Tuamotus – On the Horizon Line

sailing in south pacific on the horizon line travel blog brianna randall and rob roberts

I Don’t Speak French – Just “Bike”

I don’t speak French. This makes me unpopular with French people, and makes it tough to get around by myself here in French Polynesia. My husband is trying to teach me the basics as we sail from one island to the next. But my Spanish-soaked brain rebels against silent consonants, and my tongue refuses to form words that start in your throat and exhale through your nose.

Instead, I smile and nod as Rob translates, feeling isolated from the culture around us. After a couple of weeks exploring towns on tropical islands, I was itching to join a conversation all by myself. I wanted to feel connected to the communities we visited. Turns out that all I had to do was replace Rob with a half-dozen kids

… Click here to read the rest of the story!

Food and Drink

Killing Coconuts is Fun

Coconuts are my new favorite all-purpose fauna. Sure, I’ve always been a fan of coconut milk in my curry, and flakes in my cookies. But now I really appreciate how totally rad these tropical balls truly are. They’re like free, tasty mini-survival packs scattered within easy reach. If you’re thirsty, you grab a green one, bash off the stem with a rock, poke a stick in it, and voila: a liter of vitamin-rich water in a compact carrying case.

Hungry? Find a brown coconut in a tree or on the ground (just make sure it doesn’t have any holes that indicate a rat beat you to it). Slice through the dry outer husk and shuck it off, peeling away the fibers to reveal the hard nut inside. Poke a hole in one of the three circular seed indents, drink out what’s left of the water, smash the shell on a rock to divide it in half and voila: fatty, vitamin-rich white meat that satisfies your belly and makes your hair and skin shiny from the inside out.

We don’t even take water bottles hiking anymore. And at the occasional cruisers’ potluck on shore, Rob just shucks a few coconuts and chips out chunks of sweet white meat for everyone’s dessert. They store really well for passages, too. We put one in the fridge each day to have a cold drink, and used the meat shavings to liven up cookies or pancakes. We’ve also started making our own coconut milk for curry dinners by pouring boiling water through the shavings.

And then there’s the dried-out shells: Rob has a sweet new bowl that holds his above-average servings of food. I have a new bra that definitely covers my below-average serving of breasts. We both have things to bang together to make percussive noises when playing music.

The other day, a fellow cruiser asked for some help opening some brown coconuts he’d pulled out of the ocean. Rob handily shucked a few on shore. Later, the German sailor told a few others in his halting English, “That American boy is good at killing the coconuts. He must have killed a lot of them.” Indeed he has.

To recap: coconuts are the perfect fruit. Visit a tropical island near you soon to experience their full range of utility, simplicity, and overall awesomeness.

saltwater fly fishing polynesia travel blog rob roberts and brianna randall

Fishing, Ocean Tales

Fly Fishing the Tuamotus (Part 1): Bonefish

Before we left on this adventure, I spent some time on the internet looking for information on fly fishing opportunities in French Polynesia. Besides a few random and out of date blog posts and a couple of websites for resorts or fly fishing businesses, I didn’t find much to go on. However, I could tell from aerial photos andsome time spent on Google Earth that there were endless sandy flats in the Tuamotus. Often called the Dangerous Islands, the Tuamotus are a string of coral atolls that stretch several hundred miles. With a peak elevation of about 10 feet, the islands have been feared by mariners for centuries because of their shallow, fringing reefs and the fact that they are hard to see until you’re practically on top of them. This, of course, sounds like heaven to someone interested in chasing fish..

The Tuamotos are quite simply what most people dream of when they think of the term tropical paradise. The islands are small – just sunken volcano craters that just barely break the surface of the ocean. Most are covered with coconut trees and surrounded by deep, blue water on the ocean side. The interior lagoons are protected, accessible usually by one or maybe two narrow passes and the clear, warm water runs in shades of blue, green, turquoise and even yellow in the shallow, sandy edges. To top it all off, the islands are sparsely inhabited, if at all. Most of the islands we visited had very small towns or villages that subsisted on fishing, coconut harvesting or maybe some sparse tourism. Otherwise, these narrow strings of sand and coral are the domain of coconut crabs and not much else. The activity lies beneath the surface.

