Oh, my God,” the local kids shouted and giggled. One by one, they jumped into the water from the side of a concrete boat ramp and came to the surface, repeating what they had just heard us say as we did the same thing to cool off after a long afternoon of chart and boat briefings at The Moorings charter base on Raiatea, a gem of a destination in the Leeward Islands of French Polynesia. 

From the water, I watched their mothers chatting the late Sunday afternoon away in the shade of a stand of trees. To the north, I took in the unfamiliar shapes of the daymarks lining the channels, and the coral between our harbor swimming hole and the island of Taha’a, a couple of miles away. It was all but impossible to keep my eyes off the iconic rocky peak of Mount Otemanu, shrouded in tropical haze on Bora Bora, some 20 miles to the northwest. I’d seen it in pictures hundreds of times as I read South Pacific adventure tales. 

But now, oh, my God, indeed: Here we were. We were going sailing. In Tahiti.

It took three days to get there from ­wintry Boston, with an evening stopover in Los Angeles and a second night spent in a hotel in French Polynesia’s capital city, Papeete. From there, photographer Jon Whittle and I, along with the trip’s organizer, Josie Tucci from Sunsail, and one her friends from Florida took a morning flight on a small commuter plane to Uturoa, Raiatea’s main commune. Our travels ended with a short cab ride to the Sunsail docks nearby. For the next few hours, eight more sailing and golfing friends of Tucci’s wandered in, ready to help celebrate her big 5-0 aboard two roomy cruising cats: a Sunsail 505 for the birthday girl, and Magic Dancer II, a Sunsail 454, for Whittle, me and overflow guests.

Most of the sailing we’d be doing for the next 10 days would be around the large islands that sit inside extensive coral barrier reefs, so the chart briefing was quite detailed. A local skipper went over aids to navigation, points of interest, anchorages and the like. He stressed to us North American sailors that Lateral System A is used in this part of the world, with red marks left to port, not starboard, when entering passes from the open water. Inside the lagoons, square red daymarks designate dangers toward land; green triangles show hazards along the reef; and various configurations of triangles atop poles indicate whether to leave obstructions to the north, south, east or west. We took detailed notes on large paper charts and downloaded a cruising guide PDF that would be consulted frequently throughout the trip.

There are four main islands within the group. Two of them, Raiatea and Taha’a, are quite close and within the same barrier reef. Between them lie well-marked shallows and coral beds, so sailing back and forth is fairly simple. 

Bora Bora and Huahine are another story. To reach them, open-water passages of about 20 miles are required, with a long slog upwind either going or returning, depending on the island. Early-morning departures are required so that upon arrival, passes can be navigated while the sun is high. An eye on the weather is also recommended because conditions can get boisterous.

Midafternoon, the briefing formalities were put on hold for nearly an hour when a troupe of local musicians and dancers came to welcome us. They handed out leis and headbands made from colorful local flowers, including tiare apetahi blossoms, which grow only high in Raiatea’s mountainous interior. The men sat with their instruments and played Polynesian tunes while the dancers, a mix of women and children, twirled and shimmied their grass skirts in lively routines handed down from their ancestors.

It being a Sunday, all stores had closed at noon, so provisioning had to wait until Monday. Early in the day, a couple of us from each boat took a taxi to the Champion market in downtown Uturoa, a bustling urban area where the cruise ships dock. Though all of the islands in the group have grocery stores of some sort, we were advised to get the bulk of our provisions here. The market was well-stocked, but with all goods needing to be shipped in across the vast Pacific, prices were steep.

Back at the boats, we loaded supplies and topped off water tanks. By late morning, it was time for the adventures to begin. First stop: Passe Rautoanui, an opening through the reef on the northwest side of the island. 

As we approached, we picked out the cardinal marks indicating the opening. White waves crashed on the coral reefs to either side, but the water between them was dark blue and deep. Outside, we rounded up into an offshore breeze gusting to 20 knots or so. We went with a single reef in the main, unfurled the genoa, and settled in for an easy reach south to Passe Punaeroa, about 8 nautical miles away.

Ashore, the mountaintops disappeared into the haze and clouds. The colors—blue sky, green jungle, white breakers on the reef—were spectacular and everything I’d imagined French Polynesia would be.

Back inside the lagoon, Tucci’s boat led the way along a narrow channel around the southern end of the island to a tiny anchorage behind Motu Nao Nao. We’d been told during the briefing that there’s room for only three or so boats, and there was already a large monohull there, so we aboard Magic Dancer II opted for a mooring a mile or so away in deep water off another small motu, or island. We took the inflatable across to join the festivities underway aboard what already had become the party boat. Nao Nao was the perfect place to spend a hot afternoon with a cold beverage and snacks. A few of us took off snorkeling over the nearby coral heads. It was an excellent transition to island time. 

