After a rousing passage from Pitcairn and a couple nights at achor out in the lagoon just in the lee of the barrier reef, the Picton Castle is alongside the old town copra wharf at Rikitea, here at Mangareva, in the Gambier Islands of SE French Polynesia.
Once the centre of commerce for this group, where the old time trading schooners docked to load pearl shell and sacks of sweet smelling copra, and take passengers to and from Tahiti, now where the bi-monthly supply ship and the occasional barque throws her hawsers ashore. It was a big day in these islands when the trading schooner showed up from Tahiti. Lots of guitar, wine and dances for a few days before she sailed again.
We got our well dug in anchor raised, with its 300 feet of studlink chain, turned the ship around, backed in and more or less drifted parallel on to the wharf in the modest onshore breeze. The winds picked up later. Newly painted port side to the wharf, jibboom pointed to the north. The ship takes up the entire eastern wharf face, the only usable side. While this has been the location of the wharf forever, this incarnation of the wharf is in fine nick with excellent fendering and the like. The chart indicates only 14 feet alongside the wharf, but careful soundings with a lead-line told us we had 24′, making coming alongside possible.
Our days are sweet here at this South Pacific idylle as we wander the island, work on the ship, and wait for a few things to come together. Not the least of which would be a fair wind for Tahiti. El Nino is doing its thing, and west winds are on the docket for a few days. Tahiti is to our west, about 800 miles away, a bit further than Bermuda is from Lunenburg. And a lot further than anyone aboard wants to motor. Even if we could.
Just before dawn the eastern sky warms with a glow of the coming sun. The outer island of Aukena, three miles to windward, invisible in the dark of night, now stands in dark silhouette with a few stars above its mountain ridges still easing through the oranging sky. The roosters of Rikitea have been crowing their feathered selves to distraction for some time now. Don’t they know that the sun comes up every day? Relax, eat some bugs, the sun is coming… have faith my feathered friends.
The ship is still this early morning. She lies quietly and makes no motion. No chafe on hawsers. All is calm. The sole anchor watch has little to do but remain awake. As the overhead sky brightens into tropical blue, yet with the sun still having not peeked over the edge of our world, three small kids in long surfer shorts and hooded sweatshirts – it is cool this morning – wander the wharf accompanied by what may or may not be their dog. Later these kids will bring their friends to swim off the ship, a swing rope from the fore-yard being a particular feature of attraction. They seem to remember doing this from our last visit. For reasons that baffle the simple mind, a truck rattlles slowly by on the island road by the head of the wharf, with a proper blasting of Polynesian/Reggae music. This may not wake the dead, as that is fairly difficult, but any in a coma might be forced to perk up with this onslaught of sound. One might expect a parade to follow such a loud truck as this must be some special day for which the truck is a harbinger, a hearld, the first of something big, but no, the musical cacaphony fades thumping out to nothing as the truck carries on down the road, maybe to the hills in the north.
Once again the roosters and their crowing dominate the morning. They now seem subdued. Perhaps the truck embarrassed them into silence. Upstaged them or some such. Or maybe as the sun actually makes its expected appearance, some, not all, some, of these strutting fowl seem to adopt the notion that their job is now done and ease off on the crowing. Some… On our port quarter just off a small beach a few small fishing boats hang off their moorings, stern lines secured to palm trees above the water’s edge. In the quiet, we can hear the lagoon lapping gently along their aluminum waterlines.
It has been a long sea-road from the Galapagos Islands. Anchoring at Pitcairn was anything but placid. There is plenty to do on the ship. Always is. Some work is importat for sailing onward, some is helpful for our visit here in the Gambiers – and some is just good to do. Painting the topsides after thousands of miles at sea is a good thing to do. The hinges of the clanging freeing ports always make rust streaks down the sides. Some white paint has just peeled off, exposing the black hull, once so painted for a film shoot some time ago. Good paint but the white does not like sticking to it. Some sails have been sent down for repair, and this is a perfect wharf for setting up a tropical sail loft to lay out some new sails. And dry the ones we have bent to the yards and stays. We also need to oil the decks soon. Oiled pine decks last for ages, those not oiled or painted/coated do not. The record is clear on this. Naturally there is endless painting and varnishing, rig tarring, requiring dry sunny conditions.
And then there is the anchor. The big (1,500 lb) port anchor lost its stock at Pitcairn Island. Broke right off it did. Quite a shock to lose the stock. There were some serious shock loads at Bounty Bay. With the help of friend Tehotu we have a good fix/replacement under way now to sort out replacing the now missing 5″ thick, 8 foot long steel stock. Maybe we could sneak back to Pitcairn and make off with the Bounty anchor on display in the square! They don’t need it any more… just sitting there… it could use some paint too… we have paint.
These islands, lagoon and protected waters between the motu, simply call out for long boat expeditions. This is, of course, why this ship has such a longboat hoisted in the port davits. So the Monomoy (late of Captain Bob Douglas’ collection at Martha’s Vineyard) is being readied for some inside the reef sailing expeditions and maybe inter-island sailing in these beautiful waters. She needs a new mast step and will be ready to go.
Today is Sunday. At 0900 there will be a service in what is the largest church, a cathedral we might call it, built ages ago at staggering cost of life and resources to the island. We have encouraged the crew to attend Sunday Mass, as many as possible. The singing is amazing. And lightning will not strike the infidels among them. I don’t think, anyway. Some crew have made friends who whisk them off to do things somewhere in the hinterlands, returning often laden with sacks of pamplemousse or a stalk of bananas or two. And blades of aloe. 11 year old Dawson has made a friend his age and while there is a language barrier, it turns out that they both speak fluent Super Mario, MineCraft, Nintendo and Switch – and swimming and eating passion fruit are easily understood by the lads.
A few wonderful shipmates have to leave us here to get home and look after their lives there. We will miss them. And a few new crew showing up on the same island-hopper flight from Tahiti. Nick, Darryl and Eden soon homeward bound.
School groups are lined up to visit Monday and Tuesday. No doubt some of the gang will find a way to explore the black pearl farms. When the supply ship returns we must head back out to anchor. And wait for fair winds for Tahiti.
But today is Sunday and the Picton Castle crew is dressing up for church. And a South Pacific moment that they will never forget.
