first recorded visit by a European navigator. He named it ‘King George the Third’s Island’ (in honour of the current King of England), taking possession in the name of His Majesty. See John Hawkesworth, (1773) An Account of the Voyages Undertaken by the Order of His Present Majesty for Making Discoveries in the Southern Hemisphere, Chapter VIII, P. 313)
So, how come Tahiti is French now? French missionaries arrived in the region in the 1830s, and then somehow, the Chief of Tahuata in the Marquesas persuaded troops on a French ship to assist him with an invasion of Tahiti. This led to the French-Tahitian War of 1844-1847. Ultimately the Tahitians lost, and the French stayed on.
Tahiti is the largest fertile island in the region. From earliest times, it was the political centre of several island groups, now known as the Marquesas, Tuamotus, Society Islands, Gambier Islands and Austral Islands. The French took over the lot, collectively known today as French Polynesia.
These islands are spread out over a vast swathe of the ocean, about five times as large as France, but the total land area is tiny, less than that of metropolitan London and Paris combined.
Nuclear Testing: In the 1960s, the French government found incredible value in the remoteness and geology of their acquisition, specifically the potential of the remote Tuamotus for atomic weapon testing. Two atolls, Mururoa and Fangataufa, near the southeastern end of the Tuamotus chain of islands, were selected. They were a comfortable 1,192 km (741 miles) from Tahiti and 15,462 km (9,608 miles) from Paris. Somewhere between 175 and 181 atomic weapons were exploded here between 1966 and 1996; 41 of these tests between 1966 and 1974 were in the atmosphere. The atoll of Hao, 450km north-west of Mururoa, was used as the support base for the testing. Tahiti was the support base for Hao.
Despite all the local objections, the nuclear testing program must have brought enormous economic benefits to Tahiti during these 30 years, and tourism in the ’70s was somewhat secondary. Cruising yachts and chartering was a relatively small industry, and there were underlying security restrictions, with a vast area of the southern Tuamotus a no-go zone.
But aboard The Aegre, we didn’t know anything about this. During our preparations back in Britain, the West Indies was the furthest we ever imagined ourselves going. We no more imagined going to the Pacific than we did going to China. So, news back then of French atomic testing in the atmosphere of the South Pacific was concerning, but the British were doing similar nuclear testing in the Australian desert. The Americans in Nevada. We were amid the Cold War. We were told this was the price of peace.
Aboard The Aegre for nearly 12 months, sailing along over the deep blue sea, we heard nothing of the French atomic tests. But now, in Tahiti, amongst the gossiping voyaging sailors, it was a hot topic. I was thankful that, in our ignorance, we had not headed due south from the Marquesas to pass through the rarely-visited southern end of the Tuamotos. It had crossed my mind.
Greenpeace states in a 21st-century study that the first French atomic test in 1966 sucked all the water out of the lagoon (28 km long, 11 km wide) ‘ raining dead fish and molluscs down on the atoll’ and that it spread contamination across the Pacific as far as Peru and New Zealand.
In Tahiti, we were 1,192 kilometres away from Muroroa, but being to the northeast, we thought that surely the fallout could be blown our way. Looking at the clear blue sky and sparkling lagoon around us, it was difficult to imagine the invisible poison that could be in the air.
In fact, recent research shows that following an atmospheric nuclear test on Muroroa in July 1974, the fallout cloud did blow over Tahiti from July 19th (my birthday!) – while we were there, living under the clear blue sky, unwittingly breathing it all in.
See https://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe-56340159 and https://disclose.ngo/en/article/french-nuclear-tests-in-the-pacific-the-hidden-fallout-that-hit-tahiti
Since the cessation of this nuclear testing in 1996, there has been enormous growth in Tahiti tourism, filling the economic gap. With it has come more regulation. Britain had joined the European Common Market in 1973, the year before our arrival, and we expected our entry to (French) Tahiti would be easy. But as I tell in the book, no one had informed the Officials in Tahiti, and it wasn’t. I’m told it is even more troublesome today. Yachts planning to visit French Polynesia nowadays had better have their bank card handy. See Yachtmen’s Guide to French Polynesia
Sailing aboard The Aegre in 1974, we hadn’t been in Papeete harbour long before a reporter from La Depeche de Tahiti newspaper visited us and subsequently published an article about The Aegre. No money changed hands, but as a result, a local chandlery gave us a good discount on paint.