With evening approaching and the sky clouding over, I hopped into the dinghy alone, figuring I’d make better time motoring solo back to Magic Dancer. I didn’t make it far from the swimming hole, though, before the sky turned black. Time to turn back to the cat that stayed at anchor to ride it out? Nah. I pressed on and almost at once got gobbled up in a white squall that came rolling through with ferocious gusts, stinging rain, and lots of lightning. That was a dinghy ride to remember.

Tuesday, we continued the counterclockwise tour of Raiatea, the largest island in the Leeward Group. Late morning, we anchored in about 30 feet of water, deep in Baie De Fa’aroa, a fjord located about halfway up the island’s eastern side. From there, several of us took two inflatables up the Apoomau River. We were told that it’s the only river trip in all of French Polynesia, and we soon discovered spectacular glimpses of Mount Tefatuaiti with its towering rock walls and deep valleys shrouded with mist. Our destination was the botanical garden near the headwaters. 

It was slow-going, with many sunken trees and shallow spots to dodge. Along the way, we met a local man who, for a modest fee, paddled his faded orange kayak ahead of us and gave us a guided tour of the gardens. On the way back, we stopped at his camp, where his wife and daughter wielded machetes to cut up coconuts, red papayas, grapefruits and bananas for us. We ate so much fruit that we almost didn’t need the lunch of shrimp curry and rice that Tucci’s sailing mate, Paula, had cooked while we were gone.

Later that afternoon, we tried to visit the small village of Marae, home to an ancient Polynesian temple, but the holding was poor and evening was coming, so instead we found a sandy spot to anchor on the reef off Pointe Tamapua. The crew voted to go ashore for dinner at the Opoa Beach Restaurant, where the ginger tiger shrimp were indeed a delicacy, as ­promised on the menu.

Early Wednesday morning, the big-boat crew set off for the airport in Uturoa to pick up a late-arriving guest. We lingered a bit for a swim and breakfast before hoisting sails and reaching across flat water along the shore. At the top of the island, we found the marks for a channel skirting Grand Banc Central shallows, which lie between Raiatea and Taha’a, and crossed for a lunchtime rendezvous with the big boat in Baie Apu, an anchorage on the southern end of Taha’a. 

From there, we motored up the west side of the island until we spotted the Motu Tautau and a cluster of luxury bungalows built out over the water, the La Taha’a by Pearl Resorts. We anchored just south of them in a sandy spot with about 7 feet of water. The breeze was brisk, so I stayed behind to watch the boats while the rest of the crew took the tenders and motored past the resort to a channel between a pair of small motus. Once they secured the boats, they walked up-current along the shore of one of the islets, and then jumped in for a fast snorkel back to where they’d started. Everyone returned raving about the ride.

For me, the highlight of the trip came the next day, when our little armada set off for Bora Bora. After a brief motorsail south to clear the reef through Passe Papai, we killed the engines and started off on what would be our longest day of sailing. 

Out of the lee of Taha’a, Magic Dancer lived up to its name, slicing and surfing through big trade-wind swells. According to the chart, our desired heading was 293 degrees, but trying to steer that in a blustery southeast breeze of 15 to 20 knots proved nearly impossible because of the constant threat of an accidental jibe and the jib being blanketed. Instead, we crisscrossed the rhumb line on a series of broad reaches—each one bringing the towering peak of Mount Temanu more clearly into focus—until we finally spotted the iconic light that marks Pointe Te Turi Roa on the southeast corner of the reef surrounding Bora Bora.

Along the way, we spotted flocks of birds diving for baitballs roiled up by tuna and other big fish. Occasionally, an interisland freighter or fishing boat came into view, but for the most part, we were on our own, out on a great big sea, surrounded by whitecaps and having a ball. Or at least some of us were. The others, well, they spent the time nursing cases of mal de mer.

The birthday boat was ahead of us at the light, but by radio we called them back so that Whittle could launch a drone and get photos of the two cats sailing along the edge of the reef. It was a surreal scene: the boats side by side on a deep blue ocean, a long line of frothy white surf where the swells piled up on the coral, the tranquil lagoon just beyond with the lush green island in its center. Overhead, the white clouds had greenish-blue bottoms because of the sunlight reflecting upward off the water. It was a lot to take in.

There is only one way in and out of Bora Bora: Passe De Teavanui, which is about halfway up the island’s western shore. It was midafternoon when we arrived, and once through it, we had a straight shot to the mooring field at the Bora Bora Yacht Club. We went ashore to the club for dinner and topped off the evening playing Boule, a bowling game, on sand courts near the bar.