Because we are essentially backpacking across the ocean, I have scant resources for my underwater investigation: some snorkeling gear, a speargun, and an underwater camera. My fishing quiver has been pared down to the bare essentials: a handline for trolling while under sail and my fly fishing gear. I have a 9 weight Orvis T3 fly rod and an Orvis big game reel. The combo is about 10 years old but is solidly built and has endured expeditions in Mexico, Cuba, Honduras, the Florida Everglades and elsewhere. My fly line is a new 10 weight Royal Wulff Triangle Taper saltwater line. I used to think saltwater flats fishing was about precise 100 foot long casts to spooky fish in shallow, calm water. And while that does happen, my experience has proven otherwise. My saltwater fly fishing has necessitated quick, powerful casts in often very windy and sometimes overcast conditions. Visibility in the water is often scattered and the fish are moving fast. I need to react fast and I’m often making fairly short casts, not much longer than I would if I were trout fishing back in Montana. The Triangle Tape, along with overloading the rod helps me do that. The rest of my gear includes one extra fly line, two fly boxes, tippet from 10 to 50 pounds and a few tools and gadgets. I would, of course, love to have more.

Our first stop in the Tuamotus was on the island of Kauehi, where we were anchored just off of Kauehi “City” and traded with the locals for freshly caught grouper and snorkelled straight from the boat.. We also happened to anchor within spitting distance of a mile long sand flat that was in the lee of the island (sheltered by the prevailing easterly winds). Dodging friendly local kids (my first polynesian entourage) and mean dogs on my first excursion, it took me several hours of slow wading to find a shallow bay in the flat where scattered coral heads were sandwiched between the flat and deeper water. As five to six foot long lemon sharks patrolled the water around me (a good sign), I eventually found a pod of bonefish (“kio kio” in Tuamotan) in about a foot and a half of water. I paused, because this is a crucial moment: after travelling, 4,000 miles during about 38 days at sea on two different passages to get to this point, my temptation is to cast as quickly as possible. But that would be folly. If I spook this pod of fish, it could be the last shot I get at them. I have no idea how many others are out there.

Even though I have found that most bonefish in these remote destinations are not picky about fly patterns, I tried to calmly tie on one of my go to flies: the Corey Fisher Supercrab. A cruising bonefish will usually take just about any fly that is put in front of them, as long as they aren’t spooked by the cast, but I’m not taking any chances. My technique at this point is pretty simple: find out which way the fish are going, cast about 10 to 15 feet in front of them, wait and then twitch the crab as they get close. After a few attempts and misses, I finally hooked up with a 5 pound polynesian bonefish, took a few pictures and with trembling hands, slipped the fish back in the water. The fish in Kauehi were fairly spooky when the sun was up and they were in the shallows. If I had refusals on 10 or 15 pound tippet, I had to drop down to 8 pound test to get them to take.

If you had told me 10 years ago when I bought this saltwater fly rod that I would be alone on a flat in the Tuamotus, casting to bonefish, I’m not sure I would have believed you. During the next couple weeks, we visited several more islands, all of which had remarkable, picturesque flats and coral reefs. Not all of them led me to bonefish. On Fakarava, despite some of the most georgeous water and variable depth flats that I have seeen, I was shocked when I didn’t see any bonefish (I had also read a sailing blog talking about large bonefish on Fakarava) I did, however, have some fun catching a handful of other saltwater fish species (you’ll have to wait for Fly Fishing the Tuamotus: Part II).

We also visited a mostly uninhabited island called Toau, just north of Fakarava. The pass into Taoa is on the east side of the island and can be pretty ornery depending on the direction of the wind and status of the tide, which may be why we spent several days on Toau and had the place entirely to ourselves. North of the pass there is a small tidal river and lagoon fringed by mangroves. I spent two afternoons prowling this area and the adjacent sand flat. I found that the bonefish in Toau ran in pods of 2 or 3 fish and were generally eager to chase a fly or at least follow it. I caught a handful of fish on Toau and I’m sure some of them were pushing 8 pounds. They took small shrimp and crab patterns and pretty much everything I put in front of them if it was presented well. The fish seemed to prefer a slow twitching motion and often took the fly when it was motionless. The bonefish were close to shore in a foot or so of water. Despite not seeing very many people, they were quick to flee the area if I misplaced a cast or was too loud when wading. I could have spent weeks on this atoll fishing, snorkeling and exploring the rest of the island, but unfortunately, we had to leave this little gem and take advantage of a weather window to get to Tahiti.

