My first act, in my sixth decade, is to get
up at 3 am and pee off the back of a 65’ sail boat into the turquoise waters of
the South Pacific. A gentle breeze has the rigging tapping out a light percussion
rhythm and the palm trees, on land, sway to the music. My muscles are sore from
a long hike yesterday up to the top of the mountain from which there was a
360 view over this island, the many black pearl farms dotting the
green/beige/azure/blue shallows, the other rocky islets, and the outer barrier
reef surrounding it all. The warm darkness with its familiar salt-water tang enfolds
me comfortably and I am totally certain that I am exactly where I want to be.
Unfortunately I have only half of the
equation right as I am not necessarily with whom I want to be with. I will be
spending this momentous day far from friends and family, with a couple of
random people, my captain and co-crew, and the disconnectedness of this social
situation haunts me.
Later, when Lisa gets up, she greets me
with a huge hug and wishes me a happy birthday, which, I have to admit, puts a
smile on my face and cheers me far more that I would have believed, making me
feel once again like a beloved sister-wife. And, over breakfast, Sven talks
intelligently about why ‘corner birthdays’ feel more important than they
actually are which leads to a good discussion about how one’s priorities change
over time.
As it is Sunday and we are anchored next to
the town of Rikitea, on the Island of Mangareva, in the Gambier Islands, where
the largest cathedral in all of French Polynesia is - designed and built
centuries ago by an over-zealous French priest at the cost of many human lives
- Lisa and I decide to go to church. It seems the whole town is there, the
women decked out in their Sunday best with high heeled shoes and garlands of
fresh flowers in their hair, and we are embarrassingly underdressed in our
usual slightly grubby t-shirts and shorts and bearing backpacks, but we are
welcomed with open arms, well kisses on both cheeks actually, by all and
sundry.
One of our goals of the day is to get some
fresh provisions to see us through the next few weeks as we travel through the stunningly
beautiful but barely inhabited atolls of Tuamotu Archipelago so after church we
walk the main road to the public gardens. We collect nine pumpkins which we lug
back to the dock and stow in our dingy and then return to gather grapefruits
and lemons. (Lemon trees have many sharp thorns by the way. Who knew?)
I had brought my laptop into town with me
hoping to have received, and to be able to reply to, a few birthday e-mails,
but the owner of the pub with public internet access died and the pub is closed
until further notice. I cannot be crushed; this is the way of the islands. But,
nonetheless, without hope of internet today, and, possibly even for whole month
if we sail soon, I feel more alone than ever. We return to the boat where I
spend the afternoon working on repairing old lines. It is a somewhat menial yet
satisfying task and one that I am good at. If the pub, also the only place in
town to eat out, were open, we may well have had a meal there it being my
birthday and all, but instead we follow our regular schedule. Today Lisa is on
lunch and I on supper. I choose to make new-pumpkin soup and we eat it in
relative silence and I am reminded of Christmas, a year and a half ago, on
another boat, again far from friends and family, and now, as then, I find
myself more melancholy than I care to admit. I will be happy when the day has
passed and we are on to tomorrow.
