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With
eager anticipation, I settle into my stateroom, one of eight, each with
queen beds, hot water showers and private heads for sixteen pampered guests.
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The next morning, I wander bleary-eyed into the galley for a hearty welcome and cook's tour by a well-seasoned chef. Even in my state it's easy to see the galley puts many restaurants of comparable size to shame. With its spread of unlimited food and drink, I begin to think I may need a diet myself once ashore. Throughout the following day, we cruise smoothly across azure waters. Occasionally someone spots flying fish. For an hour, a booby, far from any shore, even takes a breather on the bow. Every hour brings us 8-12 knots closer to our next landfall, the Marshall Islands, and at this rate the captain figures it'll take us 8 -1/2 days to reach Majuro. Hey, why rush a good thing, I figure. This is no race. The next several days are spent in an euphoric daze, a cloud of tropical bliss. The seas live up to their "pacific" name with skies briefly punctuated by lazy clouds. Time is only measured by the frequent delicious meals. One night's baked fresh ahi is soon surpassed by a gourmet feast featuring capered chicken breast in cream sauce, tortellini and spinach salad with Dijon vinaigrette the next, and then there's the deck-barbecued sirloin steaks… With each passing day, that shoreside diet becomes a greater reality. Still, everyone sets their own daily routine, sweating on an exercise bike anchored aft, lazing on the immense third deck sunroof, shooting skeet from the stern deck, working their way through the ship's library, or just snuggling in the comfort of the main salon to watch recent films or listen to music. All that's missing is the legendary Micronesian diving. As days quickly evaporate, the slight coral rise of the Marshalls' Majuro seductively looms on the horizon. The Marshalls, a crescent-shaped, sea-level atoll, lie on the edge of a former volcanic crater with only the tips of its highest peaks exposed. We've slowed our speed for the past ten hours in hopes of arriving in early morning, instead of hazarding entry into the haze of its dimly lit harbor. Still, it's pre-dawn. We pause in the languid stillness awaiting the sun's first rays to eke their way over the flat ribbon of palm-dotted sands stretching nearly sixty miles. Finally in the diffused light of a tropical dawn, we detect two rust barnacled barges and snake our way toward the old dock. Life ashore is sleepy and lethargic, as though a song with words half forgotten. A musty breeze carries the first echoes of a rooster's shrill cry, as the ringlet of islands, mere commas on the ream of sea comes alive. A string of cars parade along the narrow strand of soil, where at many points you can easily views both sides of the Pacific. Only the equivalent of a short city block separates tiny wood-framed or concrete block houses from the sea's liquid grasp. It's life virtually on the sea's edge. Although the captain calls shore to try and rouse customs, it's an hour before they answer, and nearly two before the chunky, copra-hued women in bright cotton smocks, faintly smelling of coconut oil, shuffle aboard. However soon, with a contented smile they depart, and with those inescapable hurdles crossed, the crew leaps at shore leave while our vessel's refueled and supplies restocked. Immediately the captain starts jumping through hoops to find fuel since the weekend's upon us and, as on most islands, accomplishing anything's nearly impossible two days a week. Our co-captain and engineer set off on bikes to explore, while others sneak off in search of a private beach. Meanwhile, the rest of us set off on our independent missions. It's a rationed 24-hours to brush the surface of life here on this tiny atoll. In any instance, it's much too short. There are postcards to mail, phone calls to make, "souvies," especially wonderfully intricate local basketwork, to buy. Four X Aussie Beer to definitely sample. I eagerly complete all the above and even manage to sneak into the island's one-room museum, although its relics are sparse considering the centuries of life on these isles.