I’m not sure when or if I’ll ever get to visit the Tuamotus again, and I’m still coping with the fact that I only got to spend a few weeks there. We only got 3 months on our immigration visa in French Polynesia and I would have gladly spent all 3 months in the Tuamotus. Bri and I biked along sandy coastal roads with our snorkeling and fishing gear strapped to our backs, lunched on coconuts and wandered along reefs that were in better condition than most places I’ve ever visited (watch this underwater video from a past blog on the marine life in the Tuamotus). With friendly locals and a laid back vibe, I was easily within my comfort zone. The Tuamotus are not easy to get to and the services are pretty sparse, but if you’re into some excellent flats fishing and water time in the backcountry of the South Pacific, this is the place for you.

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Fishing, Ocean Tales

Playing with Sharks

I’ve come to peace with sharks. They still give me pause when I see them coming toward me underwater, and they definitely earn my cautious respect. But I’m over the hump on my fear factor. The turning point — besides the shark immersion at Kauehi pass — was scubadiving the so-called “shark wall” at Fakarava’s south pass. This world heritage site is famous for those interested in swimming with the sharks. We watched hundreds of sharks hanging out along the wall, cruising through the shallow flats, and hovering in blue depths at 100 feet. I spent long minutes simply studying the slow rhythm of their big gills flaring in and out, in and out.

Sharks are smart. Graceful. And not dangerous, unless you do something stupid.

It’s kind of like the peace I made with bears after living in Montana for a couple of years. Respect the bears’ space, don’t harrass them or tempt them, and they are awesome to watch in the woods. Same with bees, when I helped Rob extract honey from his hives a couple of times. Respect the bees’ homes and personal space, don’t swat at them or make them angry, and they’ll give you delicious honey instead of sting you.

The sharks in the Tuamotus are mostly blacktip and whitetip, known to be curious but not dangerous. Now, if I see a ten-foot hammerhead swimming toward me, I’m not going to feel peaceful at all. But these motu sharks are kind of like pets at anchorage. They come check out the boats, circle the anchors. Plus, they know that humans often go fishing, and learned to follow along.

Rob is extra careful spearfishing, since the sharks will come up and snatch the speared fish right off his pole. They’re not interested in eating him, but if his arm got in the way of their snapper supper … well, I doubt they’d complain much. Spearfishing is definitely a group activity here, just in case. On the other hand, Rob’s also had a blast flyfishing for the smaller-sized sharks. He hooks them as the patrol the shallows at low tide, so he can study them up close before releasing them back to the sea.

I don’t really want to catch a shark, even if I do feel more comfortable swimming with them. Same with bears and bees: I have no need to contain the things that might harm me, but I do want to understand them enough to appreciate their purpose, their beauty, and their role on this grand blue globe we all share.

sharks scuba diving in the tuamotus on the horizon line travel and sailing blog brianna and rob

Ocean Tales, Outdoor Adventures

Cue the Soundtrack from Jaws

A lone sailboat speeds from the lagoon to the open ocean through a narrow pass in a remote island. Waves break on either side of this pass, crashing on pink-white sands as the sea floor rises abruptly from 2,000 feet deep to zero at the shore of this Pacific atoll. Sailing through the pass is carefully timed during slack tide to avoid the waves and eddies created by the 8 knot current as the sea rushes in and out of the lagoon. Just as the sailboat clears the pass, two people jump overboard. The sailboat keeps going.

Cue the soundtrack from Jaws.

