A visa we don’t need for a country we weren’t planning to visit. Half an hour before we were due to weigh anchor, a police siren started wailing from shore. — When are you leaving? — In half an hour, we said. — Well then, everyone ashore, please: there are still a few formalities. — What for? the captain asked. — Weeell, without them you won’t be allowed into... Where is it you’re sailing to again? ... And suddenly the evening was no longer languid.
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We really don’t feel like launching the dinghy again and barging through that pass, where the surf is already good enough for surfers. And how would we get back in the dark? How would we even land on shore? The gendarmes are being a bit slow on the uptake, so we suggest finding some fisherman. Earlier that day, one man had offered: you could capsize in the pass, he said, let me take you. The lads put their heads together and announced that a fisherman would be along shortly. Fifteen minutes later, a metal flat-bottomed boat pushed off from the beach and picked up the first pair of us. As we went through the pass, it became clear why we were going in pairs. The boat’s bottom was scraping over the reefs. Bonjour! — the gendarmes are smiling from shore. Nothing suggests trouble, not even when they seat us in their car. Welcome to the island tour! jokes Steven, a Frenchman who regularly flies here from Paris to perform his civic duty. And off we go to the station to fill in something or other. Do you get many yachts here? we ask. Well, two Germans sailed in two years ago, Steven replies.
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In short, it turned out the police keep a vigilant eye on things, but have no idea what to do with yachts. As required, the lads reported to their boss that a yacht had arrived in transit. The local boss took the word transit literally: do they have transit visas? And he started phoning Tahiti. Ho-ho-ho! head office rejoiced. — Hurry up and issue them transit visas before they weigh anchor. And, amid jokes, we were escorted to the station. About a kilometre through gardens and taro fields, and there stood a pleasant little house behind iron gates. — What would you like to drink? And the gendarmes handed each of us a can of cold fizzy drink. The local Polynesian boss gave us no chance to say hello. He was far too busy: giving orders to his subordinates, phoning Tahiti, then back to his subordinates, jabbing at buttons as he copied down our details. In the hour and a half we spent together in a space of 20 square metres, he never once looked at the cap, the young sailor, or Nastya and me. He communicated exclusively through Steven, whose English, frankly, is not fluent. Judging by the boss’s face, it was very important to him to make the problem fit the answer. Stopping by for provisions — that means transit. And what sort of visa goes with that word? That’s right, a transit visa. For 15 days, at 25 euros per head. So the opportunity to spend 8 hours anchored off the island cost us 100 euros. We’re not authorised to accept money, they said, so bring cash to the post office tomorrow and they’ll transfer it wherever it needs to go. Then we’ll wait for a reply from Tahiti; it should arrive by evening. Discussions about maritime law and the right to anchor out of necessity led to no outcome other than financial reckoning. We grew glum. That fizzy drink had turned out rather expensive. — Er... and if we don’t have any money and refuse to pay, what then? the captain tried another tack. — Well, an international manhunt and illegal status in any country in the world, kind-hearted Steven replied, embarrassed. If it were up to me alone, I’d have told you ages ago: sail wherever you like, friends! And why did I ever tell the big boss that a yacht had arrived here? lamented Ryan, the second young gendarme.
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We returned to shore after dark. It was impossible to get out through the reefs from our anchorage, so they brought us to another landing place, 4 km from where we needed to be. A fisherman named Tifa was dragged away from his family dinner, and he came racing 4 km one way, then went the other way with us. Plopping down backside-first into fish guts smeared over the bench, we sped off towards the yacht. Tifa, our leader, shines his headlamp ahead and to either side, and in its beam the surf dances over the reefs. It feels as though we are flying much too close to shore, but Tifa knows better. ... An adventure like this is worth paying 100 euros for! the captain reads my mind. Fine. And tomorrow we’ve arranged to go to the beach with Steven. He’s off duty, and while we wait for the Tahitian authorities’ reply, he is inviting us to a place where the Ura lives, a red-and-green endemic bird found only on Rimatara.
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We bounced our way home at around 9 in the evening. We set the alarm so that, since things had turned out this way, we could all pile into Tifa’s boat together at 8 in the morning. But in the morning Steven forgot about the Ura bird and, for some reason, did not call for us at either eight or nine. The wind veered and began blowing at full force straight in from the ocean. The yacht is bucking as she backs stern-first towards the reefs, and still there is no sign of the people who are supposed to clear us out. We re-anchored farther offshore and continued waiting. At ten, a police car appeared with some other gendarmes. They were surprised to hear that the cap was waiting for transport ashore. And 15 minutes later, the same indefatigable Tifa came racing over. At the post office, Andrey sent a couple of actual paper letters to his mother and friends in the Moscow region, caught his last internet connection of the year at the station, and then off they went again to drag Tifa away from his table. Just a moment, says the fisherman — wait! Dad asked me to... Then Tifa’s father appeared with three bunches of bananas, avocados, pamplemousses, papaya and coconuts. This is a gift for you, he said. Steven bought a kilo of ice cream for the whole crew, and Tifa took the cap and all the stuff back to the yacht.
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Loading food aboard the yacht requires juggling skills, just as it did on Pitcairn Island. Having dealt with yet another hundred kilos of provisions, we hove up the chain and headed out into the ocean, due south towards the 37th parallel. Twelve papayas, each the size of an Uzbek torpedo melon, attacked us with their slippery mass; we’ve been making jam for two days now. Another half of them are still waiting their turn. Tomorrow all 3 bunches of dessert bananas and one bunch of cooking bananas will ripen in chorus (about 60 kilos in total). Meanwhile, the long-awaited 20 knots of wind on the nose has kicked up waves nearly 4 metres high. And they are forcing us to draw a Z-shaped line across the chart; we are already on our eighth zigzag. In 24 hours we covered 98 miles, made good 48 of them, yet closed the distance to our destination by only 15 miles. There’s a puzzle for you. According to the forecast, tomorrow we’ll have 25 knots on the nose. Why can’t we sit tight in the trade winds like normal people? ... Our current coordinates: 150 degrees 48 minutes west longitude and 27 degrees south latitude.