Friday morning, a few of us walked the shore road to an ATV trail cut into the jungle-covered hillside. It was a steep climb to the top, but the reward was a stunning view of the lagoon below and a couple of cruise ships that had just arrived.

That afternoon, we got underway and followed a twisting channel inside the reef across the top of the island and down the eastern side. Though it was windy, the breeze was, for the most part, on the nose, so we motored. To be honest, it was a nerve-racking trip through shallow water teeming with coral heads. Off to port, numerous resorts were built on stilts over the water and reef. They were well-marked on the chart and helpful as we tried to keep our bearings straight. 

Anchoring is not allowed within the reef at Bora Bora, but mooring balls are plentiful all around the island. We grabbed ones off a sandy beach at the southeast corner of the lagoon and settled in for an afternoon of swimming that slowly faded into star-filled night. Overhead, the Southern Cross and Orion kept us company.

In the morning, a few of us jumped into the inflatables with snorkels and fins and went exploring in a marine park by two small islets a mile or so away. There were a couple of tour boats from nearby resorts when we arrived, but soon they cleared out and we had the place to ourselves. We found fish and coral aplenty in 10 to 12 feet of water.

That afternoon, the trip back around the island was simple: All we had to do was follow the track we’d laid down on the chart plotter the day before. Near the north end of the island, a kayaker fell in behind us as we motored by at 6 knots. He hitched a ride on Magic Dancer’s wake for 2 or 3 miles. It was an impressive paddling demonstration that the fellow put on.

For lunch, we made a stop at Bloody Mary’s, a popular shoreside bar and restaurant. As we ate, a band appeared on stage and locals started to wander in for what seemed to be turning into a Saturday-afternoon ripper. We took it in for a while, then headed back to the boats and went to find a mooring out near the reef on the western edge of the lagoon.

The original plan was to head back to Raiatea on Sunday morning, and from there, sail to Huahine for a day. To pull it off, we’d need to keep moving, and personally, I was looking forward to three more long open-water crossings. But some of the others who’d suffered on the way up weren’t so keen. On any charter, and especially one with a large contingent of nonsailors, keeping the crew happy is ­paramount. So, it only made sense to scrap the plan. Instead of spending Sunday at sea, we’d play. Hard.

The next morning, we explored ­nearby sandy motus. In the shallow waters around them, we swam with small blacktip sharks and searched for rays. After lunch, we all kicked back on the big cat, where a couple of techs from the charter company appeared with a motorboat and wakeboard. The scene only became more festive as more powerboats filled with locals zipped by, many of them pulling tubes loaded with screaming kids.

Along toward sunset, as a dinner of chicken curry simmered on the stove, Tucci’s friends decorated the boat for the birthday bash that turned into a ­laugh-filled night of music and revelry.

Monday started slow. We motored back to the mooring field by Bloody Mary’s and made a provisioning run for supplies to last us to the end of the trip. Then we took the tenders across the shallows at the southern tip of Bora Bora that keep big boats at bay. Besides seeing the southern tip of the island, we wanted to check out the good snorkeling area we’d visited earlier. It was a long, wet ride in the small boats, but well worth it once we got there. Visibility was better, and the fish were easier to spot and more plentiful.

The sea was glassy and the wind was initially calm for our return to Taha’a on Tuesday. As we passed the lighthouse on the corner of the reef, a breeze began to stir, so we raised the main and motorsailed closehauled, pointing as high as we could. Then, with 6 miles to go, the wind suddenly kicked up to near 20 knots on the nose and brought with it waves that made it a slow slog the rest of way to the pass back through the reef at Taha’a.

Inside, we motored north again along the island’s west coast and picked up a mooring in Baie Tapuamu, across from where we’d anchored a week earlier. The big cat arrived soon after, and following lunch, we headed ashore for a tour of Domaine Pari Pari, a local rum distillery. The white rum had a raw taste to it, not anything like the Caribbean rums most of us were used to. But it was ­drinkable enough, poured over ice on a hot afternoon.

Wednesday was our last full day aboard the boats. In the morning, we took our snorkeling gear and went by inflatable a short way up the coast, where we were told we might find rays. Just when I thought we’d been skunked, I watched a single manta ray come up from the depths. It had about a 6-foot wingspan and wild-looking markings on its back. Most everyone got a glimpse of it gliding along the shallows before it disappeared back into the deep.

Back in the tenders, we pushed a bit farther north until we spotted a dock and buildings where we thought we might find a spot for lunch. Instead, we’d landed at the Iaorana Pearl Farm, said to be the largest in French Polynesia. The farm manages some 2 million oysters in the waters surrounding the island. 

