The Skipper, Joel A. Ungar

We have set sail. Course 220 magnetic. A week-long passage. Capt. Joel is satisfied with the state of Alobar; although not ship-shape. At sea Joel is happy. Fettered to one another by the confines of Alobar an understanding has developed between us. Joel's happiness is tantamount to my own.

My anxiety or joy, my task and sociability is based on the captain's mood. When the captain suffers compunction (which is often) I resign myself reticent but available. At times I must be aloof to provide necessary privacy. Traces of my existence must be only those which show contribution and thoughtfulness.

At sea when in repose Capt. Joel is reflective. A laconic man, a navy man. He, at the onset of any task, then becomes intense and cutting-- yelling with the impatience of a disappointed father. His spry physique defies all preconception of age. Climbing about the boat like a child on a jungle gym. Commanding directions to crew. I cannot attempt to summarize his complete existence. I only know him as the consummate skipper.

Mentally he exhibits little preoccupation as to the inevitabilities that must loom above any septuagenarian. He is wholly occupied by exacting care and paranoid precaution; there is room for little else. He bears the weight of all successes and failures and all the future failures he has played in his mind in a thousand different ways. Working for this man, living under his precept I have found unrelenting faith in our security and seamanship. He is not my friend, nor a mentor, to consider him such would be met with indifference. He is the captain of the ship and has a job to do, as well do I. Capt. Joel and I can be pals once out of the eye of a jealous ocean.

sv-grace

My friends from Ile De Grace, Jon and Jennifer, are superior to me in everyway except when it comes to writing cynically. Their rather wholesome sailing blog overlaps my own adventures. Below is a picture I took of their catamaran.

iPearl

After a week on Manihi Atoll we are making passage to Tahiti Island. 266 miles between way points. The grib file shows light winds. Before we shoved off I traded a 16GB IPod with the black pearl fatso. He got the best deal and he doesn't know it yet-- I left him all my Antony and the Johnsons and Eurythmics albums. He said pointing to my giant bag of pearls, "Girlfriend like very much!" What a presumptuous jerk.

A Remora was living under Alobar. I guess the fish thinks we are a shark. He comes out to grab anything I throw off the side. He likes egg shells but doesn't like onion, FYI. Trumpet Fish also hang out, friendly little guys, but they look like they could just as easily have been named Enema Fish. Therefore, I don't go swimming. I'm not sure if they will follow us across to the Society Islands. I wouldn't recommend it to them. We are headed to Papeete the largest city around; an unlikely home for crystal clear water.

It's exciting to think of going to a big city. Capt. Joel plans to stay there for a bit to wait on parts. The island purportedly has internet and American fast-food. We have even been warned about crime. But I'm not worried, I know there is only one way I can die: A coconut falling on my head. That way at my funeral people can say, "He died the way he lived, absurdly."

Manihi Atoll, Tuamotu Islands, French Polynesia

It is so quiet I tracked down a stowaway mosquito by sound. The anchorage harbors just two yachts now. The other, a catamaran, our friends from the 4x4 trip around Nuku Hiva. The couple is still painfully kind and humble. I harbor a keen affection for them.

Both worked for the government – jobs whereby they declined major private sector salaries; jobs whereby they spoke truth to power and were heard. But that's unimportant, I have a crush on them as people. I wish to say, “Hey, I really like y'all. I mean it. You are genuinely fascinating people. And great Americans. You make me feel two feet tall and I still feel lucky to spend the day with you.” They are my elders, parents of successful children my age, needing no further accolades; there is no way to say this and have it mean anything.

Together the four of us explore the atoll. On shore, many villagers appear heightened in spirits, like a holiday has come-- ephemeral but afoot. Fernando's son explained grouper have come to lay eggs. We watch boats pull up hand lines with the fish. Full 55 gallon tubs come ashore throughout the day. This happens one month a year.

The grouper move slow with pregnancy. It is presumed we can harpoon them. I must learn 10 new things. Among these how to snorkel, dive, use a Hawaiian sling and what grouper look like. I've never so much had on flippers. I bought a mask at the magazine-- old school oval type. I've got my six foot trident. I look very convincing. Recall John Kerry in Carharts a week before the election hunting in the Ohio woods.

I spend the first hour in fear of how close the fish get. But, mostly I itemize all that could fall into my snorkel blowhole. I don't even get a shot off. We change locations-- ocean-side near the pass. It is an aquarium, everything you might see in the Red Lobster waiting area. Joel slings a parrot fish. Easy to identify and slow, I stalk them too. I'm better at swatting mosquitoes. Later told, I was submerged in some of the finest diving waters the world over.

We sat at Fernando's lagoon-side table to eat baguettes stuffed with beef, bbq sauce and french fries. After, the same table is used to clean grouper; we help for fun. A golden lab, neck above water, plays in the shallow coral chasing fish. I am informed this is the dog's life. That afternoon we dove at Fernando's pearl farm, he lets you keep to one you grab. My oyster had an ulcer 60 mm and perfectly round.

Ile de Ua Pou

A day's sail away our anchor dropped in a little bay of Ua Pou Island. The little island town is 25 feet aft our stern, across shallow water. We share the water with a French yacht and a dredging crew from Australia who work atop a barge and crane. I watch the crew fishing and smoking. There isn't much room in the bay but it makes the scene seem quaint and authentic. We won't stay long. One day on land; a step back in time.