This was the scene as Kayanos left Kauehi, and Rob and I were the ones who jumped off. On purpose. And so excited to snorkel the pass that we almost peed our pants. After we both dove overboard, Rob — who got his mask on first — immediately said, “Wow. There’s a shark right here, Bri!” I shoved on my gear so I wouldn’t miss the shark sighting, as I had on a few of our previous snorkeling trips. I looked below to see not one shark, but dozens of sharks swimming towards us out of the crystal blue depths. I made a calm and appreciative noise through my snorkel that sounded roughly like, “Mmpharrghgh!?!!!”

Talk about freaky. Sure, I knew the Marquesas and Tuamotus are renowned for having healthy, thriving shark populations. And I’d seen them swimming around in Nuku Hiva, following fishing boats for scraps. But I’d only seen a shark underwater exactly twice before. And they both swam away from me, not at me. Adrenaline pumping, I slowed my breathing and followed Rob toward the reef and shallower water.

I should clarify that my body followed Rob while my head followed the progress of the 7 or 8 sharks following us. They stayed a respectful 10 feet away, curious about why the hell humans would jump off a moving boat in the middle of a deep blue sea. I was starting to feel curious about that myself. Once we could see bottom, though, I immediately felt safer — a completely illogical reaction, since the sharks could eat us just easily in five feet of water as 1,000 feet of water. But these sharks weren’t going to eat us. First off, they were “small” blacktip and whitetip sharks, only about 5 or 6 feet long. Second, they had plenty of other food.

Once over the reef, we could see hundreds, maybe thousands, of fish. Big jacks, mackeral, snapper, grouper, parrotfish. Colorful butterfly fish, trigger fish, squirrel fish, angel fish and wrasses. The visibility was probably 80 feet, and the coral was a diverse blanket of living color. All around us were moving mini-dramas of fish mating, fighting, eating, hiding, swooping. The sharks lost interest in us, and resumed their slow cruise back and forth between the reef and the depths. It was the most amazing snorkeling experience I’ve ever had.

After about 15 minutes, Rob and I began the second part of the Remote Pass Snorkel Adventure: getting back on the sailboat. We swam against the current to make our way out of the pass toward the ocean. Kayanos was hove-to (as close to parked as a sailboat gets) about one mile away from us. We waved our arms several times as we swam to a more mellow spot, signaling we were ready for pickup. Ben and Sarah sailed toward us at about 6 knots, then once again expertly heaved-to to slow down.

They threw out a floating line, and Rob made sure I was holding on before he latched on behind me. We were getting dragged fast enough behind the boat that my bathing suit bottoms came off, but managed to pull ourselves hand over hand until we reached the stern. Sarah let down a rubber fender as a step. Rob had to push my butt up as I hauled myself over the rail four feet above my head. By the time we both flopped into the cockpit, we were breathing heavy and totally amped on endorphins.

I know most people in their right mind wouldn’t jump off a moving sailboat into unknown shark-infested waters in the middle of nowhere. But they’re definitely missing out. I highly recommend the Remote Pass Snorkel Adventure, and hope that someday we’ll find another accomodating (and skilled) captain who let’s us dive overboard to investigate the deep crystal blue.

Sailing

The Dreamy Tradewind Passage to the Tuamotus

Ok. I take back everything I wrote about tough sailing passages. Was that me moaning over rough seas and flogging sails? And did I really write a tongue-in-cheek remix to the lyrics of Crosby Stills & Nash’s “Southern Cross?” (See below for the remix written about 3,000 miles into the Pacific crossing.) Sorry, David Crosby, for dissing your happy sailing song — we finally discovered the joy of “sailing a reach before a following sea” during our 4-day crossing from the Marquesas to the Tuamotus. Turns out that tradewind sailing is awesome.

We had a blast with Ben and Sarah cruising west and south. It helped that Kayanos, a 40-foot C&C, is a fast racing boat, and that Ben is a stellar sailor who loves flying the spinnaker (and, like us, hates running the engine). We flew along at 6 to 7 knots, even when the winds were a mere 7 to 10 knots. And it really helped that the seas were almost flat for the entire 550 mile journey.

