Society Islands



Huahine, Raiatea, Tahaa, Bora Bora

19th August to 2nd September


Now in the Leeward Society Islands (Iles Sous-le-Vent top left in the photo above) – blog already has posts for Tahiti and Moorea (the Windward Society Islands). It isn’t clear why they’re called Society Islands but probably because Captain Cook considered them close together, (though Royal Society suggested they were named in recognition of their assistance with funding one of Cook’s voyages). Also, ‘close together’ in the Pacific isn’t quite the same as ‘close together’ in British waters. They may be grouped together under one name here but they spread over 200 miles; equivalent to grouping Scilly Isles with Channel Islands and Isle of Wight (and I can’t see that happening!).


Leaving Moorea at dusk

A straightforward and brisk overnight sail from Moorea took Henrietta 85 miles to Huahine, another fabulous mountainous, reef-fringed island. 

It was sobering to see at dawn the wreck of a large catamaran that had sailed into the reef one night three weeks earlier. Reef location isn’t very clear on the chart and apparently they’d cut too close to island Huahine, parents with four children thankfully safely helicoptered off, boat now abandoned with fixtures removed for sale, and them facing not just the loss of all their worldly goods (they had no other home), but also the tug’s ‘tow off and sink’ fee of over $20,000. I spent three nights at a tranquil anchorage nearby and heard the sorry story from fellow cruisers, Ian and Erika, who’d been friends of the wrecked boat family, and had helped unload the coral-stranded catamaran – a hazardous task in itself.


Huahine’s main village is typically laid back with standard features of quay (for supply ships), a store, post-office, church or two, food shacks and ‘yacht club’. (‘yacht club’ is not a club, simply a restaurant on the waterfront, open to all, and often a congregating spot for yachties). This particular yacht club had a folk music evening (American not Polynesian) and here’s a nice picture of my favourite young fellow sailors, all smartened up for an evening ashore with folk music. Needless to say, I didn’t go!


Youngsters! Miranda, Hugh, Paul and Jenny

You won’t want too many details of day-by-day trivia so I’ll summarise and just say, I


sailed next to Raiatea (Polynesian languages use lots of vowels), enjoyed the regatta of Polynesian canoe racing at one spot (kindly invited to join participants’ feasting), did hilly walks till private land and trackless wilderness ended progress….made friends with a dog….admired soul-cleansing scenery and bright tropical flowers……moods from melancholia to happy excitement….ate truly delicious veggie meals on Ian and Erika’s friendly catamaran Makara, and the charming Little Coconut, and often cook for others to join me on Henrietta ….sailed on to neighbouring island Tahaa for one windy squally night at deepest anchorage yet (35 metres)….next day, rough windy downwind rolling surfing whizz near top speed with half genoa, and in through reef to Bora Bora.


Choppy at pass into Bora Bora lagoon


Just had thorough haircut in Bora Bora (final few murky grey locks all gone), and bought beer to celebrate. 

The island of Bora Bora, despite its reputation, is no more beautiful than other Polynesian islands; mountainous, cloaked in blanket of lush verdant textured green, surrounded with clear lagoon inside coral reef. 

All very pretty but, I guess because Americans were here in the war and went home with extravagant tales, Bora Bora has since been over-hyped and is very overrated and over glamourised, I reckon. Lots and lots of luxury hotels on islets here and there, every other shop selling expensive pearl jewelry and colourful tourist tat in pretty shabby surroundings, lots of litter, busy smelly traffic on single road that winds around the island’s perimeter, prices generally eye-watering. And yet, somehow, the local people retain their charm and hospitality.

Pictures from Bora Bora



So now, Henrietta waits at a fairly sheltered spot in Bora Bora with about a dozen others; waiting for current spell of rough windy horrid weather to abate.

A birthday party (thank you Miranda for yummy cake!)


I may next stop at island Maupiti, a final stop in French Polynesia, before a longer stretch to the Cook Islands. There’s one called Suwarrow that is uninhabited and looks nice, about 690 miles away. But there’s another one called Palmerston that looks interesting too….oh! decisions to make…

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1st to 18th August


Moorea in the distance

Henrietta hasn’t sailed far in the past few weeks but she now has new standing rigging (i.e. wires to hold up the mast). Mathieu, the young French rigger (passing resemblance to a lithe Johnny Depp – as in ‘Chocolat’) found several more broken strands in shrouds, suggested with gentle nod of his head that I was lucky still to have a mast, and replaced the lot. He was energetic, thorough, extremely skilled and fascinating – all of which made the bill more bearable.


Mathieu changing the rigging



Tahitian Six Pack


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So then, growing ratty with the dual-carriageway traffic and a hot and busy anchorage in Tahiti, I sailed to nearby island of Moorea. It’s picture postcard lovely and a popular tourist destination with good cause: jagged dark fairy-tale mountains, a fringe of coral reefs and coconut palms, fine walking, surfing, snorkelling and, for the whizzier types, flotillas of growling jet-skis on sea plus platoons of gaudy yellow quad bikes on land.

I’ve enjoyed walks (on one of which I met in succession: Tahitian film star, in vivid red sarong and tatoos, on location, French student pharmacologist from Rennes on holiday, Devon sailing couple from “Serenity” on a Moody. Most walks are less sociable – just me!); and the warm smiling helpful friendliness of Polynesians. An example of the latter: – on reaching a little tourist bar after long mountain walk, it was a shame the fresh fruit juice was finished and there was nothing to eat except ice-cream. I light-heartedly said to the girl Cindy (in my miserable French) that I was half starving and tired. She smiled sweetly and sympathetically….and then gave me her lunch! Although I was embarrassed and urged her to keep it, she was insistent, and refused payment. A perfect French quiche came my way. We’re humbled by such kindness. Such gestures are not part of English culture.


Cindy who gave me her lunch!


After a few different anchorages on Moorea, I sailed back to Tahiti for a couple of days. Ostensibly to collect spare pump parts, it was a waste of time (except collecting letters and shopping, and a warm freshwater shower – first in over three months!) because courier company was wrong; spares are not in Tahiti at all but still sitting in New Zealand. (Give delivery by UPS nil pointes). I can wait no longer to fix the pump; the ‘bucket and chuck-it’ routine must go on. And now I’m back in Moorea, seeing friends and walking the mountains, while waiting for a forecast of less wild winds before moving on.


There’s still quite a long way to New Zealand you see…..


