Taiohae Bay is a dream anchorage. Deeply indented into the coast, cradled by high hills, it offers perfect safety, and with a sandy coast, groves of palm trees, and scattered huts, a setting of unequaled charm. Nuku Hiva itself is a perfect example of a high island in the South Seas, than which nothing is more verdantly beautiful.
The French government maintains a small office here, so we went ashore to present our credentials. All was quickly taken care of, and once we had mailed our long-delayed letters we were free to explore at will. As English-speaking visitors to the island have done for decades, we gravitated to the unofficial clubhouse of the renowned trader, Bob McKittrick, a Britisher who had jumped ship in the Marquesas some forty years before and had never left. He operates a small store, but the commodity for which his trading post is most famous is sociability. We spent many hours on Bob’s front porch, swapping yarns with other visitors or, better, listening to Bob’s own tales, of which he had an endless store.
Also on the island were Bob and Rae Suggs—archaeologists on a field trip out of Harvard, who had been working up in Taipi Vai and were now waiting for their boat to go home. Bob, who spoke Marquesan, took me on several trips into the surrounding bush, trying to buy examples of Marquesan wood carving, for which the island is justly famous. However, we found that the bitter laws of economics worked here as elsewhere. Recently a visit had been made by a ship from the U.S. Fisheries Division, and the crew had traded ship’s stores for wood carvings—at an unrealistically inflated price which they could easily afford, since the ship’s stores were paid for not by them but by the U.S. taxpayers.
Moreover, the ship had promised even more lavish “trade goods” on their next trip. As a result, all the old carvings—bowls, tikis, turtles, ornamental swords—were being saved up and new and hastily worked objects were being turned out as fast as possible to await the return of these extremely generous men off the Fisheries boat. My private pocketbook could not begin to compete.
Ted, however, had better luck. With Nick he took a trip for twelve miles over the mountains, carrying a knapsack filled with shirts and skirts. In Tai Oa, a quite unfrequented spot, they spent a day with the chief and his family and presented their gifts. Before they left, the son of the chief gave Ted a splendidly carved wooden tiki, or little man, a bit over a foot high. The wood was magnificent and the carving perfect. Ted didn’t want to take it, as he had nothing of comparable value to give, but the chief insisted, stuffing the tiki into the knapsack. In addition he gave Nick a fine carved wooden knife.
On the day before departure we planned to motor around to the adjoining valley, Taipi Vai, and spend the day in Melville’s Typee. Word of our plans spread like magic and by the time we were ready to hoist anchor we had seven or eight deck passengers, including a lovely young Marquesan woman with two small children and a six-day-old infant. Since the engine, in spite of several hours of tinkering, again quit on us, and as I didn’t want to crowd our luck by trying to sail in, we reluctantly abandoned the projected side trip. We off-loaded our passengers, and with a smile and a wave they philosophically set out along the trail which, after a good stiff walk, would eventually get them over the mountains to Taipi Vai.
We left two of our passengers in Nuku Hiva. Goatie-Goat, who had been growing rapidly and eying the charts hungrily, remained behind, the proud possession of a Marquesan family. And we bequeathed Duchess, our disdainful Spare Cat, to Bob McKittrick. During all her months at sea she had never learned to adapt to us or to boat life but she took to Bob—and his plethora of unwanted rats—at once.
We sailed on March 21. I estimated about twenty days for the trip and made Jessica a half-promise that I would have her back in Hilo for her fourteenth birthday, on April 12. I kept my promise but the trip, contrary to our expectations, was in sharp contrast to the peaceful passage to the Marquesas. The log is filled with notes on torn sails, squalls, rain, and heavy seas. We started quietly enough, but after the first week the going began to get heavy. On the seventh day we crossed the equator for the sixth time and celebrated by catching a 47-inch wahoo—a member of the mackerel family—rather an unusual event for us on the high seas, although we usually trailed a line.
Two days later we lost another rotator from our taffrail log—about half a dozen had been taken in all—and spent a couple of days without one while I fashioned a spare from bits and pieces of several sets. The new rotator, when I put it into the water, worked fine—but backwards—so that our mileage on the dial registered in reverse. Far from being discouraged, we all thought this provided an interesting challenge, and Ted worked out tables which made it possible for us to record each day’s distance even with a rotator subtracting the miles.
Day after day went by with passing squalls and heavy weather. A major part of our spare time was taken up with sail mending. The truth is that our sails had just about reached the end of the road and required constant repair.