But The Aegre was worn out, maybe we were too, for we decided to pause and give the boat a major refit. It didn’t all go smoothly as I tell in the book. She needed to come out of the water but we were unwilling (well, unable) to pay the exorbitant fees of a slipway. An alternative quiet-out-of-the-way beach seemed an option. Another cruising yachtsman, Noel from Mauritius, single-handing a Contessa 32, Morphee, knew just the place and towed us around inside the reef, past the airport at Fa’a’a to Puna’auia. At the end of the lagoon extending from Papeete, it was quiet and sheltered, perfect for pulling The Aegre up onto the beach for a refit.
Our secluded workshop looked out to Moorea. It was beautiful. In the late 1890s, the French painter Paul Gauguin thought so too. He lived in Punaʻauia. Here, he painted his masterpiece Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going? Which, in hindsight, was rather how we felt.
A new mast
In the book I tell of making a new mast for The Aegre at Puna’auia. Here is a bit more about that.
By the time we reached Tahiti the spars were showing substantial wear due to chafe from the standing lug rig. The mast and the yard in particular.
Furthermore I wanted the ability to add more sail to make the most of light winds.
Each of the original spars was made of a single piece of light pine. An answer that seemed to make sense was to plane down each spar, shaving off the worn sections, so the mast became the new boom, the boom became the new yard, and the yard became the bowsprit. I’d build a new mainmast, giving it a little more height so that in light airs I could set a light topmast and topsail.
The problem then was finding timber in Tahiti for the new mast. If I couldn’t find a single piece of timber suitable, could I build a hollow mast with smaller pieces and birdsmouth joints? It might be a lighter mast, but would it flex and have the strength of a single spar? And how would the glue hold out in the tropical sun? Besides, my workshop comprised a small plot of empty land just above the beach, with just some shade from surrounding trees. And my expertise and tools were basic. But for a replacement solid mast could I find a single piece of light pine on this small island in the middle of the South Pacific?
Surprisingly, pine of the required length and straightness was available – being used for telegraph poles. Impregnated with creosote under pressure so it would never rot, the timber was a dark reddish brown with few knots, surprisingly straight, light, well seasoned and inexpensive. I remembered that the famous French yachtsman Bernard Moitessier had used similar pine telegraph poles for the two masts on his ketch Joshua when he was building her in France (see p.44 in Cape Horn: The Logical Route by Bernard Moitessier). Of course, Joshua was a heavy displacement 40-foot steel yacht that was quite different to the much smaller and lighter Aegre. But I think I was partly seduced by the great stability of the loaded Aegre.
I rationalised that I could plane the pole right down, tapering it appropriately, to create a light, slightly flexible mast. I’d support it with light stainless stays, two on each side, one going to the point where the mainsail sheet block was carried, the other to the mast top about 3 ft higher. And like Moitessier I’d use cable clamps rather than swaged ends, a decision which proved fortuitous when I came to build a jury rig at sea after the capsize.
Planing the pole down by hand took a lot of work and time, but a beautiful mast emerged. And then there was the fire.
The dilemma then was whether to start again from scratch (albeit with a power planer donated by a kindly neighbour) or recover what I could of the burnt mast. Deciding to stick with the original mast, I planed off the burnt timber, lightening it further. We wanted to be on our way. To start again would have further delayed our departure, possibly for six months or more for better weather. For fifty years, I’ve wondered if this was the right decision.
Varua, our neighbour: Just off Puna’auia beach, there is a deeper part of the lagoon, in which, in 1974, there were about half a dozen sailing cruising boats anchored. Dominating the mooring was Varua, the 70 ft, 37 ton, white brigantine/staysail schooner built and sailed by William Albert Robinson in the early 1950s, made famous by his account of sailing her told in his book, To The Great Southern Sea, published in 1957.
Robinson himself, in 1974 a wiry, white-haired, sunburnt 70-year-old, lived nearby. I soon met him and as I tell more fully in the book, he took me out and gave me the full tour of his illustrious ship. I was 24 and stood at the wheel of the great Varua, imagining I was guiding her through the ultimate storm he writes of.