Scale: arrow is about 800 miles long

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16th to 31st July


Approach to Tahiti Iti

“….just a short trip to any French territory in the Pacific is enough to convince even the most casual observer that the French are among the most self-serving, manipulative, trivial-minded, obnoxious, cynical and corrupting nations on the face of the earth.” This is Paul Theroux writing of his trip through “The Happy Isles of Oceania” a few years ago, and though I think he’s one of the best living travel-writers, I disagree with his views of the French. I’m not sure what prompted such venom; though Theroux does sometimes get a bit carried away with the momentum of his passions. It seems to me more likely that nowadays, the French remain here at least partly by accident rather than self-interest, unable to extricate themselves from their innate national ego and responsibilities derived from years of bomb testing, many generations of international love stories and loads of randy Frenchmen (and others) who have thoroughly mixed their genes with Polynesians’, settled, and no longer see France as their home anyway. The place is a delightful good-natured hotch-potch of blended Polynesian, French, Chinese and more. The French start to feel and behave more Polynesian (warm, friendly, helpful); and perhaps Polynesians more French (confident, businesslike and purposeful). Although there is a French Polynesia independence movement, and I gather the UN gives support to the idea, and there’s a distinctive liberation flag, it is hard to see how French Polynesia’s 280,000 people (75% on Tahiti and Moorea) could maintain their educated tidy healthy orderly lifestyle without the massive financial support of France. But it’s difficult to understand what the concensus is from talking to the people I meet. I haven’t really got a clue and need to read more; better French would help too. Whatever Theroux’s views I generally like the French and don’t think they’re any more arrogant or nationalistic than segments of the British population. Also, one side of me knows it’s not for transient yachties to comment anyway, not my business to probe. So I’ll drop the subject.

It was a 250 mile, straightforward two-day sail from atoll Fakarava in the Tuamotus to Tahiti. I was in no hurry to get to Papeete, Tahiti’s capital. I dreaded the hustle and bustle and crowds and traffic and city anxieties, and the rigger who was to help fix Henrietta’s unhappy rigging was not free for at least a week.

So, as I approached Tahiti I was avidly perusing iPhone chart looking for an alternative place to stop when I spotted an area, “Mouillage de Cook”, about as far from Papeete as possible, on the little bit of Tahiti called Tahiti-Iti (Little Tahiti) in the east. This seemed to have lots of things going for it. First, if it was good enough for Captain Cook to anchor, it might suit me; also, as mentioned, it was nearly 40 miles from the hustle and bustle of Papeete; furthermore it looked to be well sheltered from the forecast strong winds and there might be a sandy beach and walks in the mountains.


…a peaceful anchorage


So, Mouillage de Cook, Tautira, is where I went first. And it was everything I hoped for; the irony being that though the island of Tahiti is by far the most popular and populous place in French Polynesia with literally hundreds, if not thousands, of yachts, at least two marinas, and every service under the sun, my little spot some 35 miles away was one of the quietest and emptiest anchorages I’ve been on the entire trip. “Henrietta” was the one and only visitor in the three days we stayed. There were views of spiky green-cloaked mountains in the interior, a beach and play park where children and adults played, and a food shop not far away. A few fishermen in outrigger canoes and little open boats milled about but no speed-hog yachtie tenders or posing powerboat playboys. I walked as far as I could up mountains; but it’s mostly unmarked and a lot is private so, without a guide, mountain rambling alone was hazardous and limited.


Perhaps Captain Cook collected fresh water here

 From there I sailed along the coastline (and I should say that Tahiti is a very beautiful island with its sharp high verdant mountains frequently capped with dark grey cloud), stopped for a night at Venus Point. (For history buffs, this is where Cook built an observatory for the transit of Venus – important at the time for astronomical measurements needed to assist navigation. Captain Cook would have loved the precision and versatility of GPS and iPhone.) Next day, on to Papeete, on past the airport – where, if you have a high mast, you call on VHF to say when you’re passing the ends of the runway – and a mooring buoy at Taina, surrounded by hundreds of yachts of all conceivable shapes and sizes and degrees of scruffiness.

Since then, there’s been a social life with fellow cruisers, bus trips into city of Papeete, walk trips to the nearby Carrefour Supermarket, (whose stock is almost identical to that of any sizeable French town, prices comparable too, except the wine, beer and alcoholic stuff  and fresh veg which are three or four times the price!


You could almost be in France….

)…….and the rigger, Mathieu, is to replace some shrouds and check all the rigging next week.







Busy anchorage at Taina



Despite my usual distaste for tropical cities, I enjoy and take delight in the unforced friendliness and casual good-natured hospitality of Papeete, Tahiti and its people. It has traffic and fumes and overpriced tourist tat, but it’s laid-back too, and colouful, and gardens are lush and tidy, and I’ll have mixed feelings when I leave.


An evening on “Calagorm” with Geert, Cindy, John, David, Julia and Hella

Photos around PapeeteP1050754


It still surprises me that there are so many sailing boats around, and I’ve come to realise that for an untarnished Pacific sailing experience where you’d be a novelty rather than commonplace, and where the welcome might be more spontaneous and less tinged with commerce, you and I should have come 40 years ago. This is not to say that the Pacific is spoilt – very far from it – but you have to look and sail and explore outside the main South Pacific yacht conveyor belt to find totally unsullied havens. Heaven forbid that this sailing area should become as crowded, commercial, grubby, insecure and corrupt as much of the Caribbean. And I’m sure that won’t happen for many decades – perhaps never.  


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Tuamotu Islands

24th June to 15th July

Summary: – About 750 miles of light/medium breezes and the odd squall. Quick visit to another Gambier Island, Aukena, before heading west-north-westish to and through the Tuamotu archipelago via stops at atolls of Hao, Tahanea, and now, Fakarava. (And I shan’t expect you to remember these Polynesian names. I can’t.) For the long version, read on………


Aukena – anchored off a little pristine beach

Before leaving the Gambier Islands I wanted to visit the little island gem called Aukena that my pilot book says has  “…pretty anchorages beside shelving coral sand beaches etc etc….” (We harbour dreams of seclusion and beauty in the South Seas)., ”uninhabited now and overgrown with trees …cocks, now wild, still crow…remnants  of villages….” – real Boys’ Own South Seas dreaming stuff!

 Well, Henrietta and I pottered over to said island Aukena, dodging a profusion of pearl farm buoys, dropped anchor (it’s a bit rolly) and rowed ashore on hot, blue-skied sunny day to deserted sandy beach, lay down on pristine coral sand in pristine solitude amidst tropical beachside beauty and read a book. The dream fizzles out quite fast when sweat starts to trickle and you’re bitten by a bug. And anyway I was never one to pickle for long in idleness in tropical sunshine, so one bug bite and reading for an hour or two was ample. I explored as far as I could without a machete, and without Rambo biceps, scratched limbs a lot, before rowing back to Henrietta (well aware, if I wasn’t already, that I’m not cut out for deserted island life). In any case, it’s not a deserted island nowadays; a pearl farm has a few workers’ huts a mile or so from my anchorage, but I was soothed with a couple of days in the total tranquility of such a remote and beautiful spot.