But the main reason this crossing felt like such smooth sailing is because it was only FOUR DAYS. Yup. Since Rob and I decided to make our first ocean passage the longest one on the planet, everything from here on out feels like a cakewalk. In fact, the Marquesas to the Tuamotus is the second-longest crossing we’ll make this season. After this, we should be able to hop between islands in just a few days.

A few highlights: dolphins off the bow for a full 30 minutes, including plenty of babies flying along next to their mamas. Only having to cook for 4 people instead of 7. Catching (and eating!) a yellowfin tuna. Sailing right up to the bottom of a rainbow. Racing along at 8 knots on the last night in 20 knots of wind with a triple-reefed mainsail and a tiny staysail as we dodged coral atolls. Entering our first motu, Kauehi, through a narrow channel with an 8-knot opposing current and standing waves — kind of like paddling upstream in a Class IV river rapid but in a sailboat.

Kayanos is the exact opposite of Llyr in many ways. It’s been great to learn different systems for sailing, boat maintenance and passage-making. Although Llyr was a wonderful comfy boat for the long passage, Kayanos feels like a familiar friend. She’s more like Spindrift, the 26-foot Paceship that Rob and I sailed for 6 summers on Flathead Lake.

In fact, after our recent brush with tradewind bliss, Rob and I are once again talking about buying out own boat down the line. For a while there, sweating under peeling deck paint on sloshing swells, we were dreaming only of land-based mountain treks through Nepal (which still sounds awesome). Nothing like consistent winds and calm seas to reignite the romance with sailing. Oh, and arriving in one of the most beautiful lagoons on earth after the passage probably helped seal the deal on why having a sailboat would be rad.
SOUTHERN CROSS REMIX
ala ON THE HORIZON LINE

Left the mountains on a boat bound to southern islands
Expecting a reach and an easy sail
We searched for the trades with a motor
Flogging sails and a 10 foot seas
1,000 miles before we reach the Galapagos
We had 50 feet on the waterline, windward all the way
48 hours in port to worship hard ground
And after 2 weeks sailing west, there was no turning back

CHORUS:
Think about how many waves we have rolled over
Slingshot beam seas send our asses flyin’
Don’t believe that shit you read about the coconut milk run
We are sailing cross the Pacific Ocean
Wonderin’ what we were thinkin’
And if we’d ever do it again…
And you know we won’t. And you know we won’t.

When we saw the Southern Cross for the first time
It didn’t look quite as big as we’d hoped
And the cross waves off the beam, they were not small
And winds were fickle, as fickle as spring day
So we’re sailing for tomorrow ’cause there’s no choice
Fighting down the seasick, and fending off boredom
We have a nice steel ketch, but her flags are tattered
Only 8 more days left, until we can kiss land

CHORUS

So we sat, and we napped and we bounced
We ate oatmeal and rice, and longed for cheese and fruit
We will survive this ocean crossing
But we’ll remember there are more ways than sailing for 32 days
To see the Southern Cross.

diving with sharks scuba diving in the tuamotus on the horizon line travel and sailing blog brianna and rob

Videos

Marine Life in the Tuamotus Islands

We’ll be writing more posts about our underwater adventures soon. Meanwhile, check out this video that Rob put together. The music is from a jam session in our Missoula living room this winter … thanks to Cassidy Randall and Ali Soloman for their talent!

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Ocean Tales, Outdoor Adventures

We’re in love (with psychedelic clams).

Sorry for the long radio silence. Turns out that paradise doesn’t include internet. Plus, Rob and I have been a pretty distracted the past few weeks. Why?

Because we’re in love. Giddy, giggly, bubbly blissful love. Not necessarily with each other, though our giddiness certainly overflows into more hugs and hand-holding. Rob and I are in love with the Tuamotus, the volcano atolls that formed rings of shallow coral in the middle of a deep sea. We’re in love with green water, blue hues, white sands, fringing coconut trees, tiny purple fish, giant psychedelic clams, sea cucumbers as thick as my leg, stealthy sharks, flying manta rays and diving fairy terns.

