Sailing with Impunity Read online

  In the afternoons, Bruce rigged up a bit of shade with a tarp and we continued with our “sea reading.” James Herriot’s stories came alive with Bruce’s rich voice, especially when he used his great British Highland accent. All Things Bright and Beautiful made us long to live in a rural area when we returned home. We’d pretty much had it with city traffic and noise. Getting a dog was also high on our to-do list. We’d read Diet for a Small Planet and learned how to manage gardens and stock in a relatively small space. We loved what we were doing right then, but also enjoyed planning for the future.

  Pilot fish leading the way to Samoa

  The pleasant ten-day passage flew by. Approaching American Samoa in the dark, we gave ourselves plenty of sea-room and slowly sailed back and forth 10 miles offshore until around 3:30, arriving at the harbor entrance just at sunrise.

  Pago Pago, pronounced Pong-oh Pong-oh, Harbor is a large natural inlet in the central south coast of Tutuila Island. The harbor is shaped like a boot, accommodating private yachts in the “toe” of the boot.

  Looking up, Pago Pago is surrounded by steep hills, covered by lush green tropical growth. But looking at our immediate surroundings, my first reaction to Pago Pago was horror: horror at the filth, at the noise, at the smell. After all the beauty we’d seen, Pago Pago was probably the worst harbor I’d ever seen. And to think we were going to be here five months!

  The island’s diesel electrical generators were right next to the harbor and the roar was deafening. I couldn’t imagine ever getting used to that noise. I didn’t know what the decibel level was, but it couldn’t have been good for our ears. It was hard to carry on a normal conversation on deck.

  Both Starkist and Chicken-of-the-Sea tuna processing plants were also located at the harbor, their boats tied up to the company docks, and the smells emitting from the plants were awful. Although these were American plants, most of the boats supplying them were Korean or Taiwanese. The harbor water, a dirty brown, was filthy with plastic bags, garbage, and oil slicks. I even saw a dead pig float by. It was rumored that the processing plants pumped their waste right into the bay. My mood was as bleak as my surroundings.

  We arrived on a Saturday, but couldn’t clear customs until Monday. We were instructed to find a temporary spot, and then come back Monday to officially check in.

  There didn’t seem to be any restrictions against our doing a little touring, even though we hadn’t cleared customs. I felt desperate to get out of the harbor. Every one of my senses revolted from the surrounding sight, smell and noise. We rowed ashore, rigorously avoiding any splashes from the contaminated water, and walked a short distance into Pago Pago to catch a bus. While we waited for a bus, we passed the time people-watching.

  Samoans wear colorful clothes and both men and women wear wrap-around skirts, called lava-lavas. The men wear regular shirts or tank tops; women wear blouses or tee-shirts. Surprisingly, even in skirts, the men look very muscular and masculine. The Police Department was in the same building as the post office and waiting for our bus we noticed the Chief of Police standing outside, wearing a uniform shirt and lava-lava, his badge on a pocket and a holstered gun at his waist. He was not a man you’d take lightly.

  The small vibrantly-colored buses were family owned and operated. Music blasted from a loudspeaker. We rocked along in the bus, nodding along to the loud music and watching our cheerful fellow passengers. Before long, we were in lovely surroundings. Lush countryside and nice, though modest, homes abounded. Many of the houses had raised graves in their front yards with ornate markers. In Samoa, family members are most commonly buried at home.

  When the roads wound around to ocean beaches, the view was pristine, the beaches spotless and free of litter. What a contrast to Pago Pago Harbor!

  In 1872 the high chiefs of the tribes of the eastern Samoan islands gave America permission to establish a naval base in exchange for military protection. After the 1899 Treaty of Berlin, the eastern Samoan Islands became territories of the United States and later became known as American Samoa. Today, though still considered an American territory, American Samoa is self-governed under a constitution that became effective on July 1,1967.

  There are seven islands in American Samoa. The main island, Tutuila, is 20 miles long and up to five miles wide, and is home to the majority of its people. We traveled for several miles without seeing anything except hills and lush growth, then here and there we passed through small villages. That year, the population of American Samoa was 37,000.