I’d read his iconic sailing book ‘Towards the Great Southern Sea’ back in Scotland. Robinson’s voyage aboard Varua in 1951 was at a time when few small sailing vessels ventured into the Southern Ocean. Long before, in the late 1920s, Robinson had sailed around the world when just 25, in a 32ft yacht, Svaap, the smallest vessel to complete a circumnavigation at the time. See Robinson W A, 1932, Deep Water and Shoal, an account of his circumnavigation aboard Svaap, or a lengthy overview here. Robinson died in 1988, aged 85 years. For a fascinating account of Robinson’s unorthodox life, see Chapter 9, The Connecticut Tahitian, in Don Holm’s The Circumnavigators. http://www.stexboat.com/books/circumnav/ci_09.htm
Meanwhile, Varua’s story continues to this day. I’ll try to summarise it briefly.
In 1976, two years after I visited Varua in Tahiti, Robinson met a young, enthusiastic team of marine biologist researchers from Cornell University. They were sailing around the Pacific on a smaller yacht and had called into Tahiti. He must have been inspired by them, for he offered to lease Varua for 50 years for $1 to them as a base for their future work, provided they restored her suitably. Stunned by his offer, they set about establishing a foundation to raise the money to restore her in New Zealand.
It should be mentioned here that Varua was built during WWII in a US yard building small warships, with little concern regarding longevity. As a result, electrolysis and inappropriate timbers, coupled with a static life on a mooring for a couple of decades in the tropics, had done their worst.
Extensive temporary repairs were hastily undertaken before they set off for NZ, the first leg being to Pago Pago.
Unfortunately, Varua‘s condition was worse than they imagined. They limped into Pago, having had to continually pump, knowing they could go no further without extensive repairs.
The restoration, started in Pago Pago, took four years, finally being completed in Maine (USA) in 1979.
In 1981, Varua was moved to the West Coast of the US. Subsequently, she was sold, the buyer intent on restoring the original layout and replacing the 2.25″ kauri planking (from the Pago restoration) with mahogany. The kauri planking, the decks and the engine were removed, but then it seems the funding dried up, and the project ended.
What remained of Varua sat in a US boatyard under covers for years.
Eventually, what remained of her was bought, and a new restoration commenced, which can be seen today on Facebook: The Meredith Project. https://www.facebook.com/meredithproject/
For more detailed information on the life of Varua since 1976, see Cornell alumni news, Sept 1976, contributions to the Wooden Boat Forum by RicM, and Cynthia d’Vincent’s book Voyaging with the Whales,
Back in the Puna’auia lagoon in 1974, there was a much smaller boat that also caught my attention. This was Bobbes, a Laurent Giles Trekka design being delivered to New Zealand by Bob and Claire Jones. Quite the best small cruising boat design we encountered. The design was commissioned by Canadian yachtsman John Guzzwell, who famously built her and then sailed her around the world in the late 1950s, as described in his classic book, Trekka Round the World.
Also moored nearby were Daddy’s Dream, a pretty William Garden 42 Porpoise design with a family aboard from the US. I think the Daddy of the name later wrote a book about their voyage.
People and yachts in Tahiti: You meet everyone if you sit in a small town square long enough. Tahiti is the town square of the South Pacific, and we were there for 80 days, from mid-June 1974 until early September that year. Apart from the above, we met the following, as well as many more: (See The Aegre Guestbook for most of the signatures).
- Yacht Kyon, an Alan Buchanan Halcyon 27, sailed by John and Helen Anderson. They became the first members of the Clyde Cruising Club to complete a circumnavigation (between 1972-76).
- The Andersons were deservedly awarded the Clyde Cruising Club Ferrier Seamanship Trophy and Honorary Membership of the Club and are mentioned in the official club history see https://clydecruisingclub.org/the-club/club-history-the-first-100-years
- Yacht Lintie, sailed by Tony Murdoch. Murdoch had been cruising the world on Lintie, a wooden 36ft cutter with a piano below, since 1963. By 1973, Lintie was in poor repair in Tahiti. Unfortunately, Lintie subsequently went onto a reef near New Caledonia in late 1975. Murdoch managed to get into a small boat and spent 10 hours rowing to shore. Lintie and the piano were lost. Ref Pacific Islands Monthly, January 1976.