Leaving Gambier Isles astern

A few days later weather looked ok for the sail north-westwards 470 miles to Hau in the Tuamotus. As you may not have heard of the Tuamotu Islands, I’ll quickly tell you that they comprise dozens of widely scattered coral atolls, about 1,000 miles SE to NW. I think I read somewhere that it’s the largest atoll archipelago in the world.

Book says about 40 atolls are permanently inhabited (but I’m sure it’s more); others are visited sometimes for people to collect coconuts (the copra is important for export); many are inaccessible to yachts, because there’s no navigable pass through the surrounding coral to the inner lagoon and nowhere to anchor outide (or, in the case of Mururoa and Fangataufa, because the French messed them up with nuclear bombs). Before accurate position-fixing with GPS, ships and yachts often came to grief crossing the area as the atolls are low-lying and often not seen till very close (too close I suppose, if you hit one). Raft Kon-Tiki was perhaps the best known casualty. Even with GPS you can’t afford to sleep for too long.

First stop for Henrietta and me was the island of Hao, and after a frustrating sail of four days from Gambiers (fickle winds, squalls etc), we just crept in before dark. My calculations suggested there’d be a gentle inflowing current into Hao’s huge lagoon, so it was a surprise and still something of a mystery why there was a brisk outflowing current. Water was gushing out at around seven knots. But with genoa pulling hard and engine near full blast – standing waves breaking hither and thither, sometimes going backwards….phew….just made it before dark! (The thing is with Hao’s lagoon: it’s big – about 25 miles by 6 miles, in area much like the Solent, and there’s only one narrow opening. If the ocean outside is rough, waves break over the coral reef into the lagoon and the water can only go out via the one opening. Chart says exit speeds up to 12 knots and pilot book says up to 20 knots, but I think they exaggerate.)

I’m very uneasy entering unknown territory in the dark. I don’t like the dark at the best of times, and especially so with coral heads lurking, and this huge empty unlit space ahead, and pulse still over-revving after the kerfuffle of getting in, so after entering Hao lagoon, I dropped anchor as soon as I could. Then, spent the night in range of some of the yappiest dogs you’ve ever heard. Apparently some local folk eat dog….’woof woof and frites’, but I think these were just guard dog pets unused to yachts anchoring off their homestead.

Next morning, I find there’s a little harbour a mile away – not mentioned in my book – and tie up with French, Dutch and German boats. It’s calm, secure, friendly and convenient; and in the evenings local people come and practice their dancing and music alongside. (There’s lots of dancing and music in the month before 14th July.)


Panorama – Quiet harbour in Hao

That paragraph does not begin to convey the delightfulness of such places. It’s indescribably joyful to have a calm convenient place to tie up, plus young French family astern, where the young girls sing and chatter incessantly, and the elder one, about five, is happy to swing in the bosun’s chair for hours; and young German family at my bow (I’d met them earlier in the Gambier Islands) who seem to think nothing of having sailed here via Patagonia and the Chilean Canals. The boy Leonard, 12, did say he doesn’t like it when it’s very rough and “everyone gets stressy”; and the girl, Zoe, and her mother, Birgit, sometimes feel seasick and school work has to be suspended. And at dusk, on the harbour quay, the rhythm and energy and emotions of Polynesian dance are memories that’ll be with me a long time.


Ipu is the local medical officer and very friendly – posing in front of harbour


I liked this tree with its unorthodox posture

Anyway, the French military used Hao as the main support base for their nuclear test programme. The atoll was home for hundreds of Frenchmen until about 2000, and though the French left, there are now the remnants of their presence: houses (useful), jetties and harbour (useful), rusty junk (useless), crumbling rusty sheds (useless), suspicious debris (useless and maybe worse). Plus, I’m told they dumped loads of asbestos stuff and low grade nuclear stuff in the lagoon. The inhabitants of Hao are typically warm and friendly with visitors but they seem keen to be independent of France. Small wonder!


Necklace of shells in graveyard



Tidy main street on Hao

Bluewater sailing boats move a bit like Pooh sticks drifting down a gentle meandering stream: we meet and separate, meet again, move on…and finally go our separate ways. When I left Hao there were two boats I’d first met three weeks earlier in the Gambiers, the German family on “Kalibu” and Dutch couple, Herman and Rian, on “Lyra”. (Incidentally one of the most beautiful yachts I’ve ever seen, a fine Van de Stadt design somewhere near 50 foot, with an 80 foot mast.) I feel a complete novice in their presence. They’ve sailed here via Antarctica and they’re on their way to Alaska, after a lifetime running charter boats in Baltic and Mediterannean. Herman, a colourful Dutchman of 68 with round thick-lens glasses and general appearance of spritely benevolent maths professor, doesn’t like hot weather! I had both families for meal on “Henrietta” and know I have a lot to learn.

From Hao, it was a two day sail on to Tahanea, another big atoll, though this one doesn’t have any permanent residents, just occasional visitors to collect copra. I came because my book talks of “the multitude of coloured fish and the beauty of the coral”, and I later learn it’s a nature reserve because there’s a rare bird, a Tuamotu Sandpiper (but I’m not a proper ‘birdie’ so I wouldn’t know it even if it pecked my big toe). There were five yachts here when I arrived. It’s not busy like the Caribbean but I’m still mildly surprised to see others who sail to these out-of-the way places.


Rough beaches but beautiful when very close up

Oh goodness, this post is going on too long. I’ll quickly say that Tahanea did have lovely fishes, though on my own I don’t snorkle in the lagoon passes where they proliferate. The beaches I explored are a jumble of exquisite and varied coral. And here’s a pretty disgusting photo of hermit crabs munching on a dead fish…..P1050646And from Tahanea, I’ve sailed north to Fakarava, where I sense I’m getting near the main sailing thoroughfare through the Pacific. Sailing boats are all over the place and anchorages are busy with visiting boats – about a dozen boats where I’m anchored now. (I know emptier places in the Solent!). I’m told there are tourist resorts (little ones), dive shops, food shops and a bakery and places to eat, and I read there’s an ATM on the island – my first since Panama (no-one told me it would be so hard to get local money).