During the year before we left, Rob and I had a little tradition. Some nights just before we crawled into bed, exhausted from a day of playing, working, and living fully in Missoula, we’d pull up Google Earth on the laptop. We’d huddle close to the screen and zoom in on islands and bays we hoped to visit on our voyage. The ones that called us back time and again were the strange-looking thin circles in the middle of the Pacific: hollowed-out islands that looked like a lifesaver or a really skinny doughnut. But instead of a cream-filled center, these narrow coral islands encircled marvelous blue-green lagoons, teeming with some of the richest marine life on earth. The Tuamotus.

And now we’re here. We get to spend every day inside of Google Earth, and it’s way better up close. We snorkel before breakfast, and then head to shore. I dance in front of some coconut trees, and watch Rob stalk the white sand flats with his 9-weight fly rod, playing with sharks, bonefish and jacks. “Isn’t it awesome?” he calls over his shoulder as we watch a pair of trigger fish mow down on some bait fish. “It’s like hunting, but in the ocean.” Lunch break consists of tuna on crackers, some raisins and almonds, and coconut water straight from a fresh-plucked nut. Then it’s on to more snorkeling, fish stalking, or beach-combing and biking with the local kids.

These islands are why we wanted to leave our beloved mountain home, why we left good jobs and great friends in search of unknown shores. The French sailboat anchored in front of us in Kauehi City (a village of 200 people and 2 roads) has been here for over a year. I can see exactly why, and would probably do the same if French Polynesia wasn’t strict about stowaways in their gorgeous, coveted country. If you’re not a citizen of the E.U., the government only allows you to spend 90 days in French Polynesia.

Unless Rob or I suddenly fall in love with a Tuamotuan or a Tahitian who wants to marry one (or both?) of us, we only have until the end of August to indulge our love affair with these spectacular coral atolls. Which means it’s time to stop writing and dive overboard to caress the psychedelic clams and majestic mantas again.

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Sailing, Traveling

Check out our new digs.

We have a new address here in French Polynesia. Instead of telling people to find us “on the light green ketch called Llyr,” we now give directions to the “dark blue sloop named Kayanos.”

Last night we schlepped our shit over to Ben and Sarah’s 42-foot sailboat. Somehow our belongings managed to undergo mitosis aboard Llyr and doubled in size. We transported one backpack each to one pack + 3 bags + 2 sacks of fruit each via dinghy in the wet, dark Marquesan night. Good thing we only went about 200 yards.

Why move, you ask? Because transitions are part of our adventure. Because Llyr is on a tight schedule for getting to Tahiti and we’d like to spend as long as possible exploring the underwater world in the Tuamotus, a series of coral atoll islands that circle world-class lagoons. Because Ben and Sarah offered us space, and we thought it’d be fun to go with folks younger than us.

Rob and I learned a ton about electronics, provisioning, and how to care for steel boats during our time aboard Llyr. We had a blast with the Steele-McCutchen clan, and look forward to seeing them in many bays and ports along the way.

How’d we find our new digs? By chatting with folks in the small town of Taiohae and “knocking on hatches” as we scooted around the bay in a dinghy. In this case, we made friends with John and Sue aboard Wizard, who pointed us toward Kayanos. It’s a fairly small community of sailboats hopping Pacific islands, and we’ve already made friends with boats we keep seeing in different ports.

Ben and Sarah are both in their mid-20s, and grew up outside of Anchorage, Alaska. Ben bought Kayanos with his buddy in San Diego, and spent a year fixing her up in preparation for the voyage across the Pacific. He’s a climber and a surfer and an excellent sailor. Kayanos is a 1970s racing boat, about as opposite a vessel from Llyr as you can get. Instead of radar, roller furlers and SSB, we have hanked-on sails, a solar panel and paper charts. She speeds along at 7-8 knots easily, and rarely requires a motor.

We’re looking forward to learning more about Kayanos and her crew for the next few weeks. The plan: head to the northeast corner of Nuku Hiva to check out the secluded Anaho Bay, and then set off Monday or Tuesday for the ~4 day passage to the Tuamotu archipelago. We hope to visit 3-4 atolls in the Tuamotus over the following 2 weeks, where we’ll snorkel and dive with sharks, rays, and a huge diversity of fish. It’s gonna be awesome.