We were introduced to a man whose job it is to sit at a desk and implant small pebbles taken from the Mississippi River and sent to Taha’a via Japan into some 300 oysters a day. The oysters are then affixed to strings and returned to the water for 18 months, when the pearls are ready to be harvested. Several of the crew purchased necklaces and such. It was hard to pass up such unique souvenirs from an unexpected stopover.

Midafternoon and back at the boat, it was time for one last motorsail, so we set off for Raiatea, where we dropped anchor on the reef, not far from the charter base. There was still swimming to be done and merriment to be had, but I could feel my sense of island time slipping away as we checked plane reservations and packed. That evening, we went ashore to the Fish & Blue restaurant for a last team dinner. And of course, we sat up a little too late for a last glimpse of the Southern Hemisphere’s night sky. What else would anyone do on their last night in the Society Islands?

Mark Pillsbury is a CW editor at large. 

If You Go

Our flights to Papeete, Tahiti, were booked on Air Tahiti Nui, which has regular flights from Los Angeles. From the US East Coast, it was easiest to plan an overnight at a Los Angeles hotel. Our flight across the Pacific was aboard a clean and comfortable plane, decorated in soothing tropical pastels. It’s a long flight but endurable.

From Papeete to Raiatea, we flew Air Tahiti. Flight time is just under two hours; a four and a half-hour ferry ride is a cheaper alternative.

Provisioning at the base in Raiatea is straightforward but expensive. Eating out is even more so: A $50 bill for lunch per person was common for our group, and a hamburger cost $15 to $18.

Most charter boats come equipped with chart plotters. Still, I found that having an iPad loaded with Navionics cartography was a great help within the reefs. It allowed us to have one chart zoomed out and the other zoomed in for details. When the onboard chart plotter stopped functioning one morning as we traveled along the south coast of Raiatea, we were able to carry on by iPad until I could reset the recalcitrant equipment. —MP

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Why were we in French Polynesia during cyclone season and an El Niño year? Well, our plan was to sail to New Zealand after six months of cruising in Tahiti, but we fell in love and stayed. So, we ran into cyclone season, which is from November through April in the South Pacific.

The behavior of cyclones changes during El Niño because of differences in sea surface temperatures and atmospheric conditions, influencing the frequency, intensity and paths of the storms. El Niño started in 2023 and continued into 2024, giving the central and eastern parts of the Pacific Ocean warmer sea surface. This can shift the cyclone formation zones eastward. Islands that are typically less affected by cyclones, such as the Southern Cook Islands and French Polynesia, have higher risk.

The Marquesas Islands are outside the typical cyclone belt; their only close call was Tropical Cyclone Nisha-Orama in February 1983. It developed north of the Marquesas during an El Niño year and had sustained winds of 115 mph in the Tuamotus. Areas more frequently affected by cyclones include Australia, New Zealand, Vanuatu, Fiji, Samoa and Tonga—but it is not impossible for cyclones to affect the Marquesas if conditions are right, such as during El Niño years.

Preparation in Tahiti

After a wonderful time diving with humpback whales in Mo’orea, we went to Tahiti to prepare the boat for the journey east to the Marquesas. Wanderlust, our Seawind 1600 catamaran, is equipped with daggerboards. It adeptly sails upwind. This feature, combined with the robust design and comfortable living space, has made it the ideal vessel for us in our long voyages across challenging waters.

In Tahiti, we inspected the rigging and systems, and unfortunately found cracked wires in the cap shrouds and the cross-beam cable (the martingale). The good news was that there are excellent riggers in Tahiti, but the bad news was that the cable had to come from Australia with a lead time of at least two weeks that turned out to be a month. By then, the easterly trade winds would be in full force and on our nose.

Meanwhile, we stocked up at the island’s markets, which are brimming with fresh produce. At every visit, we packed our bags, ensuring our boat was ready to face whatever the ocean had in store.

Papeete Marina

Papeete Marina is on the northwest side of Tahiti, which means it’s open to northern wind and swell. Large waves enter the basin, creating a significant commotion, chafing and breaking dock lines, ripping off docks or surging them over the pilings. In cyclone season, when the northern swells are more frequent, boats are often asked to seek shelter at anchor. As the inclement weather was approaching, we could already feel some of its effects. The monohulls started to behave like bucking broncos.

Finally, our cables for the repair arrived, and Wanderlust was ready.

Strategy

We tossed the lines on December 4 with a plan to sail to Fakarava, setting us up for a good angle to the Marquesas, but the next round of squalls was hot on our tail so we decided to pull into Tikehau, 150 nautical miles to the northwest. The atoll’s sparse population and natural beauty provided a serene backdrop and time to plan the journey ahead. We were held by the weather, but it wasn’t bad at all.