Far from satiated and too conscious of time slipping by, I meander down the two-lane road toward Laura (supposedly named after Lauren Bacall by GIs) with reputedly the islands' best beach. Upon reaching the Chamber of Commerce playground, I stop dodging wayward dogs, local mamas in slow-mo shuffle, kids in duckling-style tow, and trash as prolific as breadfruit, the bumpy, pea-green hand grenade shaped fruit seductively dangling from overladen trees. I stick out my palm (no thumbs here) and within moments a sunbleached Suzuki subcompact, practically gasping its last, slides and shivers to the roadside. As one lady nearly falls out, I scramble in and join three others and the pock-faced driver. It's tight and stuffy. Still, our sullen driver takes this opportunity to turn off the air conditioning and light up a cigarette along with his buddy riding shotgun. Stoically the two local ladies and I endure, as we jump and jostle down the cratered road. As quickly as I can turn my head, we're out of the "city" of one story shops, tiny clapboard houses and sparkling new government buildings and careening through a thin strip of sandy coconut groves interspersed with more simple tin roofed huts, gaggles of kids and island life leisurely shuffling along at its own relaxed manaña pace. Laura's Beach Park turns out to be an excellent place for a swim or picnic and provides much needed respite from constant movement of the ship. Majuro is full of the holiday magic. The inevitable Christmas shoppers weave past a fake polyester evergreen tree looming outside the local hardware store. There's caroling musak in the stores. Then, to top it all off, there's the annual parade: six cars plastered with paper smiling Santa faces sailing down main street, while its passengers toss handsful of hard candy to swarms of kids scrambling in its wake like sugar-fix craving locusts. "Thudink, thudink, thudink!" The candy barrage pops like shrapnel against the side of parked cars and vans. And then, there's the singing. Everywhere there's a waft of lilting song, vaguely reminiscent of some ancient tribal melody, throughout the stores, in the mini vans, on the streets, even down by the dock. It's the sweet refrain of a Christmas carol in three-part harmony sung in Marshallese and set to a reggae beat. It's an intoxicating brew, a syrupy Christmas punch. And it's my fondest memory of a brief encounter on a wayward atoll. The next morning we cast off our lines and glide out of the harbor, as unceremoniously as we entered. Although I'm not used to exploring any port in a day like those day-tripping cruise ship, credit card waving folks, I'm anxious to continue on to Truk in the Caroline Islands, four days distant. Besides, boat deliveries wait for no man. Unfortunately,
those four days become an eternity. Just outside the protective ring of
coral sand, a holiday hurdy gurdy of bloated clouds gather. The seas churn
in delirious frenzy and relentlessly chase our vessel for the next four
days. Normally the catamaran provides an unusually smooth ride, a glissade
across a sea of ice. But occasionally, those frothing waves push us to
our limits, transforming a bucolic rock-a-bye serenity into a crazed "chucka-chucka"
tango, like two dice shaking in a cup.
For a brief, inglorious instant, Truk was the Imperial Fleet's most important central Pacific base during World War II. That is, until it was struck by American bombers sinking over 60 ships and 200 planes in a firestorm lasting several days. Oddly enough, for Chuuk's economy that was a blessing in surprise since today few places in the world offer the same vibrant rainbow of marine life inhabiting underwater wreck condos, much of it not far below the surface. It's the following morning before customs boards and we're cleared for entry onto Moen (Weno) Island, Truk's commercial heart, and a hamlet in sharp contrast to Majuro. Lush hillsides rise protectively from behind clapboard houses. Along the waterfront, sweetly smiling women garbed in brilliant fruit hued smocks peddle bananas, mangoes, cucumbers, banana leaf wrapped taro and steamed breadfruit, all from concrete shells. Pandanus trees, drooping with their swollen pineapple-like bounty, rustle from frequent misty rains and balmy breezes, while passing kids startle visitors with smirks and "high-fives." For all the heavy oppression of the seas these past days, the Chuukese exude a genuine welcome, whether expressed in a subtle nod and wave or hearty chuckle and a toothy grin. While the ship again refuels, our crew heads off in different directions with renewed vigor to explore the nearly camouflaged remains of crumbling, vine-festooned Japanese armaments, bunkers and caves, tour the local museum tucked in back of the visitor information office, or window shop for woven pandanus basketry, carved hibiscus wood Mortlockese masks, statuettes and love sticks. Those long,
thin carved poles, now made for visitors, were used not too long ago by
village suitors who'd carve them in their own unique pattern, a sort of
Trukese "tag" to show off to their girlfriend. By moonlight, the fellows
would thrust them through the thin pandanus walls of their girlfriend's
house, twisting her long hair around the slender switch. Then the girl,
recognizing the personalized carvings on the love stick would either reject
or welcome her would-be suitor - a Romeo and Juliet rendezvous - Trukese-style.