  My stepsister and her husband had lived in American Samoa for a few years, he as a transportation advisor. They lived in nice housing and had loved Samoa. At my suggestion, Bruce asked the Harbor Master if he knew Dick and MaryLou Berg. It was as though Bruce had mentioned the Harbor Master’s long-lost brother. Bruce told him our relationship and suddenly we had a good friend. Interestingly, the Harbor Master, a Samoan, was married to a woman from the States and they had lived in Snohomish, Washington, a small community not far from Seattle. Again, small world.

  Because of the hurricane potential, it is required, or at least strongly suggested, that boats be secured to something more solid than normal boat anchors. Through the Harbor Master, Bruce made arrangements to have a commercial diver connect us to a substantial anchor, one already permanently placed in the water. We were assigned our mooring for the hurricane season, November 1 to April 1. We paid $200 for the season, which to us seemed a fair price to be in a safe harbor. Once assigned a season’s mooring, boats are expected to stay in place, which meant any sightseeing would be by foot or by bus.

  The commercial diver, a fellow from Vancouver, B.C. hooked us up to a 1,200-pound ship’s anchor with heavy-duty chain, but as the day wore on, we could see that with strong winds or tides, we might swing into a neighboring yacht, a 54-foot schooner. Although the people were gracious about it, the situation would be a constant worry. Bruce talked to the Harbor Master who said he’d send the diver back out.

  In the meantime, our boats came dangerously close to each other, so the neighboring owners, Bea and Walt, suggested we tie our boat to theirs, the Galatea, which we did. Even though we appreciated Bea and Walt’s generous offer, it was far from ideal. Being tied to another boat offered a definite lack of privacy. With the roar of the generator, we couldn’t comfortably converse with them on deck.

  The Harbor Master said a diver would be at our boat the next morning. No show. Bruce called the diver via VHF radio. He’d said he’d be there by 11:00. No show. Bruce called again and the diver said he’d be over in 15 minutes. No show. Bruce went back to the Harbor Master and told him our problem. The Harbor Master called the diver and the guy immediately came out and adjusted the chain to keep us a safe distance from the schooner. So, finally, we were set.

  Our position in the bay was about as good as it would get. It was situated pretty close to shore and was as far away as possible from the noisy generators on land. Arriving a little early had given us the advantage of a more ideal spot. Boats were now arriving in a steady stream, one or two a day. Some were anchored directly in front of the generators. I didn’t know how they could stand the noise.

  Impunity was about average in size with the other boats in the harbor, which ranged from 30- to 60-feet long. Most had two people aboard, although there were some families, including one family of nine. The children were either home-schooled or they attended school on the island. Most of the kids who also had attended school in the States found they were far ahead of their Samoan classmates.

  A few boats were permanently anchored and, of course, they had the ideal spots. Those boaters usually worked in American Samoa, either on a permanent or temporary basis. One boater I talked to said they’d sailed into Samoa and would never sail out. The trip had been a nightmare, she said, and, when they were ready to leave, they’d fly home. In the meantime, her husband worked there as an advisor. Another boater worked in a boat supply store, another was a teacher.

  Samoa had a radio station which was
nice for music, local, national and international news. They apparently weren’t well sponsored because they played the same five commercials throughout every day.

  We formed a local VHF radio net with the other yachties and set up an 8:00 a.m. schedule. It was a wonderful way to share news, learn where to purchase things, and make general announcements. Even the old timers, those who permanently lived in the harbor, joined our radio net.

  Clean water was available, but with the frequent rains and our awning, we were able to capture enough to keep our tank and five-gallon jugs full. Many people went ashore daily to fill containers with fresh shore water.

  A few years earlier, yachties had built a freshwater shower on shore and housed it in a wooden shed with no roof. What a delight having a freshwater shower in that hot, sultry climate. Toward the end of the day, we rowed ashore and cooled off with a shower. The water wasn’t heated, but it always felt wonderful. Sometimes there were a couple people ahead of us, but we enjoyed visiting with our neighbors while we waited our turn.