A couple days later, the weather changed, and we had a spectacular sail during the day. Wanderlust chugged miles quicker than expected, and we realized we would arrive in darkness—when it is unsafe to enter the atoll. We furled our screecher and set the jib to slow down a knot or two. A few hours later, the wind disappeared and was replaced by torrential rain. We had to motor and arrived at the atoll’s pass almost two hours after the desired slack tide. Not a real problem with two 80 hp engines, but it could have been with a smaller boat.

Fakarava greeted us with the rare convenience of a fuel dock. However, we did not make use of it, thinking we would be fine with the fuel we had. Rookie mistake. This amenity would have allowed us to bypass the cumbersome process of ferrying fuel in 5-gallon jerry cans, saving time, effort and my rotator cuffs, which I later destroyed in Hiva Oa by shlepping more than three dozen of them.

Fakarava hosts a vibrant underwater world and UNESCO-protected status, with unbelievable diving at the south pass, the famous wall of sharks, and the grouper spawning under a full moon in July. We were fortunate enough to enjoy that during our previous stay. This time around, the squally weather continued, and we did not even take a dip in the water.

Final Leg to Fatu Hiva

With a northwest wind, we sailed close-hauled for three days. Then the wind disappeared, and we motored in flat-calm waters that are unusual for that time of the year. The silver lining was that we were able to land a 143-pound yellowfin tuna that fed us and our friends delicious sushi and tuna tartar for months. And we learned another important lesson: While trying to lift the tuna using the main winch, I may have used the wrong size rope (I admit nothing). The winch stripper arm broke. It was a most expensive tuna, too.

On day four as the sun was starting to set, the southernmost island of the Marquesas, Fatu Hiva, presented its rugged landscape: the perfect gift on Christmas Eve. Giant clouds resting on jagged peaks, the sun’s evening light casting a golden hue on its face. A distant squall reminding us of what we’d been through. We had navigated Wanderlust about 1,000 nautical miles from Tahiti, upwind, to this Jurassic-like sanctuary for cyclone season. In the day’s final light, we anchored in the stunning Bay of Virgins, a spot already marked on the chart plotter from our previous visit.

Fatu Hiva

This land boasts a rich cultural heritage, friendly people and breathtaking landscapes. After spending some time on the island, we found ourselves reverently walking paths surrounded by raw beauty. Eventually, we stopped trying to articulate our awe, and we became part of the larger tapestry of life and nature. Gently running our fingers on the leaves of holy basil to release the magical scent, inhaling the pungent whiffs of drying copra, and bowing over gardenia flowers to take in their exhilarating aroma. Long-tail tropical birds circled above us in the backdrop of lush volcanic peaks.

Kahoha was the greeting we exchanged with the locals. Even Yoda, our dog, became a beloved figure on the island, responding joyously to calls from across the river. We made friends, bartered rope and other items for fruits, and for wild pig and goat meat. We felt a profound connection to this island.

Getting there was worth every bit of effort it took. We lived an unforgettable adventure that brought us closer to each other.

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“Should we skip Tahiti?” A question I never thought I’d hear was asked seriously over sundowners last week as we discussed 2020 plans.

The popular cruising destination is sending a strong message that cruisers aren’t wanted anymore. Last week, a local cruiser reported that police began clearing boats from the busy Taina anchorage in Tahiti. This is overwhelmingly where transient boats anchor when they visit the largest island in French Polynesia. There was little notice for the meeting called to discuss plans, and no alternate option offered; the marina in Taina is typically booked in advance and not a ready option.

Tahiti isn’t the only spot in French Polynesia that’s tightening regulations and forcing out boats. Bora Bora has banned anchoring entirely. Moorea is expected to follow suit soon. There is a wider trend in French Polynesia to grow restrictions: local press report that the goal is to regulate anchoring throughout the islands. Meanwhile, in Tahiti, the port authorities clearing the Taina anchorage stated clearly that “there is no Plan B” for relocating the cleared boats; particularly unfortunate timing and tone given that cyclone season begins there this month.

Maybe it’s not a big deal to be required to use moorings or marinas. But it’s more complicated than just planning ahead and budgeting a little more. Ask the Hynes family on the Outremer 51, Archer. His family returned to the mooring field in Bora Bora where they’d left their boat to go ashore for dinner in July. Archer wasn’t there: a search found the boat blown downwind until it hit the unforgiving structure of a resorts’ overwater bungalow after the mooring (about $30/night) they secured their boat to broke, causing massive damage to the vessel.

“It’s really sad what happened to our boat,” Seth reflects, “but even sadder to see what’s happening regionally. I think it’s great the locals want to protect their islands, but I wish they would have worked with the cruising community to do this safely rather than rush in change. By enforcing the “no anchoring” law before the infrastructure was in place it has put all of us in a very dangerous situation. I’m glad no one got hurt on our boat or at the hotel as things could have been much worse.”

