Honolulu Star-Advertiser © Susan Scott
September 2, 2013
Society Islands, French Polynesia » My crew (husband Craig, niece Sarah and friend Brian)
and I decided to sail Honu to Marlon Brando’s island, Tetiaroa. Even if we
couldn’t get ashore, we wanted to see the atoll.
Upon arriving, we found three tourist catamarans tied to buoys attached to the ocean floor. One of the friendly captains let Honu share a mooring, a huge flat float labeled “Brando.”
After tying up, we watched waves break over the reef flat a few feet wide. The cruising guide was correct, we thought. There will be no going ashore here.
A moment later, however, we watched astonished as a catamaran skipper, standing in his dinghy with one hand on thebowline, the other on the outboard handle and a cigarette dangling from his lips, zoomed straight toward that killer reef.
He waited for the swell to hump up over the coral shelf, goosed the engine and rode the white water as it rumbled over the flat. He was in. Minutes later, he was out again, jumping the reef wave with several tourists in the boat.
If this aquatic cowboy could get a dinghy in and out with such ease, surely we could swim in and out with masks and fins. Right?
Wrong. Craig went first but the outflow at the outer edge was such that he couldn’t get close enough to bodysurf in. And then we spotted another catamaran worker in mask and snorkel walking on the reef flat 100 yards away.
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OK, we would walk in, then. Snorkeling to the spot, we approached the break. What we failed to notice, however, was that the guy wore reef shoes.
As I tumbled in over the reef, I lost one of my new floating fins, which disappeared in the white water. I tried to stand. A wave knocked me over. Coral scraped my elbow and the toes of my bare foot.
Finally, all four of us were inside the break, panting, adjusting our masks and snorkeling in the calm clear water with dozens of yellow-banded pipefish. I had arrived in a pipefish haven.
An hour later, I plunged into those breaking waves rolling across the reef flat and made it back to Honu. And there on the deck lay my lost fin. Smiling, the skipper of our catamaran neighbor flashed me a shaka sign.
“I would call that a successful adventure,” Craig said as he examined bleeding elbows and toes. “No lost gear and minimal lost skin.”
After Marlon Brando died in 2005, his family gave developers rights to build an eco-resort on the atoll’s main island. The Brando hotel is slated to open in 2014.
Next time I’m in the Society Islands, I may follow my cruising guide’s advice: “If you want to go to Tetiaroa,” the author writes, “fly there.”