Granny, baby daughter Hanihia and mother Agnes (the baby has Tahiti, Scots and French grandparents – gorgeous!) at Matthieu’s place, Fakarava

Finally, it’s worth saying that nothing I had read or heard prepared me for the scale and nature of these Pacific atolls. The three I’ve visited are among the larger ones and each feel almost like enclosed seas of their own, sheltered lagoons as much as 30 miles long and 15 miles wide; and yet, because the surrounding coral reef is so low, you cannot see from one side to the other. Within the lagoon there have been few hydrographic surveys, charts lack detail, and, outside marked channels, you proceed carefully with sun high behind you, watching for coral heads that can reach from the bed of the lagoon, 25 metres deep to nought metres – just like that!

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Gambier Islands

Gambier Islands

7th to 23rd June

More photos another time


Where we are (Scale: Arrow is 900 miles long)


The capital, Rikitea, with St Michel’s Church and anchorage

This is a lovely spot to hang around. Days slip quickly and easily by, and already over a fortnight has passed. There are lots of things to tell you about. I’ll try and keep it brief; some you might find interesting:

  • Geography and History: the five high islands are the remnants of a giant caldera, eroded and sunken, and now surrounded by a coral reef forming a lagoon about 14 miles across and 60 miles in circumference. (So it’s sheltered from the ocean swell but sometimes a bit choppy.) The highest point, Mount Duff, 441 metres, was named after the mission ship of British Captain James Wilson, who arrived in 1798. Subsequently, French ships called in and from the mid-1800s French missionary enthusiasm led to the construction of masses of coral-stone buildings, churches, schools, monasteries and more. (Most are now crumbling ruins but the main church, St Michel’s, is huge and well used. French friends who go to Mass say the singing is fantastic, and I heard it nearly a mile away). P1050516.JPGThis Catholic building boom was costly: combined disease and the whips of overseers killed over 2,000 islanders, over half the population at that time. And yet, the drivers behind it all, Fathers Laval and Caret, despite their zealous lunacy, seem to be worshipped here nowadays. Forgiving people! Then, as if that wasn’t enough, just over a hundred years later, when the French were testing their atom bombs, hydrogen bombs, neutron bombs and suchlike on the islands of Mururoa and Fangataufa, 200 miles away, from the 1960s to 1980s, and radioactive dust would drift overhead, the French scientists and naval folk, would come here for their leisure breaks. The French government at the time liked to give the impression that no-one lived in the area. But I guess the outcry would have been insufferable had 161 nuclear explosions happened 200 miles from Paris. Polynesians truly are hospitable in welcoming most visitors nowadays. And we’d thought we were tolerant in Britain!
  • My fellow cruisers: there were six of us when I arrived, 15 people (French, German, Belgian, Mexican, English, Polish, Israeli); some come and some go, and now there are two, a friendly French couple and me. Tomorrow there may be more (ps. Yes, 3 days later there are eight of us. There are photos somewhere).

    Waiting for a meal with fellow sailors, Rian, Herman, Carole, Daniel, Erika, Brisa, Cindy, Gert & Ian

    There’s another boat at anchor too, but the crew are spending a long time in a French prison. On arrival here, early last year, they were busted with a load of cocaine aboard. A customs man I met says no-one wants to buy the boat (which has been pilfered by disgraceful kleptomaniac yachties, ‘cockroaches’ as locals refer to them) so I guess it’ll rot at anchor or get blown onto a reef before long. As I write this, a small French Navy ship, “Bougainville” arrives for a visit.P1050536

    and ties up where local boys like to fish….


    French navy in their fishing spot


    and they catch this!

  • Local walks: getting a bit creaky so not been more than a few miles. It’s hilly and hot-humid in the rainforest. But have seen some of this island, Mangareva, and two others in the archipelago, Totegegie and Taravai (See photos) – population less than ten between these two.

    A peaceful walk and meet these local youths who insist on photos!

  • Residents: overwhelmingly fine, friendly Polynesians who exchange warm “Bonjours”, offer me grapefruit, bananas (if I ask) or a lift (even if I don’t – they must see I’m creaky). On the island of Taravai, residents Herve and his wife Valerie, kindly invite me to a Father’s Day lunch of local dishes. There are five of us ‘fathers’ and afterwards there’s boule and international chatter and I leave with a handful of small sweet bananas.There’s also resident German, Fritz, who for 1,000 local francs ($10) washes a huge bag of laundry. Now in his seventies, he came 42 years ago in his boat, married locally, has six beautiful daughters, and has beer and fags for breakfast, and no time at all for the other resident European, Yves, an ex French Legionnaire who is more friendly and shakes hands now he’s seen me around a bit and knows the Napoleonic Wars are over. (His tattoos, and hairy legs and pervasive cloud of testosterone make me mildly uneasy)


  • Boat repairs (probably not interesting): on going aloft I find more broken strands in rigging…very worrying but expert friendly Dutch sailor, also called Fritz, helps me fix temporary support until I get to Tahiti for shroud replacement (about 800 miles away). Holding tank pump diaphragm broken – so can’t empty poo tank – so it’s plastic bucket until I find spare in Tahiti. (Can’t resist giving you this variation of a vulgar schoolboys’  limerick):

In days of old, sailors were bold,

Yachts’ bathrooms not invented,

We used a bucket, and used to chuck it.

And sailed on quite contented….so there!


  • Immigration formalities. A delight! Big warm friendly, round-eyed, lady gendarme and younger man gendarme, say I can stay for more-or-less ever – while UK is in EU anyway. The local gendarmerie have clearly not heard about the infamous finesse of Paris policing. I suppose latter could come here for customer relationship training. As an EU citizen you don’t even have a passport stamp. Just a friendly smile, a few papers and “Welcome!”.
  • Food. There are several stores with tins of pricey stuff from France or New Zealand or China or USA plus onions and garlic – and eggs when Yves’ chickens deliver. There’s a bakery that does delicious 600 French loaves a day, 6am and 2pm, but if you arrive five minutes late it may be sold out. Us boaty types were mildly excited one day recently as a fortnightly boat was due in from Tahiti, with vegetables. But I went shopping next day and only found giant sprouting carrots and potatoes – too late for a cabbage. Local fruit: mega-grapefruit, bananas, lemons, papaya and stocks of rice are adequate, together with tins and pulses and spices and garlic and slowly shrinking waistline.

Now I’ll tell you a bit about black pearls because they’re important.They are the mainstay of the local economy (along with French Government). Together they mean the islands appear quite affluent, clean and tidy, with busy people; and there are some 4-wheel drive cars and motor scooters bouncing over the few cracked potholed roads and tracks, and neat homesteads; and school children and others are smartly dressed and nourished.