Bonaire has done a fantastic job of protecting their fringing reef by requiring boats to pick up affordable moorings. It is magical to swim under your boat on a vibrant, thriving reef at snorkeling/freediving depth that this setup makes possible.

Cruisers all know the mantra not to trust a mooring until you’ve been able to check it. Easy in Bonaire, and we replaced the fraying line. But how could Archer have realistically been expected to check the shackle at 85’ of depth that broke? Of course they can’t, they have to rely on the integrity of the owners/managers, and that chain in Bora Bora clarifies a motivation for profit over vessel security.

Why is this happening?

The move in Tahiti is due in part to a development plan, but read the local press articles about restrictions and local sentiments come out. It hurts to know reader comments indicate they’re happy for cruisers to go away, angered at the lack of respect they feel is shown for the local community and environment.

In Huahine, a youth group staged a protest that included floating a big mainsail painted with “no anchoring” – and gave press pictures of the coral damage caused by careless boats. Here, at least, is a positive move to direct boats to anchor in a boxed area away from the reef and vulnerable coral (fantastic, but sad they had to take this in their own hands). In Raiatea, the next most populous island after Tahiti, there were problems this past season with local boats aggressively threatening cruisers, with tactics ranging from verbal assault to cutting anchor rode.

Are there just too many boats? A couple of factors combined to significantly increase the number of boats in the area. A few years ago, French Polynesia began allowing vessels to remain three years before requiring importation (previously, boats were limited to just a few months). Then long-stay visas became easier to acquire, so not only visiting boats but their crews can readily spend more time in the islands. There are simply more boats, and enough of those boats are not respecting the local mores. This is a response to a perceived invasion of disrespectful cruisers. The complaints range from cultural to environmental, and they are not for you or I to judge as the guests in a place; it’s for the hosts, who seem ready to stop playing that role.

All this played into that conversation over sundowners a few nights ago, as we sat under Totem in the not-so-romantic shipyard with visions of much-more-romantic tropical anchorages in mind. Should we consider a major re-route and skip French Polynesia altogether? Hey, I’d love to visit my family in Hilo. The off-track destinations of Kiribati hold deep appeal. We want to skew towards places we haven’t visited before, anyway.

We were dead serious for about 20 minutes, then snapped back to reality. Of course we’ll go to French Polynesia! There are MANY islands, and we plan the least amount of time in the areas most subject to restrictions.

I’m keen to find the lesson in any situation. What’s the lesson here? That we (cruisers) need to lose entitlement and gain perspective for our negative impact, real or perceived. It’s incumbent on us to proactively be good citizens. Helping in this regard is AVP (Association Voiliers Polynesie); they’re meeting with authorities to represent cruisers and find a bridge to educate cruisers and charterers on visiting responsibly, while boosting local confidence that these boats contribute to rather than detract from their community. Anyone can join the organization and help them advocate for the cruising community. Visit the website for details.

My friend Holly Scott sails her boat out of Raiatea, and rightly pointed out – these islands pushing out cruising boats are both the least interesting and the most touristed. They are exactly the places we prefer not to spend much time in. But they are the popular names that are familiar to outsiders, and have a historical draw based on beaten paths and accessibility. There are many nicer places to explore in French Polynesia. And hopefully, as they are visited by those with a keen eye for respect to local customs and environment. We’ll keep an eye on the situation, spend less (or no) time in the Society islands, and always be mindful that we’re guests in their home.

My facts will not be perfect here, in great part because the situation is changing so quickly. Big thanks to Linda Edeiken of Jacaranda, amazing ambassadors for the cruising community – I first learned about this from Linda; to Ryan Levinson, for his work in FP representing cruisers with AVP; thanks Seth Hynes for contributing, sorry your lovely Archer had to be the canary in this coal mine!

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When the organizers of the annual Tahiti Pearl Regatta contacted us in Hawaii to ask if we’d like to photograph their event between the Leeward Islands of French Polynesia, my wife, Kyoko, and I were so overjoyed that we couldn’t resist telling a few friends. Their response was pretty much uniform: “You suck.”

Tahiti has the reputation of a South Pacific paradise, even among those of us based in Hawaii. Since the late 1700s, when Adm. Bougainville and Capts. Wallis and Cook first visited, stories of these lush islands and their gorgeous people have circulated in popular culture. One even feels a certain sympathy for Fletcher Christian and his fellow Bounty mutineers for dumping mean old Capt. Bligh in a longboat so they could make a U-turn right back to their girlfriends in Tahiti.

