Sailing with Impunity Read online

  After showering, we climbed back on a bus and explored the small village of Tula where many Samoans live with extended family. Some communities were more welcoming than others. Several beaches were private, or rather we’d have to go through private property to get to them, so we considered them off-limits.

  Although exploring was fun, we also relished hanging out at home on our boat. Bruce maintained the engine, changed oil, sanded and revarnished brightwork, and attended to other repairs. We no longer had to run the engine to keep the batteries charged as the solar panels worked sufficiently for our electrical needs. Again, we were thankful not to have refrigeration. Those who did had to run their engine even at anchor in order to keep their refrigerators operating. It not only took fuel, but running the engines made their boats much hotter.

  I managed the house-keeping, cooking, and laundry. We both wrote letters and enjoyed reading each other’s letters home. And, of course, we read a lot of books, regularly trading reading material with other boaters.

  Bruce noticed a growth of long-necked barnacles and other marine critters on the bottom of our dinghy. He had painted anti-fouling hull paint on Impunity just before we left, but not the dinghy. He took the little boat ashore and cleaned its bottom.

  Although there was a laundry nearby, with fresh water in plentiful supply, I still washed most of our clothes and the galley towels by hand and hung them out to dry. If it rained, they got an extra rinse. Every couple of weeks I washed sheets and bath towels at the laundry which was within walking distance of the harbor.

  When waiting for my laundry, I often saw a fellow there who seemed to be quite popular among the local people. By his actions and mannerisms I realized he was probably a fa’afafine, a role widely accepted among the Samoan people. Fa'afafine' translates “in the manner of a woman.” To be a fa’afafine one has to be “Samoan, born a man, but feel like a woman.” Traditionally, fa’afafine follows the training of women’s daily work. They are usually the caretakers of their elderly parents since brothers and sisters are married with families of their own. Although fa’afafine may have sexual relations with other men or with women, they rarely form sexual relationships with other fa’afafines. Samoans do not label fa’afafine as being “gay” or “homosexual,” but rather consider them as a third gender, a gender well accepted in the Samoan culture. Interestingly, there appeared to be no equivalent for a woman.

  Another boat arrived weeks after we did. We had met Kathy and Bill in Bora Bora and it had taken them all that time to get to Samoa due to incredibly bad luck. They had blown out two sails, had engine trouble and gone aground in the Cook Islands. Whether bad judgment, faulty planning, or bad luck, we were always amazed at some cruisers’ lack of preparedness.

  Samoan air temperatures ranged from 85- to 90-degrees with high humidity. I can’t imagine life there without our awning, though many boats in the harbor didn’t have them. Besides the shade, the awning allowed us to collect rain water nearly every day, which kept our water tank and jugs full of fresh, pure rain water. When it rained, it poured. Sometimes we’d get as much rain in one hour as Seattle would in a month. But after a rain, it would clear up and turn hot and sunny.

  Using a tarp, Bruce rigged a wind funnel for the forward hatch, right above our bed. With the funnel over the open hatch we still had the benefit of fresh air breezes, but avoided the rain.

  Even with all the rain, plentiful sunshine kept our batteries charged by solar panels. We were glad we had solar rather than a wind generator. For one thing, finding a safe place for a wind generator and its sharp blades is often a challenge. Then, too, if the wind is too strong, a wind generator has to be shut down or it can self-destruct.

  After a hard rain, Bruce usually climbed into the dinghy and bailed out four to six inches of rain water. One very wet evening, after watching a movie on VCR with Vern and Connie aboard Tainui, we had to bail our dinghy before we could return to Impunity. As we made our way home, we stopped at several boats that had hard dinghies—inflatables would not sink—and suggested to them they bail their dinghies. Most were so full they would have sunk by morning.

  About once a week, someone announced on the VHF radio that a local woman was on the dock with fresh, home-made bean burritos for sale. We often bought two or three from her and then reheated them for dinner, usually topping them with grated cheese. It was a treat not having to cook.