With Erik we’re going to see his pearl farm

Our black pearl voyage? With Belgian and French boats, British representative Henrietta, sailed a few miles to Totegegie (incidentally, home to one of the planet’s less busy airports, built on the reef…two flights a week to Tahiti and, after you land here, there’s a six-mile boat trip from airport to the town). Once anchored there, we weaved cautiously through the coral outcrops in tenders to Erik, the pearl farmer’s own little neighbouring island. There he showed us enthusiastically through the processes of black pearl production; and next day to his home to admire and buy pearls – if we wanted. Erik is a clever, smiling, good-natured, hard-working Polynesian Chinese, born on an island near Tahiti 58 years ago. From being a labourer on another local pearl farm, he bought his little island (you have to own property to start a pearl farm), gradually developed business, and is now one of 15 ‘major’ producers in the Gambiers. He, or rather his oysters, produce 140,000 pearls a year, about 40% good quality with wholesale value averaging over 20 euro each. The other 60% are still valuable. (Do the sums!) His buyers come from China and it’s fascinating to listen to the intricacies, the skills, the difficulties, and the preferences of this lesser-known bit of the jewellery business (albeit my French isn’t good enough to understand it all!). I have a few bargain basement pearls (not big, not spherical, not black) which I think exquisite. Here are some photos.

Afterwards there’s another fine sunsetP1050485.JPGFrom here, once the forecast looks better, I’ll perhaps sail roughly north a few hundred miles past the bombed out atolls of Mururoa and Fangataufa (“access est interdite”)) to some other atolls in the south of the Tuamotus archipelago, before going on to Tahiti to get Henrietta’s rigging fixed.

Two questions…….

  1. Here’s a mystery in photos from a now deserted home on the island of Taravai….??

2. Where and when and how did Britain test its nuclear bombs? (I was pointedly asked this and didn’t really know!)

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Pacific Ocean


Pacific Ocean

Introducing the Pacific

1st May to 7th June

Market, Panama City

This, my first time sailing in the Pacific was memorable:- longest and slowest solo passage, most calms, fewest people, sense of well-being restored etc.. I’ve written too much in this blog post. (It helped fill the time). These first two paragraphs will give you a rough idea.

With food lockers filled from the big busy thriving fruit and veg market of Panama City, and water tanks full, Henrietta and I left Balboa, Panama, on 2nd May and, after a night at the nearby island of Taboga (said to be popular but not then) sailed 4,160 miles to arrive at Mangareva, one of the Gambier Islands, 35 days and nights later. It was the first month of my life when I have not seen a single other human being. Though I’ve missed you, I don’t think I’ve gone mad without.

It wasn’t a blissfully easy month, not quite the South Seas sailing dream you may imagine. Frustratingly slow tacking south through doldrums and unexpected currents (and near Panama a lot of rubbish) to start with (sometimes less than 50 miles progress a day), then increasingly lively conditions sailing south-westwards, winds often strong and seas often rough, and then the final quirk of Pacific nature, almost becalmed for several days in the last few hundred miles. Nothing ever steady. The average wind strength, my book says is 14 knots; but that seemed to mean either well over 20 knots or less than 10 knots, not so much in between! And with rigging weakened, I was forever alert and far too anxious to enjoy a lot of sun-baked sailing leisure.

Wind at last

Stargazer’s bed on the left

That’s the summary. For the full story, ….……

I don’t wish to sound facetious but there are three things you should know about sailing over the Pacific::

  • It’s huge (see geography lesson below)
  • There’s hardly anything there
  • Its name is very misleading.

On any sailing boat on a long ocean trip, boaty bits sometimes fail, fatigue and anxiety levels rise and fall,and life isn’t always a doddle, whatever those romantic stories may say (though some of the time it still can be sublime, and most days are warm and sunny most of the time).

For me, the most anxious part of this trip was the discovery a week or so after leaving, that several strands of a main shroud had broken. (If you’re not a boaty person, that’s the wires that hold the mast up – so it’s potentially serious) – extra troubling as shroud was replaced in Falmouth less than a year ago. As a consequence, I’ve been a bit of a worry bag…. Made adjustments to try to limit the stress on the rigging and added stout ropes to try and save the mast should shroud fail – and sailing has been slower than it might otherwise have been. That’s probably dull to read about but it’s been a constant pre-occupation, a maritime obsession.

And otherwise, life aboard has had a typical steady series of mishaps: cockroaches in the cereal (a saga all of its own), rotting carrots, itchy beard, mouldy cheese and burnt lentils, holding tank leaking to bilge (poofy woofy!), bruised body and other stuff that’ll make me sound like an old whinge bag if I go on.

BUT, let’s be more cheery! Bird life, at least when south of Galapagos and for most of the next 3,000 miles, has been a joy – not lots of birds but occasional happy ballet of tern (?) or flawless aerobatics of a solitary shearwater over the ocean swell. And this fine handsome visiting bird which I don’t know (young albatross?).

Unknown bird?

What is this?

Plus the rare sociable appearance of dancing dolphins, and sunsets early in the trip as brilliant and awe-inspiring as any you’ll ever see. The lunar cycles with black twinkly-starred fairytale southern hemisphere nights and wondrous heavenly stars moving on to vivid bright moonlit nights. P1050272Flying fish with their scatty flashy sunlit flights skimming the wavetops. And in early days, little squid that landed on deck at night (flabergasting bad news for them but fascination for me). And the knowledge that you’re sailing one of the emptiest patches of water on the planet (Once away from the Ecuador coastline, I saw only two vessels early on (and then nothing for over three weeks) – a tanker whose watch officer told me even in his big ship he’d take another 16 days to reach Botany Bay, and a large French catamaran going fast to Tahiti for charter work. Oh, and a big fishing vessel who I passed uncomfortably close one night and who for reasons of his own wanted to be anonymous:  no AIS and did not answer my call on VHF)
The daily routine of life at sea is much the same for a pensioner at sea as a pensioner on land: pot of tea, breakfast, spot of exercise, housework, cooking, reading, music, thinking, planning and daydreaming….The difference is only that ‘home’ at sea is always swaying and rolling around, lurching and creaking, with the everpresent background rush and splash of water sploshing past the hull, plus nights are very disturbed, and you must wash with seawater, and of course there’s noone to talk to, no shops, no gardening, no walks, no internet and no Radio 4 and no telly, and you’re forever disturbed with need to check and trim and reef sails. So I suppose on reflection it isn’t even remotely like a pensioner’s life on land. (N.B. A steady source of delight were Desert Island Discs archives that I’d downloaded beforehand. Enlightening to hear MPs talking ten years ago, when we see where they are now….bet you didn’t do it before casting your vote – for UK readers only)

Sometimes on ocean voyages I ask myself what on earth I am doing. Instead of sleeping peacefully in a big solid static bed under a cosy duvet, dreaming sweetly till awaken by the happy tunes of a Devon dawn chorus, I find nights are disturbed with uneasy dream-filled restlessness and too often scrambling frantically off my berth in the middle of a dark windswept night, scrabbling for glasses and head torch, to reef a flogging sail as an icy rain squall soaks my back. And yet for now this is a preferable way of life. It’s enlightening and fulfilling, rewarding and in a way soul-soothing, a month without alcohol (bar the glass of wine that Neptune and I had on the equator), a simple diet, endless movement, the majesty of the ocean, time to read, and freckles on my bottom. The paradox of a personal comfort zone that’s not at all comfortable. The choices some of us are so lucky to have.