  Vern and Connie, whom we had met in Bora Bora, arrived and we decided to share the cost of a rented car to tour the island. This wasn’t something we could do often, but it was such a worthwhile day. We were able to go places a bus didn’t go. We drove to beautiful little villages, spoke with friendly people, and saw miles of pristine beach. We found a nice beach to swim and snorkel.

  The fale (fah-lay), the traditional Samoan house, is still seen, but many were wiped out in 1964 when hit by a severe cyclone. The government helped replace housing, but would only condone houses made with cement block. Some fales still stand and are used for beach houses, meeting places and ceremonies. A traditional fale is round with a grass-thatched roof held up by wood poles. The floor is either made from coral gravel, or is a raised wooden platform. For privacy or for protection from wind and rain, the sides can be enclosed by lowering shades made from tapa, a cloth made from bark.

  We enjoyed Vern and Connie’s company and had much in common with them. They had lived in Malaysia for a few years where he was Peace Corps assistant director. We had been in The Gambia, West Africa with the Peace Corps. He was now retired after having served for sixteen years as a substance abuse counselor in Oregon. Connie had taught for several years in special education with children who had reading disabilities. Connie and I had many shared interests, including a background in classical music.

  We decided to end our day with dinner at a Chinese restaurant we could see from the harbor. Bruce happened to be driving as the three of us watched for the restaurant. He bypassed it, so turned into a driveway to turn around. Two big Samoan fellows signaled him to stop. One stood in front of the car with his arms crossed, feet wide apart, wearing a lava lava, and the other stood in back of the vehicle taking the same stance.

  Bruce got out of the car to explain we only wanted to turn around, but the fellow wouldn’t talk to him. Bruce got back into the car. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

  It was hot, so we rolled down the windows. A girl, a teenager, sitting on a porch, said to us, “This is prayer time for the village. We call it `sah.’ Wait a few minutes and you can go.”

  Well, fine. That’s all we needed to know. We gladly waited, but resented these fellows and their power trips, not willing to explain their custom to strangers.

  On the 8:00 net the next morning, we shared our experience with the others so that they would be warned about village prayer time. One of the yachties who lived aboard and worked ashore said that when he first arrived in Samoa he was jogging through a village during prayer time and was attacked by two men and held to the ground. “You guys got off easy,” he said.

  Samoans were what I would call fiercely Christian. In any event, we learned not to interfere with prayer time. Each village selects its own prayer time, so you don’t really know when that might be.

  One day we had gone ashore to pick up our mail at the post office and do a little grocery shopping. We got caught in a rainstorm and returned to the boat drenched to the skin. It rained for hours. Suddenly, the harbor was full of even more plastic bags, plastic bottles and just plain garbage. The Samoans often threw their garbage into gullies and when it rained that hard, the garbage was washed into the harbor. It was awful.

  After we’d been in American Samoa a week, a yachtie suggested we have a swapmeet on shore to exchange our unnecessary items. What a great idea. We had all been at sea long enough to know what we needed and what was excess. We had been given two wide-based coffee mugs with non-skid bottoms. They worked great, but didn’t conveniently fit into any of our shelves. They were snapped up immediately. Bruce found an outboard motor for the dinghy at a reasonable price. It would be nice to always not have to row. Besides trading, the event was a great way to meet our neighbors.

  As we introduced ourselves, a couple approached us and we chatted for a bit. They were also from Seattle. She asked which boat was ours.

  “Impunity,” I said and pointed it out to her.

  “Impunity. Impunity. I’ve seen that boat and wondered why anyone would call their boat Impunity. Are you people attorneys? That’s more of a legal term, isn’t it? I can’t imagine calling a boat Impunity.” Her husband took a step backwards.

  I was taken aback. I loved our boat’s name, which means freedom from harm or fear. “What’s your boat’s name?” I asked, wanting to get the topic off our boat before I said something I’d regret.