  Someone on the net announced that a Tongan woman had offered to teach yachties traditional Tongan weaving and that the classes would be held in a nearby building. Several of us decided to go and I was so glad I did. Fanny, the teacher, furnished our first materials and told us where we could get more on our own. I had never woven before, but found I really loved it. Tongan weaving involves using palm veins as the bundle and strips of dried pandanus leaves for the wrap.

  We students made a boat-shape tray for our first effort. After that we were on our own but with the benefit of Fanny’s guidance. At the public market, I bought a bundle of palm veins, which Samoans use for brooms. They’re about three feet long. Pandanus leaves are sometimes available at the market, but I couldn’t find any the day I looked, so asked a vendor about them. She said she’d bring a supply for me the next day. They come rolled in an18-inch circle. The wide leaves then had to be cut into narrow strips to wrap around the bundle. I happily sat under our awning and wove to my heart’s content, making trays and eventually bowls. I loved the creativity of weaving and seeing something take shape from my own handiwork.

  Sometimes several of the yachties met at a water-front park for a meal. One afternoon I made a potato salad for a potluck birthday celebration dinner. It’s amazing how much food is generated at a potluck.

  It was always fun to learn more about the sailors. Most of them planned to take five years or more for their trips. Ours was the shortest trip of anyone there.

  Mary learned Tongan-style basket weaving

  Most of them were retired, or were working along the way. Up to that time, we were comparable to the others in distance traveled so far, about 7,000 miles.

  A locally famous hotel, Rainmaker, occasionally had interesting programs. One evening we attended a show that featured four Polynesian dancing styles: Hawaiian, Tahitian, Marquesan, and Samoan. Samoan dancing was the most aggressive, particularly the fire knife dancers. At one time, the hotel had been managed by Pan American World Airways but now was run by Samoans. We found it quite run down and learned several of the guest rooms were unusable. The meals, however, were good. After dinner I went into the bathroom which was carpeted, but wet. Water squished over the top of my sandals. Eeew!

  Thanksgiving at the Yacht Club was a huge success. The group pitched in and bought two turkeys and two couples volunteered to roast them, one at the club, the other at their friend’s house nearby. Together with Vern and Connie, we made the stuffing and I volunteered to make gravy. Otherwise, it was potluck. Thirty adults and six children attended. What fun! We loved celebrating our traditional patriotic and family holiday with fellow Americans. Getting together with other expatriates helped stave off homesickness. Our families at home were very much on our minds.

  Our thoughts turned to Christmas. At the little shopping center near the harbor, a small variety store carried tee-shirts. We bought a Samoan-theme shirt for every member of the family—kids and grandkids—ten in all.

  Our friends Vern and Connie planned to go home to Oregon for two months during the Christmas season. Even though they were circumnavigating, it was their plan always to return home for Christmas.

  We took one last excursion with them before they left. Catching a family-owned bus, we visited a shop someone had told us about that sold hand-made crafts. We bought a lovely little wooden bowl for Bruce’s parents for Christmas. We climbed on another bus and visited Pago Pago International Airport, where we had lunch. The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) has a weather station at the airport and we watched as they launched a weather balloon.

  W
e said our goodbyes to Vern and Connie. Two months was a long time to be gone. I didn’t envy them the trip, but it was important to them.

  Jack and Donna from Zingara were celebrating their wedding anniversary and they invited us to join them for dinner. Jack had retired from the Santa Barbara school district in California and Donna was a nurse. We liked being with them and over time enjoyed many meals aboard each others’ boats.

  Bruce caught the flu bug that had been going around. Other than mild seasickness, it was the first time on this trip either of us had been ill, and he was hit hard with six days of a rising temperature, as high as 102 degrees. Poor, miserable fellow. In that heat and humidity, having a fever was tough. Luckily, I didn’t catch it.