Raiatea, French Polynesia’s charter base, has a long history of Polynesian navigation. A priest and navigator named Tupaia, who trained at the great navigation temple Taputapuatea (“most sacred to the gods”) on Raiatea’s east coast, sailed with Cook. He drew Cook a chart detailing more than 200 Pacific islands, including Hawaii, all from memory. Many voyages of exploration in Polynesia began at Taputapuatea, and its ruins are a must-see for anyone remotely interested in history or sailing.

The Leeward Islands of Raiatea, Huahine and Bora Bora are truly a paradise for cruisers. Only a day’s sail apart, they lie about a hundred miles leeward of Tahiti. All of the islands are surrounded by extensive lagoons, with crystal-clear water and hundreds of possible anchorages, many without a single yacht. Raiatea itself is joined to its neighbor island, Taha’a, by an immense lagoon, so it’s actually possible to sail to the next island without even going to sea.

It’s common, and even ­preferable, here to anchor over sandbars near the outer reefs and islets. Holding is excellent in these shallow anchorages, as are the diving, cool breezes and amazing scenery, and unlike the deep bays close in to the islands, there are few insects.

Tides in Tahiti are so small as to be almost negligible due to its charmed location on what is called an “amphidromic point,” or tidal node. Tides here are influenced mostly by the sun rather than the stronger gravitational attraction of the moon, so the tide is generally slightly higher (by about a foot) at noon and lower in the evenings.

The climate is typically hot and humid here, and there are periods of strong trade winds and frontal systems, so it’s important to keep an eye on the weather. In general the Northern Hemisphere winter is Tahiti’s summer (November through April), and brings a greater chance of rain, frontal winds and hot, muggy weather. It is also the cyclone season, although hurricane-force winds are rare.

We had the full charter ­experience with a bareboat before the regatta, and crewed charters during and after. Our bareboat was a Sunsail 404 catamaran, build by Robertson and Caine in South Africa. As a lifelong monohull sailor, I was reluctant to charter a catamaran, but it took only one look aboard our Sunsail 404 to see the benefits: absurd amounts of space and comfort on a shallow-draft cat that’s rock-solid at anchor. It was like having an overwater bungalow that sailed. And the sailing was surprisingly good. The anchorages were uncrowded and jaw-droppingly stunning, and the diving superb.

RELATED: A First Cruising Adventure in French Polynesia

One near miss of an uncharted coral bank reminded us of the cardinal rule here: Sail only in good light—especially when you are within the reefs—and trust your eyes, not just your chart plotter.

For the weeklong festival of sailing and parties that is the Tahiti Pearl Regatta, we boarded a spacious Lagoon 52 from Tahiti Yacht Charter. Despite a deep loathing of group travel, it didn’t take me long to adjust to having Fred, a capable captain, navigate us to neighboring Huahine, while Heeniti, our five-star chef, created raw tuna masterpieces and divinely inspired fresh-baked desserts.

After the spectacular race, Kyoko and I boarded another Lagoon 52 from Dream Yacht Charter. Once again amazed at an enormous, new, well-run vessel, and ridiculously well-fed, we visited a fascinating pearl farm, and a phenomenal snorkeling area called the Coral Garden, where we were swarmed by hundreds of bold exotic fish as we floated gently in the current along a coral reef.

Hard as it is for a salty, bluewater monohull sailor to admit, I thoroughly enjoyed cruising the lagoons on Sunsail’s catamaran, and being feted like royalty on the crewed charters with Dream and Tahiti Yacht Charter was splendid. I recommend Raiatea as one of the world’s best charter locations—with one last word of caution: Don’t tell your friends you’re going. They’ll only hate you for it. —Tor Johnson

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About 6,000 years ago — when the Pacific Ocean was unexplored and its tiny islands, scattered across a vast area of ­unimaginable size, lay quiet and uninhabited — a ­pioneering people from Southeast Asia pushed their double-hulled canoes from familiar shores and sailed deep into the unknown.

For over a millennium they migrated east, toward the rising sun, settling on islands never before seen by mankind, raising families and building communities before a brave new generation set sail to explore farther beyond the horizon. And while the remote islands evolved over generations into the separate regions and countries we know today as Hawaii, New Zealand, Fiji, Tonga, Samoa, the Cook Islands, French Polynesia and Rapa Nui (Easter Island), they remain connected by the wakes of their ancestors, like the lines of an ancient family tree. And remarkably, while separated by time and by a vast ocean, the connection between the Ma’ohi, the Polynesian people, is not only remembered, but is celebrated even today.