Other odds and ends……..Outside the normal routine for me was my first ocean swim, a dip in the middle of the ocean, something most of us never ever get round to. But, becalmed in the doldrums off South America one day, hundreds of miles from everywhere, totally alone, sails hanging limp and completely floppy with not a whisper of a feather-breath of breeze, and also overheated, perspiring and feeling grubby, I jumped in. My fears had been threefold: a. thoughts of how deep it was (and all those creepy ugly big-eyed suspicious super-deep-sea life forms coming to bite my toes), b. wind getting up and Henrietta sailing off without me, and c. wondering if a shark might come and gobble me up. It was the last of these that troubled me most. My imagination can be vivid, so I didn’t swim around for long. Felt better afterwards though.

(Photos below of crossing equator)P1050244.JPG


Equator Crossing ceremony for one

Geography? …..Like me, you probably know the Pacific is big, twice as big as the Atlantic. It covers nearly a third of planet earth and has half the world’s water; and more islands than all the rest of the world put together. You can put all the earth’s land masses in the Pacific and still have lots of room left over. England would fit into it 1,275 times. And its deepest bit is nearly 11,000 metres down. Sailing slowly for over a month over just one half of the South Pacific makes these statistics of scale seem very real. And the Local Time eases back four hours as you sail those miles west, jet lag not a feature of life when it takes so long.

Since the places I may mention in the next few months will mean very little unless you have sailed here (or have a detailed atlas with you), I’ll give a quick geography lesson. It’s a lesson I gave myself a few weeks ago. Because, like most of us, my knowledge of patches of the world outide those I’ve visited is hopelessly limited.

I’d heard of places like Tahiti and Hawaii and Bora Bora and had stopped once in the Cook Islands on an aeroplane, and I’d been to New Zealand, but I couldn’t tell you precisely where they all were. (Forget Hawaii as it’s in the North Pacific and an American State and I’m not going there for now.)

The South Pacific is mainly empty. Apart from the Galapagos Islands and Easter Island, all the islands you’ve ever heard of are in the western half, and they are very sparsely spread out. So sparse that when Magellan sailed across nearly 500 years ago, as the first European to do so and with no chart to guide him and with only a very vague idea of how far he might have to go, he missed the lot, pitching up in the Philippines some five months after he’d started from South America. (As an aside I’ll add that poor Magellan was killed in the Philippines. And of the five ships and 237 men who had set out with him from Spain, only one ship and 18 souls survived, getting home three years after they’d left. Ocean sailing really was an almost suicidally hazardous business.) The Polynesians who’d sailed east across the Pacific much much more slowly 1,500 years before Magellan, and must have been patiently tacking into the prevailing winds, did discover and settle some of the islands. And Polynesians are today the main inhabitants of all the more easterly islands, though far fewer in number than they used to be.

The first group I’ll visit are collectively named French Polynesia. They include the Marquesas, the Tuamotus, Gambier Islands, and Society Islands. Here’s a map.


French Polynesia

After that, all being well, I’ll sail via other island groups, perhaps Cook Islands, Austral Islands, Tonga Islands (not yet decided which – there are so many to choose from) to reach New Zealand about November, before the start of the South Pacific cyclone season. That’s pretty much what most sailing boats do, and there are lots of us, many more than I’d expected.


Gambier Islands Approach at dawn (little dark grey bumps!)

I write this at anchor off Rikitea the capital of the main populated island in the Gambier Islands (pop.1,500 depending where you ask) and if there’s wifi will post it later. I’d not expected other yachts but there are eight of us bobbing about in the rain (the book says not long ago they used only to have one visitor a year).


Happy to be nearly there!

A few words from Henrietta….

Yes, well, M has told you the factual stuff. As usual he’s done a lot of faffing about with this and that while I’ve got on with the hard work as best I can.

Have I told you what a hopeless case my skipper is when it comes to deciding where to go? In fact, he’s the ultimate disaster when it comes to making any decision whatsoever, forever weighing up pros and cons, changing his mind, and boring everyone to tears. Well, this Pacific trip was a classic, a true tale of human indecisiveness. When we left Panama, the ship’s papers ( the Zarpe) said we’d go to Ecuador – to a nice looking spot called Puerto Amistad, a few hundred miles down the South American coast, just south of the equator. So we headed that way, me thinking that’s where we’d go. Then, for goodness sake, when we got near and could see the coastline as a pale grey smudge on our left, M decided not to stop, muttering something about being late and slow, and needing to get a move on, and not needing more food. He’d already decided not to go to the Galapagos Islands. The authorities there charge extortionate amounts for visiting yachts and they’re super-zealous with bureaucracy and you’re limited to one or two anchorages, and in truth they don’t really want me – or you – unless you pay lots, preferably on an organised trip .

So there we are. M won’t stop in Ecuador mainland or the Galaps. We have to turn west and go over three thousand miles to some islands in the middle of this gigantic ocean (which just so you know, is not very pacific in temperament – quite the opposite with all manner of quirky and unpredictable behaviour – sometimes decidedly violent often docile).

Next decision for M is deciding which islands. There are so many to choose from. He’s got some books and after a few days’ reading, he’s ruled out Easter Island and Pitcairn (it’s a bit late in the year, poor anchorages and perhaps not able to land even if we got there). The choice is now between Gambier Islands and Marquesas. Marquesas, the more popular, about 800 miles north of Gambier, both in French Polynesia. Gambier, M thinks looks more his cup of tea. Hardly any visiting yachts, a perfect 60km coral reef surrounding a few mountain islands, with one larger inhabited island and several depopulated ones, friendly welcome and the chart shows a township with a cathedral. So that’s where we head for.