  As Christmas approached, the Samoans definitely got into the spirit with decorated stores and Christmas music on the radio. Samoans don’t hesitate being blatantly Christian, and separation of church and state wasn’t practiced at that time. Local business people, government employees and bankers were expected to take time off from work to rehearse for these Christmas programs. For two weeks before Christmas, wonderful outdoor concerts were held every night at a large park, with various church, school and business company choirs. We attended a program one night and were so impressed. Four different groups sang traditional Christmas carols and other pieces we didn’t recognize. Between choral performances scripture was read, mostly the Christmas story from the four gospels. And the drumming! We could have listened to the drumming all night. The concert ended with Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus” from the “Messiah.” The music resonated with me for hours afterward.

  A week before Christmas we extended an invitation to everyone on boats in the harbor to join us on Impunity for Christmas Eve day, from 1:00 to 4:00. I announced the invitation during the morning net. Typical of our group and our careful schedule planning, one of the gals responded, “That’s going to be a busy day. Why don’t we make it a couple days before that?”

  I laughed. “This isn’t really a discussion, Donna, it’s an invitation.” She laughed, too. “Oh, right. I get so used to discussing everything.”

  Bruce and I got the boat ship-shape, I baked cookies, and we lined up plenty of snacks. Interestingly, it was the first time we had bought ice since we’d been in the South Pacific. Although some people bought ice daily, we were used to drinking beverages either hot or “room” temperature. But we bought plenty of beer and soda and had bottles and cans chilling in a tub of ice.

  Throughout the afternoon people rowed or motored in their dinghies and tied up to Impunity. It was amazing having that many people aboard. Our boat sank almost to its scuppers with the extra load. It was a wonderful party and really inspired the Christmas spirit.

  Like Thanksgiving, our group had the Yacht Club to ourselves for Christmas Day. We chipped in for a couple of hams, and otherwise brought pot luck. After dinner we played a gift exchange game where the first person opens a wrapped gift. The next person can either take a gift that’s been opened or choose a wrapped gift. Most of the yachties attended and even invited shore friends. Our Christmas away from home was delightful though we felt occasional twinges of homesickness. We both missed our families.

  Postal service was blessedly regular and it was a short distance to walk to mail or pick up letters. The post office looked much like those in the States, except chickens ran around the parking lot. The cost of postage was also the same as the States, since it is an American Territory. We received a stream of Christmas cards and they became part of our boat’s Christmas decorations.

  Through a bridge contact, we were invited to a private home to watch the Rose Bowl game on New Year’s Day. Two other couples from the harbor were also invited, one of them the lady with whom I rode to bridge. We’re not enthusiastic TV sports watchers, but it was fun visiting with the other guests and spending time in their private back yard. The hosts served a lovely brunch. Bruce and I loaded our plates, slid open the screen door, carefully closing it behind us, and went out to the patio to sit at a picnic table. One of the other yachtie couples joined us.

  The third harbor couple was still loading their plates inside. I didn’t know them well, but I knew he was a cartoonist and many of the boaters in the harbor had hired him to draw their boat in that exaggerated way political cartoonists do. The woman came out first, sliding the screen door shut behind her. Her husband followed, but to our amazement, he simply walked through the screen, knocking out the entire frame and screen and stepping on it, never acting as though anything strange had just happened, only stepping a little higher than he otherwise might have. I think he may have had a few too many.

  The man’s wife scowled at him and said, “How could you do that?” Her husband looked puzzled and shrugged.

  One of the other fellows said, “I know! You’re a cartoonist, and that kind of thing happens all the time in cartoons.” The cartoonist shrugged again. It was actually rather strange.

  About once a week we planned a hike, either on the surrounding hills or elsewhere on the island, often sharing our experiences on the net. Soon people were asking if they could join us. One yachtie whose husband worked ashore said to us, “You folks do things. I can’t stand sitting at the yacht club all the time like so many of these people do.”

  Our hikes usually were early morning affairs; it was too hot in the afternoons for that kind of exertion. One day, six of us hiked seven miles on a ridge across the bay from the harbor. We had packed our lunch and munched at the crest overlooking the sea.

