We relax over breakfast, and set sail late for the short trip to Tahaa. ( These repeated vowels are only partly explained by the fact that the Polynesian alphabet has only 13 letters. There seems to be a delight in singong, e.g., the repeated vowels in Tahiti, ukelele, the repetitions in Bora Bora (pronounced pora pora), nana (goodbye) maoruru(thank you).
After a long, late lunch we motor by dinghy out toward the edge of the reef, through treacherous shallows. There are small shoals of fish, brightly colored but practically infinitesimal in size. They are royal purple and gold. The boys wander further and further toward where the waves are breaking on the edge of the reef in the waning light. Tim notices that visibility is declining, the coral is harder to see and navigate. (c.f. one week later when the situation recurs in Bora Bora but with a bigger keel at stake. Was this meant to be a lesson ?) We thread through the beds and grate the keel several times, which is understandable since we are well overweight with 7 bodies fully geared, and return in approaching darkness to the Maya, despite her name a reassuring beacon of stability and rationality in the ineffable life of the lagoon.
Marc cooks a lamb couscous with lots of hot harissa sauce. Before eating however we inaugurate the ritual tribute to Whitman and libation to Poseidon. Dinner is yummy and soon disappears. The boys- lightlovers, though denizens of the spiritual dark - retire early to the salon with their CD players and headphones.They bob in silence while the women rattle dishes and prattle and the men sit in shadowy soft nearsilence by the flickering candlelight. Someone usually lolls in the forward netting and pays homage to the stars until the nightly sprinkles begin.