But, would you believe it, oh deary deary me, it’s hard going. Our course only 20 degrees more southerly than Marquesas, but uncomfortable and wet and noisy. We crash and stagger, and I know M is thinking of my weakened shroud. After only a day or two, and with at least three weeks to go, M changes his mind and we’re going to the Marquesas….for now anyway. ……that’s where most sailing boats go….supposedly a broad reach for 3,000 miles…………P1050383.JPG

Two days later, and I think this is ridiculous, M changes his muddled mind yet again….for now we’re heading to the Gambier Islands. As I write this, there are 2,227 miles to go, so plenty of time for more changes of mind…..

…Many days later, and after another wobble in M’s spinning mind when he reconsidered Pitcairn (just a few miles out of our way and a bit closer), we made it to the Gambier Islands.

It’s pouring with rain and not very hot; reminds us of soggy days in Cornwall – just seven boats here for company.


Final approach to Mangareva and it’s raining

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Panama Canal


Canal Transit

29th to 30th April


Line Handlers – James, Carolyn, Gabriel, Steve

It’s been a stimulating fascinating fun rewarding and pretty tiring couple of days.

There are lots of well-written descriptions of the Panama Canal, the history, the engineering, its importance in economic and political terms, current statistics et al. (Just do a quick internet search to find it.) I feel privileged to have had the opportunity to go through with Henrietta.


First Adviser, Osualdo

Left Shelter Bay marina about midday on Saturday, with my ‘line-handlers’ Steve, Carolyn, James and Gabriel, anchored for a few hours below the first set of locks (Gatun) while awating our ‘adviser’ Osualdo. Then late afternoon, rafted three abreast with a catamaran in the middle, gently entered the first lock behind a red cargo ship. Shuffling slowly forwards and upwards, it was dark by the time we’d climbed the three giant lock chambers, each 1,000 ft long, to Gatun Lake, which is the vast man-made lake created by damming the Gatun River that stores the water for the locks. Overnight tied alongside a mega mooring buoy.


Dark by the time we’re up to Gatun LLake level

Next day, after sleepless night, (hot still sticky weather), a quick swim in the fresh water (crocodiles, so you don’t hang about), and breakfast, while we await a new ‘adviser’ (boats that stop for a night, like us, have one for the ‘up’ bit, another for crossing the Lake and going down.  There are now four yachts rafted alongside the buoy, and I count eight or nine nationalities represented. Everyone is excitable and chatty.

Then, with ‘adviser no 2’, the affable and informative Carlos, on board, we motor most of the day across Gatun Lake, stopping briefly alongside another mega mooring buoy for lunch in heavy rain. Arriving for the downward locks on Sunday afternoon, we lose the catamaran and raft instead with two other monohulls.

Then, lock down in front of a slinky white cruise ship called “Seven Seas Mariner” and, with another cruise ship, “Amsterdam”, dark blue, no rust) in the adjacent lock, there’s a fairly frantic  photographic orgy going on. We feel like film stars – ok for half an hour maximum. In case you think there are lots of cruise ships, there are not that many. These were the only two we saw amongst the steady stream of cargo vessels and tankers, all weekend. Perhaps they put all us leisure types together so we could have the photo orgy.


Bridge of the Americas ahead

Thank you to all my crew. Everyone was appreciative, knowledgable, interesting, polite and helpful beyond measure.  


My crew departing and taking hired lines and fenders

Now its Monday and aPublic Holiday in Panama – as it is in Britain. I’ve been to colourful market and have lots of oranges and onions and goodness knows what, and  I wobble and roll about on a mooring as ships, tugs and Panama speedy types motor earnestly back and forth. Time to go shopping again, post this update, have a look round Panama City, and decide where to sail next (or not). I’ll wait for more wind…..


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San Blas Islands to Colon

San Blas to Portobelo to Shelter Bay

25th to 28th April


Seafront at Portobelo

Left San Blas Islands very early one morning and sailed and motored slowly the forty odd miles to Portobelo.

Christopher Columbus got to Portobelo ages ago. Apparently he discovered it on 2nd November 1502 on his fourth voyage. Then for many years it was the chief export spot for gold on its way from Peru to Spain, so it would have been an important place. Hard to imagine now, but it’s still a beautiful sheltered tree-lined bay with howler monkeys giving their unique unsettling chorus late most afternoons, and there are some handsome crumbling relics from the colonial era, including some 18th century forts with wonderful heavyweight rusted cannon lying haphazardly in the grass (Doesn’t look as if they’ve been touched for 200 years.). I’m sure it’ll all be restored and smartened up in a few years time as local tourism increases, and the preservation people get going; but for now Portobelo is small, laid-back, seriously scruffy and ill-kempt with litter scattered everywhere, decrepit old cars, peeling paintwork and crumbling buildings.

I liked the colour of the place and had a good lunch at Ida’s place.

Then, after a couple of nights in Portobelo Bay, back through the fleet of anchored ships waiting for the canal and into Shelter Bay marina. There I pick up emails including lots from my agent (for the Canal), Erick, wanting urgently to know where I was and what was happening, and telling me new dates for transit have come forward by a couple of weeks etc etc. In short it seems I could have ‘gone through’ a week or more ago.

Panama Canal Authority works in a mysterious way. Instead of yachts only going through late one day, mooring overnight halfway, and continuing the next, they now may go at any time, the time being a surprise until a few hours beforehand.

Never mind, I’m busy now: – shopping, port clearance, planning, clothes washing, boat fixing and tidying, and sociability……and preparing food (as I must cook for the six people who’ll be on board for a day or two to transit).

Now the lines (4 x 125ft) and fenders (8 x big and fat) have been delivered and heaped on Henrietta’s foredeck. Sometime tomorrow, with my four line handlers aboard, we’ll go and anchor, wait for our ‘adviser'(a sort of pilot guy who comes with us and I presume tells me what to do) and start to go through the locks. We should get to the Pacific sometime over the weekend. It’s all very exciting!


Lines and fenders piled high


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San Blas Islands

Colon to San Blas Islands

12th to 25th April


Fine colour and stitchng on a “mola”


My Viking neighbour, Marinus

Shelter Bay Marina, as I said in the last post, was fine, well-run, pleasingly sociable and convenient for transit of the Canal, but for me with over two weeks more to wait, it was unstimulating and expensive, and with little breeze, stiflingly stuffily hot. So I sailed away and have thoroughly enjoyed an excursion back to the east of Panama. 

It wasn’t easy sailing east against prevailing wind and current. After many months of going downwind with Trade Winds I’d forgotten how uncomfortable it can be thrashing to windward in choppy seas and wind to F 6 ; the San Blas islands the goal after two days’ pounding – with just brief overnight stops at Portobelo and Isla Linton on the way.


Overnight anchorage at Portobelo

(Since then, there’s been very little wind other than onshore breeze from late morning most days.)