- Tahia, a Wharram 46 catamaran sailed by Jim King and Wendy Smith from the UK. They sailed on to Auckland, NZ, where Tahia was sold. Jim and Wendy settled in Auckland, NZ.
- Brisa, a 32 ft GRP sloop, was sailed from Germany by Heino and Brigitte Sass, with whom we became good friends. They eventually settled in the Bay of Islands, New Zealand, and Brisa was sold.
- Andy & Amy aboard SS Marluva
- Jerry & Ev, Puffin, Papeete, Tahiti, 21 June 1974
- Dominique Charnay, Tahiti, 17 June 1974
- Pierre and Denise Rothe, Tahiti, who lived just above Puna’auia beach. Pierre employed me to work on the building of his steel yacht.
- Roland and Fataua, Tahiti. Roland, a good friend to Pierre and us.
- Alain Colas. As I tell in the book, Alain was living in a small cottage above Puna’auia beach with his very pregnant wife. He helped us step our new mast. Sadly, he was lost at sea two years later. Colas (16 September 1943 – 16 November 1978) was a French sailor, the first to complete a solitary round-the-world race in a multihull. He had met Éric Tabarly in Sydney in 1967, and bought his trimaram Pen Duick IV from him in 1970, renamed her Manureva and won the “Transat” in 1972. Later in 1972, he started the construction of a 72m (236 feet) 4 masted monohull, Club Med, for the 1976 “Transat”. Then he broke his right ankle, underwent 22 surgeries, and got back on his feet for the solitary transatlantic race. Now here he was, sitting squeezed into the tiny cockpit of The Aegre in Puna’auia lagoon, having breakfast and telling us how he had secured sponsorship for it, and how he could sail this vast ship alone. In the event, Éric Tabarly won, (aboard a mere 80ft ketch) and Alain Colas arrived 2nd but was classed 5th (he had stopped briefly in St John’s for assistance). On 5 November 1978, Colas took part in his last race, the first Route du Rhum. On 16 November 1978, as he passed the Azores, he sent his last radio message saying that everything was alright and sailing well. Neither his boat Manureva nor his body were ever found.
Other cruising sailors and friends we met in Tahiti included:
- Sharon Nichols & Bob Oppenheimer, the American influence on the Kiwi yacht Restless, Tahiti.
- Julie Allen and Tim Beattie, Restless (NZ) Tahiti.
- Dan & Betty Tinius, Oceania, a 40ft steel ketch, Papeete, 19 July 1974.
- Brigitte, Siegfried, Hans (8) & Mark (7), aboard yacht Avilion II, Tahiti.
- Dave & Diane aboard Volunteer, Tahiti.
- Jack and Nancy Jensen aboard Sartori (who we first met in Hiva Oa).
- Adolphe and Tehani Sylvain who lived in a beautiful house looking out over Puna’auia beach and as I tell in the book, helped us greatly following the burning of our new mast. Adolphe Sylvain was a Tahiti photographer of note. Adolphe Sylvain (1920-1991) stopped off in Tahiti in 1946 and, enchanted by the beautiful landscape, welcoming people, and a certain island beauty who called herself Tehani, decided to stay. He settled in and eventually married his hypnotic lover, working as a correspondent for magazines such as Paris Match, Life, and National Geographic.
- Drawn by an irrepressible desire to capture his surroundings and to share this lost, unknown world with those outside of it, he dedicated himself to photographing the island’s many delights. Like Rousseau and Gauguin before him, he was captive to the people and places of a land so radically different from his own and chose it as his principal subject matter. Sylvain’s rich, skilled black-and-white images are like visions of an earthly paradise, peopled with half-clad women wearing flowers in their hair, the sun reflecting off of their glowing skin. See https://www.amazon.com/Sylvains-Tahiti-Adolphe-Sylvain/dp/3822860530
So it was in Tahiti. With so many friends, good cheer, and delays with the refit, we hardly noticed that the season was passing. But the clouds were lowering, the wind freshening and the roar of the breakers on the reef becoming louder. Perhaps too late, we sailed.
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