Today, visitors are lured and captivated by the abundant fish inhabiting Truk's wrecks. Rusting war hulks now provide peaceful homes to a saltwater festival of sealife, ranging from tiny angels, fairy basslets, tangs, soft corals, lionfish, hawkfish, clownfish, triggerfish, goatfish, butterflies, goldflake, flame, lemonpeal, Emperor, anemonefish, and freckled frogfish, to the more massive rays, morays, sharks and even giant groupers measuring up to nearly ten feet in length. Then there are Chuuk's outstanding outer reefs, where divers can search for sharks, discover dramatic drop-offs and hunt for more hidden treasures. Later, they can top-off a thrilling day with a memorable dive through eerie wrecks, called the "Pacific's favorite night dive." Not surprisingly, Live/Dive Pacific also offers a vessel here. Our departure arrives all too soon. As the light fades, casting a magenta blush across the tropical airbrushed sky, clouds re-envelope the island and we cast off lines and cruise across the lagoon. Chinese and Taiwanese long-line tuna boats, day's damage done, steam back to port. We pass verdant mini-isles popping from the water in speckled abundance. One half-expects to see King Kong poke his head out from behind one of these craggy peaks, snarl, rip out a few coconut palms and toss them in our wake. But nothing can stop us, not even the storm front that has been our relentless nemesis for so many days now - although it continues to try. Our next four days are beleaguered, as we stagger a path between Typhoon Axel and Typhoon Bobbie whose 25-45 knots winds threaten to toss everyone across the deck and nearly out of their beds! It's a hellacious battle but, to her credit, our ship holds her own. Finally on the evening of our 19th day at sea, as if in tribute to our tenacity, the clouds part and azure skies greet our arrival into Palau's Koror Harbor. Palau (Belau), a draped tropical lei on the westernmost reaches of Micronesia, was also once controlled by the Japanese. However today, it's more famed as the #1 Underwater Wonder of the World by those in the know--the diving community. And it's clear to see why. Nowhere in the entire world is so much marine variety found in such a small area. Not far off Koror lie the surreal Rock Islands, floating like 200 emerald mushroom buttons on a turquoise sea. These coral formations are home to over 1500 varieties of fish and pelagics, including soft, staghorn and tabletop coral, grey reef sharks, manta rays, moray eels sea turtles and giant tridacna clams, weighing up to 1,000 pounds and measuring up to 4 feet in length! And that's only the beginning... Palau is renowned for Ngemelis Wall, considered the world's best wall dive: a 1000-foot sheer drop-off alive with an undulating ribbon of marine life and festive coral. Then there's Jellyfish Lake, where the adventurous can dive and snorkel amidst millions of non-stinging jellyfish! And Blue Corner, equally famous for its barracudas and sharks, giant clams, chambered nautilus, hard and soft coral, and more species of fish than the finest big city aquariums. Although nowhere near as colorful as its underwater surroundings, Koror offers a special charm. It's cut from a more sophisticated tropical mold than Truk, with easily maneuverable highways, lazy, verdant inlets, cozy restaurants and local night spots where you can dance the Palauan "shuffle-shuffle" in a tin-roofed shuffle shack. It also offers small hotels, stores and souvenir shops with carved storyboards which capture local stories and legends in wood and genial betel-nut chewing locals who make voyagers like us feel like they've come home. I envy those divers who'll find their way to these distant shores. Diving Micronesia is an escape in the truest sense – a retreat from the bustle and hassle of modern Western life, a time warp back to a simpler tropical time. It's a week aboard superb live-aboard diving crafts. It's a week to explore some of the most abundant, most varied marine life nature offers anywhere in the world. As they say, "He who hesitates...." Photos courtesy of Aggressor Fleet. www.aggressor.com. Yacht photo courtesy of Live/Dive Pacific. www.livedivepacific.com The following are Brandon's previous articles for the magazine:
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