  “Well,” she hesitated, “Hunky Dory.” Her husband grinned. We changed the subject.

  Although the noise and harbor filth took some getting used to, all in all we felt American Samoa was a good place to wait out the hurricane season.

  Daily Life in Pago Pago

  Log Entry—January 27, 1990: Weather forecasters report the beginnings of a tropical depression developing within the Intertropical Convergence Zone

  Bruce and I fell into a nice routine in American Samoa. We’re early risers, so would usually eat breakfast before the local 8:00 VHF radio net. First on the net’s agenda was any emergency news followed by roll call, then people came up with questions and announcements. Bruce became the “weather monger” and would give weather reports for the surrounding area. The organized net seemed so “American” as we worked together to make our lives in American Samoa easier.

  To talk specifically to another boater, we’d call on the shared frequency, then switch to a side channel. Of course, it wasn’t really private—anyone could listen—but we avoided using the channel set aside for group discussions.

  Forty-one boats anchored in the harbor, most of whom were transients like us. Boaters usually referred to each other by boat names, such as: “Let’s have the Tainuis over for dinner.” We rarely knew anyone’s last name, but often referred to first names and the name of their boat.

  One morning a yachtie couple announced they had foul weather gear for sale. Bruce had torn his jacket on our rough passage off the Oregon coast so we were able to replace it. He didn’t need it in Samoa, but would on our return trip home.

  We began to expand our friendships. My stepsister, MaryLou Berg and her husband Dick had dear friends in Samoa, Marge and Keith Landrigan. Mary Lou had written Marge saying that we would be contacting them.

  Motoring ashore in our dinghy, we called the Landrigans, making a date with Marge for lunch at a restaurant near the harbor. It was wonderful having contact with someone who lived there. Marge asked if I played bridge, and learning I did, invited me to be a substitute in her group. Another yachtie woman who had lived with her husband aboard for several years, played regularly and had a car, so I would ride with her.

  I had the great pleasure of playing bridge the following Wednesday. There were two tables, eight ladies, and it was fun hearing the “inside scoop” of living in American Samoa. Some were born in Samoa, some the States, and one player was from New Zealand. During our five months there I substituted a dozen or so times.

  I found I needed to expand my wardrobe. The Samoans didn’t h
ave much leg showing, so I needed knee-length shorts. It was hard to believe, but it was too hot for tank-tops in that climate. Luckily, loose-fitting blouses were comfortable, inexpensive and readily available.

  Thanksgiving was around the corner, and the yachties made arrangements to have our celebration at the Yacht Club, which would otherwise be closed for the holiday. The Yacht Club wasn’t a fancy building; in fact, it was left over from World War II when it had been used for officers’ quarters. But it was spacious, breezy and made a great place to gather.

  Many of the boaters in the harbor spent a great deal of time at the Yacht Club, but we normally went only on Friday nights when they served a choice of hamburgers or fishburgers. It was fun talking to the other yachties and also to other boaters who were permanent residents of American Samoa, mostly people originally from the States.

  Since we had found so much to do, our immediate surroundings became more tolerable. We grew accustomed to the loud generators and learned to be careful to avoid the disgusting harbor water. Having personal contacts made a huge difference in our lives. We were making good friends and that went a long way toward contentment.

  Vern and Connie invited us to join them for another bus excursion. We rocked along to loud Samoan music in the mini-bus. We neared a beach, climbed off the bus and wandered around until we came upon “Tisa’s Beach.” We met Tisa, a lovely Samoan, who served us beer at her little outdoor bar. She invited us to swim on her beach, and offered the use of her shower room to change our clothes. The unique shower had three walls and an open-air side with a sweeping view of the sea.

  Swimming at Tisa’s Beach with its strong current was a bit dicey. Connie and I stayed close to shore, but Bruce and Vern went farther out. They later told us they had to really fight the current to get back. Snorkeling wasn’t as good as in other parts of the South Pacific. The colorful fish and coral weren’t as plentiful, but it felt good to swim in the clear open sea.