Touchdown in Rangiroa.

At the break of dawn on June 8th, we entered the Tiputa Pass into Rangiroa, affectionately known as “Rangí” by the French. It was European Election Day for the French Polynesians, meaning that all alcohol sales were banned for the day. So, now that there were finally several “magasins” available for us to go shopping, we couldn’t replenish our fridge with a Hinano six-pack of “bière blanche” that Saturday. A good thing we like “l’eau de coco fraîche” as much as a Hinano. 

Also, instead of being one of the few boats anchored in splendid isolation, we suddenly found ourselves surrounded by yachties and bustling activity. Rangí is a tourist hub where the “Paul Gaugin Luxury Cruise” and the “Aranui “ – a supply ship that also takes passengers on board – drop passengers for a quick snorkel around and a taste of unique coral wine. Indeed, Rangí boasts a regular vineyard that grows and processes the Carignan grape into a classic and premium cuvée respectively called “Blanc de Coral” and “Clos du Récif.” This Carignan grape holds a special place in My Captain’s heart. As a 12-year-old schoolboy needing to improve his French, he was sent all by himself to a veritable Carignan wine Château in Bordeaux one long, hot summer at the end of the sixties. As a result, both his wine-tasting and French-speaking skills are top-notch. We haven’t had the chance yet to take a sip of that Poly wine.

That same “terroir” also grows sugarcane, of which the fermented juice is shipped to Tahiti to be distilled into an organic white rum, called “Mana’o”. And all this time hanging around in the Tuamotus, we were under the false impression that coral soil can’t yield anything but coconuts. Just as we planned to check it all out, our Yamaha outboard on the dinghy refused to shift gears and decided to only motor in reverse. At first, My Captain was reluctant to do the repair himself because he feared an oil spill in the lagoon. But since the mechanics were even more reluctant to help us out, My Captain figured it out after all: the culprit was a loosened bolt that connects the gear box to the propeller. No oil was spilt whatsoever.

So, rather than watching the ships roll in from the pass, we crossed to the opposite side of the lagoon to a place called Motu Faama in search of South Sea solitude. There, we anchored and planned the weeks and months ahead in complete tranquility. Once again, we had the place mostly to ourselves—a perfect spot to bide our time until our son arrives for his one-month Polynesian escape. (We have been acting as his devoted travel agents for quite some years by now.)

In between the Googling, planning, and booking ahead for a six month cyclone season which starts in November, beach walks took us to strange reef formations where eerie rope-like creatures in salty pools were fanning food towards their mouths with feather-like tentacles. All the while, in the background, we could hear the consistent roar of the ocean with waves relentlessly crashing against the coral barrier. It felt like being safe from the elements on an alien planet, while those very elements were trying their utmost to break down the door.

We are now happy to be back in the village, anchored in front of the fancy Kia Ora resort and eager for tomorrow. That’s when at noon, our heavily jet lagged son will be flying in with all of his camera gear and with a serious vitamin D deficit. Polynesia will take care of the latter in no time.