It is hard to believe that someone can have a busy and stressful week in Tahiti, but here we are. As we raced to get the boat ready for the long passage to Tonga, where we are scheduled to meet my family later this month, we are reminded how difficult it is on a sailboat to adhere to a strict schedule. With our deadline to reach Tonga fast approaching and still about 1,500 miles between us and our destination, the pressure to complete important projects and get under way is quickly mounting. The two major projects on the boat, rebedding the windlass and repairing the autopilot shelf, were completed on Wednesday morning after several days of borrowing other cruisers tools and scrambling around town to overcome unexpected obstacles. The end result of each project is far from a professional repair, but I am hopeful that the installations will be adequate. An assortment of other repairs were also completed and work on the exterior teak continues. Despite our best efforts, the boat is not as prepared for the upcoming voyage as we would like and we expect some breakdowns during the trip. As we have observed in the past, the ocean teaches by taking away and during this passage I might learn a lot. Tahiti continues to fascinate me. Sailors converge from all corners of the world to this yachting utopia. The result is a strange and mixed crowd. Docked at the marina are the nicest megayachts this side of Nantucket while in the anchorage are an assortment of dilapidated bathtubs that defy all known laws of physics just by staying afloat. While the plutocrats sit in their palatial cockpits smugly sipping wine and growing flabby, the chiseled, penniless voyagers slither up to the dock covered with grease and resembling something between a poet that was too focused to sleep for two weeks and a crack addict that was too strung out to eat for two weeks. The majority of cruisers lie somewhere between these two starkly different personalities. Most yachties are either pleasant retired couples spending their golden years afloat or a budget sailor like me who was too dumb to buy a plane ticket. One commonality that I have noticed among the rich and poor, men and women, old and young, sailors and landlubbers, whites, blacks, and Polynesians in every place that I have visited over the past two years is a universal love for the music of Bob Marley. I have yet to see either a black person or a Rastafarian in French Polynesia, but I have heard the same four or five innocuous Marley songs repeatedly. These are the same songs I heard in the Caribbean, in South America, and in the Galapagos. No one even seems to listen to any other reggae. This worldwide popularity honestly baffles me. Am I the only one who thinks that Bob Marley sucks? One final observation on the good people of Tahiti is that they are all litterbugs – every single one of them. Throughout my three weeks here, I have continually seen people unabashedly throwing garbage out of windows, dropping trash on the streets, or just leaving leftover items where they lay for someone else to clean them up. Perhaps this is the result of the French influence since French sailors are notoriously bad about polluting. Oddly, considering the proliferation of littering, the island really does not seem that dirty. Even stranger, recycling and being environmentally conscious does seem to be valued, an example being that grocery stores do not provide bags to carry home your groceries. So, after loading up on Apollinaris (The Queen of Table Waters), Budweiser (The King of Beers), and pamplemousse (the Prince of Citrus Fruits), a shopper is left with the unenviable task of balancing the various items as they trudge home. Perhaps all the littering is just the result of tired consumers jettisoning heavy groceries. On Friday, I celebrated my 29th birthday. Certainly, there are worse places to spend a birthday than in Tahiti. Anchored in paradise, I attempted to create my ideal day. I awoke with the sunrise and did yoga and stretching on the bow. Breakfast was succulent pamplemousse with Starbucks coffee while I read the International Herald Tribune (several days old, but nothing is perfect). After breakfast, I took my new surfboard over to Papeeno where I spent the morning surfing. Having gained a little confidence aboard a longboard during my surfing class a week ago, my new board proved much more challenging. Although I’m slowly getting better, it is still pretty ugly and I was trying to learn from the small children carving turns through huge waves around me. Despite my pathetic lack of ability, surfing continues to be incredibly fun and it is a lot like golf in that I am terrible but occasionally have a few good moments that trick me into thinking that I could be decent someday. Following surfing, I returned to the boat for a light lunch of a fresh baguette with brie. The afternoon was spent reading and sipping coffee while a light drizzle engulfed the harbor. Dinner was steak with Roquefort sauce, mashed potatoes, and peas accompanied by a nice Bordeaux and followed by a chocolate mousse cake that Anna picked out and decorated for desert. Befitting my old age, I was in bed by 9:00 PM on a Friday night. On Saturday, we departed Tahiti and sailed over to Mo’orea, an idyllic island 18 miles west of Tahiti. As usual, the supposedly reliable southwesterly tradewinds were nonexistent and we spent the day beating into the wind out of the northwest. Since the wind instrument is broken, we no longer can see how hard the wind is blowing or from which direction. Instead, we must base our decisions for adjusting sail and holding a course on our own fallible observations. Soon