For centuries, the rich culture and untamed beauty of the Marquesas islands (Te Henua Enana in local dialect, or “Land of Men”), which lie more than 700 miles northeast of Tahiti, have drawn artists and writers to their remote shores. Paul Gauguin, Herman Melville and Thor Heyerdahl were each seduced by the dramatic archipelago, and either on canvas or on paper, set out to capture its wild beauty. The Marquesas awakened something deep within them, a raw, powerful emotion that influenced not only their work, but the rest of their lives.

And so it was here, far removed from a busy and distracted modern world, that the Marquesan Festival was born, a unique arts and cultural event celebrated only every four years. An event held not for tourists, but rather for the proud Ma’ohi people, a people who, even after thousands of years, remain connected by a strong spirit, one that spans an ocean and continues to unite its true discoverers.

My wife, Catherine, and I first heard about the festival during our own migration east across the Pacific in Dream Time, our 1981 Cabo Rico. We had arrived at the remote island of Raivavae after an arduous 28-day passage from New Zealand back to French Polynesia, and although at first the Marquesan cultural event seemed more rumor than reality (no one we spoke to could agree on when it would begin, nor which Pacific Islands would attend; even the island hosting the festival was in question), the uncertainty and mystery surrounding the unique festival only made it more alluring. And so we set off, sailing northeast, tracing the ancient wakes of the Ma’ohi canoes up to the Society Islands, across to the Tuamotus and toward the Land of Men.

We arrived in the Marquesas just three days before the festival. Delegates from Rapa Nui, Rapa Iti (Austral Islands), Tahiti and New Caledonia had already gathered, and an energy was building. You could sense it, like an approaching summer storm. The air — heavy, humid, unsettled — carried with it the rhythmic and alluring rumble of distant drums as groups practiced into the tropical night. Something powerful was coming. Remote villages hidden in ancient valleys and shrouded in jungle were ­awakening. You could feel it.

RELATED: On Watch: A Festival in French Polynesia

Then, over four exhilarating, spellbinding days, we lost ourselves to the rhythmic beating of the pahu, the drums, and to an energy that seemed to swell up and saturate the ancient stone me’ae and tohua, sites where distant ancestors performed tribal ceremonies and ritualistic sacrifices. We sat not in bleachers or behind barricades, but on smooth volcanic boulders beside the dancers. In the midday sun, we stood under the shade of a 300-year-old banyan tree behind the booming drums, close enough to feel the vibrations resonate deep within us. And in the evening, we sat among the long dancing shadows of more than 200 performers, who stirred the earth with bare feet and shook the air with one voice. A voice that seemed to reach back through the ages, echoing down through the craggy folds of valleys and out to sea.

We came to recognize faces and personalities; we felt connected to them. We walked among performers dressed in tapa cloth and adorned with shells, flowers, feathers, seeds, pearls and bone. Cracked paint and Marquesan tattoos covered bare skin. Under palm-frond lean-tos, traditional Polynesian arts were demonstrated: the dull hammering of wet bark into thin tapa cloth; the painful tapping of blackened tusk ­needles against exposed skin as intricate Marquesan tattoos took shape; the metallic ringing of chisel meeting rock; weaving; wood carving; canoe building. These traditional skills were shared and practiced by a new generation of master carvers and artists who, through their passion and their work, ­continue to keep an ancient culture alive.

Through song, dance and gesture, each cultural presentation told a story: an elegant rotation of a wrist; a subtle movement of a finger; an aggressive tilt of a head; a suggestive swaying of the hips; bared teeth; wide eyes. Every action and motion held a message, a story from the past, and even though we could not understand the words, we felt like we came to understand their meaning. We found ­ourselves rocking and swaying with each performance, to drums that, even in the tropical heat, raised goose bumps on our arms; drums that flowed and ebbed like the wind with a seductive and consuming rhythm; drums that seemed to lift the dancers from the ground and carry them away, away from this world and back to another time.

And we went with them.

As our epic eight-year voyage across the South Pacific comes to an end, I can still hear the rhythmic and provocative beating of the great drums, the haunting cries of the female dancers, the guttural murmurs of warriors preparing themselves for dance. I can still feel the black, gritty volcanic sand on my skin from those remote tropical islands and smell the rich, sweet scent of monoi oil in the air, mixed with the smoke from burning coconut husks.

The South Pacific has been the highlight of our world adventure. The scattered constellation of tiny island groups across charts that were once so foreign, distant and unknown feel familiar to us now, like home. Each cluster of islands holds precious memories, some of the best in my life, and as we sail west, toward Australia in preparation for Asia and a new ocean, the next generation of cruisers are about to begin their epic voyage across the world’s largest ocean, and it is something to behold.

Neville and Catherine Hockley have been outbound on an open-ended cruise since 2007 aboard Dream Time, their Cabo Rico 38. Follow their adventures on their website.

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