What of San Blas? ……Quoting from Eric Bauhaus’s excellent “ Panama Cruising Guide”, “The San Blas Islands are a vast archipelago on Panama’s Caribbean coast composed of over 340 islands…..They are unique in many ways, home to the indigenous Guna Indians, who have best preserved their culture and traditions out of all the tribes in the Americas.” The islands stretch, a few miles offshore, for about 100 miles along the Panama virgin rainforest northeast coast towards Colombia (though most of us just sail a small western part). The Gunas call the islands and the adjacent mainland territory Guna Yala. (San Blas was the name given by Spanish invaders so they don’t like it.)…here are some islands…….

Not quite 100, I think

They are autonomous and though they welcome visitors they don’t allow foreigners to buy land or invest in Guna Yala, and non-Guna may not settle or intermarry. There are about 55,000 Guna and they are good-looking and small, ”..rivaled in tribal shortness only by the pygmies.” (Having said which, the ones I’ve met are usually well over 5 feet.) Many of them live to a great age and somewhere I took a photo of a woman who told me she was 100, though personally I think she was probably in her 90’s. She asked for a dollar for her picture to be taken. The story is that they’d seen postcards of themselves in traditional tribal dress for sale in Panama City and the cards cost a dollar! The dollar fee is usual and fine by me. Apart from buying the “molas” or bracelets there are few opportunities here to spend money.

Choosing which molas to buy

But, enough of this, if interested you can no doubt read lots more in Wikipedia and I’m guessing there’ll have been anthropologists at work here. (It would be a pretty soft number for them with such an easy way of life, friendly welcoming inhabitants, lack of jungle creepy crawlies, etc.)

I buy lots

I’ve sailed to several different anchorages in a few of the San Blas Cays, landed on perhaps 15 different islands (“dups”) and bought many “molas”, made by the Guna women, each intricately sewn by stitching and cutting layers of colourful cloth (there’s a photo or two somewhere), and I’ve had a bracelet wound and tied on by the kindly 70-year old Laora (Laura?). (They’re normally just for women but Laora didn’t seem bothered)

My bracelet is fitted and tied by Laora

Lots of  islands are uninhabited but many seem to have a family or two, and some tiny islands have whole villages squeezed onto them.  Until you land, little islands may look deserted, but then lurking beneath the coconut palms, you find a family or two quietly sitting  and chatting, often busy, outside their simple cane and palm-built huts, often supplemented with tarpaulins, furnished with some plastic garden chairs and hammocks. And the crude dug-out canoes are paddled and sailed hither and thither from island to island, trading, fishing and visiting neighbours. (I’ve just traded five avocadoes from Victor who visited in his dug-out, for some milk and tomato paste, which he wanted rather than the dollars I offered.)

It’s hard too to find a completely empty anchorage, though again, I am now nestled in one where “Henrietta” is the sole visitor. (It was a rather sinuous route in avoiding the coral heads and reefs on the way, and I guess that keeps crowds away.) The islands would of course have been emptier 20 years ago before so many yachts started to call in. There must be hundreds of boats here now, many from Panama but many from all over the world, passing briefly or spending months and years here. (It’s becoming a popular place for ‘snowflakes’, i..e. sailors who come here for the winter but then disappear home to America or Europe for the spring and summer, leaving boats in Panama, which is cheaper than East Caribbean and well south of the hurricane belt.)

A few days ago, calmly settled in a once popular anchorage that had no sign of life, I was about to enjoy a swim in solitary isolation when a fellow yachtsman (who must have seen “Henrietta” on AIS) called on VHF and asked if I’d heard about the recent crocodile attack. I said “Yes, but don’t know which island”. Apparently I’d found it. “Swimming is not an option” my fellow yachtsmen advised; and I was grateful for his advice. And left later that day.

Some of what is washed ashore

It seems very unjust that gentle friendly people like these islanders will be early casualties of global warming sea level rises. Few islands are more than a couple of feet above the sea. And they already feel the onslaught of the plastic rubbish that blows across the oceans to end up littering their shores. (And drifting off the subject again, surely it’s long past time to levy heavy taxes on all plastic? And harsh penalties, perhaps disembowelment, for those who carelessly discard it. Maybe too tricky – but please do think hard before you use it. And challenge folk who use it needlessly.)

….noone ever tires of fine sunsets………..

There are too many encounters and sights and incidents to recount in this blog snapshot. Suffice to say these islands have provided some truly rewarding experiences and I am glad that delayed canal transit gave time to visit. I feel quite reluctant to head back to Colon and the Canal Zone. But, as an Australian skipper recently told me, “You need to get a move on mate. It’s a long way across [the Pacific]”. Almost everyone I know is well on their way over by now. As ever, I need a kick up the backside…….

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Waiting in Panama

Panama – Waiting

5th April to…


Waiting in Shelter Bay marina, Panama

“Henrietta” and I have waited in Shelter Bay marina, on the Caribbean side of Panama, for a week already. The queue for yachts to transit the Panama Canal seems to be three to four weeks at the moment with usually just two or three boats going a day, sandwiched between a constant stream of big ships moving through 24 hours a day, every day and night of the year. (As a yacht you do pay a lot to use the canal but ships pay tens or hundreds of thousands dollars each, so they understandably have priority. They’re the mainstay of the Panamanian economy!)

Looking on the bright side, my agent Erick and assistant Peter have been efficient; Henrietta has been measured by the Canal Authority admeasurer; and I – or rather the good ship Henrietta – has a number, and I’ve signed lots of papers and paid the fees. (All feels a bit like Charlie’s Golden Ticket!)


And I’ve been to Colon a couple of times to shop and get a stamp in the passport. Colon is not a pretty spot; it needs a good tidy up and, in contrast to Panama City, which is a fine city on the Pacific side of Panama, Colon is too full of crime for comfort.

The marina is about an hour’s bus ride from Colon – nearer two hours if the canal lock gates are open for ships to pass, when the bus crosses by ferry. Because it’s a bit isolated, good organising boaty folk manage a schedule of ‘things-to-do’ (when we’re not working on boats, chatting, reading and so on); i.e. yoga, walks, aquafit, films and games and suchlike, and as nearly every boat is either waiting to go to the Pacific or just arrived from the Pacific, there’s lots of international sociability. And of course there’s a bar and restaurant, and swimming pool. We don’t swim in the marina; water’s a bit grubby and crocodiles live here (one cruised up between the pontoons yesterday!)

But Henrietta and I quickly grow tired of marinas so plan to leave here soon and sail to other bits of Panama while we await our turn to go to the Pacific, probably at the end of April.


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