after dropping anchor in Cook Bay, the harbor was shrouded in a mist that gradually turned into a steady rain. Personally, I really enjoy rainy weather. On a drizzly day, there is no pressure to be productive and it is socially acceptable to curl up with a good book. The gentle mist produces a comfortable temperature, the constant patter of a passing shower is soothing, a downpour results in lush vegetation, and a lightning storm provides entertainment. Conversely, a sunny day is often too hot to enjoy anything, most people feel the need to wear unflattering clothes that are revealing (in an unattractive way) instead of comfortable, and everyone is expected to be in a good mood. The rainy weather has given us the café culture that has propelled Western arts and culture forward while the oppressive heat seems only to foster a lazy, unproductive attitude. When the rain cleared, a beautiful island emerged from the clouds. Mo’orea is a tiny island that closely resembles the Marquesas. The main physical difference is that Mo’orea is surrounded by a reef that produces a calm lagoon around the perimeter of the island. The other difference is that Mo’orea has far more tourists than the Marquesas. It is easy to get by in English and, based on the number of Americans milling around, we might as well be in California. From Cook’s Bay, where we are anchored, the jagged peaks rise dramatically into the sky on three sides. Nestled between the rocky terrains are dense forests full of banana trees and pineapple plantations. This is the kind of place that Basho would have liked. There are an assortment of outdoor activities that are readily available on Mo’orea and, since we only stayed for a few days, we launched a multipronged attack. First, we explored the island from the water, sailing around the northeast quadrant. Next, we hiked to a lookout in the mountains on the interior of the island. Finally, we rented bikes and rode around the flat road that circles the small island. The bikes were uncomfortable and lacked brakes, but we managed to see some of the more remote areas of the island. Originally, we had planned to visit a juice factory at the end of the ride for a thirst-quenching drink, but Anna was already angry with me for dragging her the 60 kilometers around the island and wasn’t about to sign up for a few more miles. Besides, the quaintness of the factory is somewhat lessened by the fact that it is owned by Coca-Cola Corporation. A purist might lament the penetration of an evil conglomerate into this tropical paradise, but I just wanted a good drink. If I was forced to choose, I would probably favor the Marquesas over Mo’orea. However, the comparison is unfair since I arrived in the Marquesas after 28 days at sea and those majestic islands were my first taste of French Polynesia. Following the long passage at sea, I would have probably been happy to have been dropped in Compton or Atlanta as well. Throughout the week, we savored the last few matches of the World Cup. It was exciting to watch an aging French team make one final run for the championship in the company of the passionate fans in Tahiti who seemed to grow more French with each passing game. This World Cup held many interesting storylines such as Serbia and Montenegro playing as a team even though Montenegro was granted independence before the tournament. We watched the World Cup finals on Sunday morning at a swank waterfront hotel on Cook Bay in Mo’orea. The restaurant had two televisions and the French and Italian fans divided into separate camps, each crowding around a different television. We selected to watch the game in the company of the slightly less effeminate French and our side was composed almost entirely of police officers from the police station next door. The crowd was glued to the television and we can only hope that there were no major crimes on the small island during the game – at least we felt safe. For some odd reason, an American man from San Diego who was cheering for Italy chose to sit with the French fans. Throughout the game, he provided inane commentary and repeatedly announced that he was cheering for the Italians because they didn’t cheat to get to the finals by diving like the French. Of course, this observation ignores the fact that France had to beat Spain, Brazil, and Portugal to reach the finals while the Italians had to overcome the soccer powerhouses that are Australia, Ukraine, and a tired, overrated German team. Further, this idiot must have missed the past 20 years when Italy virtually invented the strategy of playing defensively, writhing around on the ground in fake agony in hopes of a cheap penalty kick, repeatedly diving and continually making annoying hand gestures to the referee. For 90 minutes on Sunday morning, I wished that I didn’t understand English so I wouldn’t have to listen to some jackass attempt to lecture on the intricacies of soccer. The finals proved a disappointing and unsatisfying conclusion to an otherwise entertaining tournament. The word paradise is thrown around a lot, but the islands of French Polynesia certainly fit the description. After two and a half months in these wonderful islands, it is sad to depart, although we look forward to the islands that lie to southwest. Before we can enjoy more of the islands of the South Pacific, we must endure another long passage. It has been a while since we have completed a passage and we can only hope that neither the boat nor the crew has forgotten how to sail. As we bid farewell to French Polynesia, the boat is prepared, the crew is ready, and the Red Sox are in first place. Life is good. On to Tonga.