  On the radio, we heard about an agriculture fair being held at the American Samoa Community College, their seventh annual. Bruce and I took a bus to the event. People there seemed pleased that we’d come. We viewed displays of land erosion and its effect on the island. We read fishing industry information, and admired displays of fruits, vegetables and even livestock. Lunch was $3 a plate, a chicken/vegetable noodle dish and a pineapple custard turnover.

  Marge Landrigan, my bridge contact and friend of my stepsister, invited us to their home for the weekend. It would be our first night spent ashore since this journey began. Their home was on family land, their portion being six of 33 acres. Marge was half-Samoan, and although she and Keith met and married in California, they had lived in Samoa for twenty years. Their large and airy home was filled with interesting South Pacific relics, carvings, woven trays and bowls, and exquisitely designed tapa cloth wall hangings. Two other couples were invited for dinner, making a party of eight. We feasted on barbecued fish, a chicken dish, rice, veggies and a great cake for dessert. Sleeping in the king-size bed on solid ground was a treat though it felt odd after so many nights being rocked to sleep.

  The next day Marge took us to visit her 85 year-old mother, Mary Pritchard, a well-known Samoan artist. Her artistic specialty was tapa-cloth and her house was filled with it. The house, a true fale, was open air with a grass-thatched roof and ceiling to floor tapa cloths.

  When Keith and Marge dropped us off at the harbor Sunday night, we felt sated and cared for, grateful for good friends who would share their island life with us.

  George and Ellen invited us for dessert aboard their boat Winddancer. George, a doctor, had signed a one-year contract with the local hospital, as did Ellen, a hearing specialist. They planned to work their way around the world. George had built their 40-foot boat over an eight-year period.

  Occasionally people asked Bruce’s advice on some boat malfunction. When asked, he went aboard their boats and made suggestions. In a couple of instances, he repaired electronic equipment. He would not take payment, but we did accept a few dinner invitations at local restaurants.

  One early morning, I awoke to Bruce, agitated and trying to say something that just didn’t make sense. I figured he’d had a bad dream. “It’s all right, Bruce, you’ve had a dream.”

  “No! Someone’s on board!”

  He jumped out of bed, stark naked, and ran up on deck. I followed along right behind. Sure enough, a young Samoan, maybe in his late
teens, was on our deck. He took one look at Bruce and dove overboard, quickly untying his canoe from our boarding ladder and swimming away, pushing his boat ahead of him as he went. He’d made a pile of items he’d planned to take—pliers, a rope splicing tool, two wrenches, and a knife. Apparently, he’d reached down to the navigation station from the open aft hatch and gathered what he could.

  Later Bruce told me he awoke to an unfamiliar noise, a soft little creak. Lying on his back, when he opened his eyes, he saw a dark facing looking down at him through the forward hatch above our bed.

  At daylight Bruce went ashore and reported the illegal boarding to the police, but they seemed unconcerned. On that morning’s net, Bruce warned the other boaters about it so they could take precautions.

  One day Bruce and I took a bus as close as it would get to the Advanced Global Atmospheric Gases Experiment (AGAGE) situated on the northeastern tip of the island, on a ridge overlooking the South Pacific ocean. We hiked in the last mile or so, past the “No vehicles beyond this point” sign. The area has several concrete buildings, but they didn’t look as though they were geared for guests. The observatory was established in 1974 with the purpose of testing the air for purity. Because of the trade wind patterns, the air that reaches here at Cape Matatula has traveled across the ocean thousands of uninterrupted miles and is pristine. It seemed odd to me that on the same island the purist air was found and also some of the worst that we’d encountered, in Pago Pago Harbor.

  Bruce rarely missed listening to two or three daily weather reports. On January 27, he reported to the morning net the beginnings of a tropical depression developing within the Intertropical Convergence Zone over the Tuvaluan Islands. No one seemed alarmed; no one on shore even talked about it.