I sat outside the post-office with antagonized patience over the speed of the internet. Locals moved in and out. One stopped to speak to me in French. Maybe he wanted a Gauloises, my response was a silent, dunce-like smile. An aged man, donning an Australian cowboy hat, saunters over. The local deferentially is cast away.

In an Australian accent, "They're all my family, he's a cousin in-law. My name's Keith, you're an American." Showing me his hand and sitting down next to me. "Don't mind them, I don't, you don't see me complaining about them none." He talks as though we know each other, and as though I am frightened (and should be) of the "natives."

The only indication that I am listening to Keith is that I do not get up and leave. He just starts talking: "I married two of them... I'm 80... built my own house.. hip replacement... French blokes and Kiwis... worked hard... watch out for this one... cannibals but won't admit it... Marquesians eat that rubbish, breadfruit is good for teeth like theirs," and on and on and on.

Eventually I respond, "Find the skipper, maybe you can answer some questions for him." The two of them get along a little better. Keith nearly takes us by the hand to lunch. He talks and acts like some haughty British consul to Africa at the time of steam ships.

At his home/store, down the road, we are introduced to his wife. Marguerite an elderly Marquesian woman with flowers in her spindly hair and spindly hair around her mouth. She is friendly and seems to expect us. They saw our flag from shore. She pours me a Hinano at her dinning room table. The Aussie drones on. 20 minutes later we drive one block to the "snack" spot.

We eat steak and drink Hinanos, the Aussie drones on, the wife talks at me. I begin to feel lost and stuffed, and a headache from all the beer and food. Keith is then driving us to remote parts of the island. His frame of mind is manifest destiny meets rural Republican-- if any such distinction exists. His mind drivels through his mouth. I gaze out the window at scenery I saw just days before in a different place. Keith is bored here and wants to speak English, we are his victims, showing us Paradise is his bargaining chip.

I am not here to tell that story. I never will. I'm here to sail. I'm here to commune with the sea. A jaunt on land for steak and beer is desirable-- but that which one can have at home begets only a longing to have home with it. "He went to sea, and entering the regions so well known to his imagination, found them strangely barren of adventure. He knew the magic monotony of existence between sky and water... there is nothing more enticing, disenchanting, and enslaving than the life at sea."

Ile de Grace joins Alobar around Nuku Hiva

We stayed an extra day on Nuku Hiva. Joel made friends with a middle aged couple upon the catamaran Ile de Grace; Princeton grads, a swank boat, lifetimes of successes impossible to conceal despite their modesty and kindness . They were renting a 4x4 to tour the island and invited us along.

Crammed in to our Suzuki Jimmy we traversed the island's dirty switchback roads. The AC cranked, the wife talking a bit, the husband clearly pleased to be at the helm, Joel silent, me content to listen and look. In 8 hours of slow driving we encountered 5 distinct micro-climates, 6 ancient ruins, 4 small villages, 1 decent lunch spot and 1 million roosters.

The scenery was out of a movie. By the first vista I knew I could neither photograph nor write of the beauty adequately. By the 20th vista the thrill was gone, and looking at my pictures I adequately captured my boredom and desire for a cold drink. I settled for a cigarette. Puffing away in the heat I hiked up through the jungle. At the top were ruins. Marquesas tiki makers love the badonkadonk. I took lots of pictures of tiki butts which surrounded a platform used in cannibalistic sacrifice.

The ruins were interesting for 5 minutes. But,finding no evidence of cannibalistic ritual, a vending machine, or girls I walked back to the Suzuki. That was my jungle excursion. In the remainder of the day I walked through a high desert, a forest, an evergreen forest, and a tropical palm tree forest. No girls or cold drink in any of these micro-climates either. Just, lots of horses, chickens, lizards, no-nos, goats, and cows accompanied by the equivalent amount of shit (which I began to take pictures of as well).

We set sail to Ua Pou the following morning. It was only a day trip south. The island is smaller, hotter and without tourists. Above our mast rises 2 massive cone-like peaks shrouded in clouds. The landscape has the quintessential stranded on an uninhabited island look. One is met with a certain ominous feeling-- particularly as one gazes up the elevation towards a quite unreachable summit.

Blue Blazer around the World

We are anchored in Daniel's bay, Nuku Hiva. Joel and Richard went snorkeling. They say they saw coral and colorful fish. All I see is Daniel's hut and green, shrubby cliffs. It rains every 30 minutes for 5 minutes. I'm positive though, yesterday I passed the other boat here. They were blasting Jimmy Buffet and clad in Tommy Bahama. I could be on that boat. Meanwhile I donned my blue blazer for Mahi Mahi dinner.

My feelings have changed after I caught a barracuda (and tried to bring it on the dingy unknowingly). That was after we hiked to the 3rd highest waterfall in the world. It feels like being at the end of the world, and in a way it is.

Most of each day is devoted to maintaining the boat. My project is a fuel system tear down of the dinghy's outboard. Bad mixture in the carburetor and I can't get it right. So nerve-wracking to work over water. Drop a screw and it's gone, drop a carburetor it's gone even quicker. The anchor winch is acting up, cleaning must be done, lines replaced, barnacles scraped, diesel engine oil changed, it never ends. Capt. Joel is clearly preoccupied by things un-fixed. Still we are leaving the bay to explore others on the island.

Alobar has been re-fueled. It took 5 hours. The “fuel dock” is intended for the thrice monthly supply freighter, of poor design and is supposedly set to be razed. Unfortunately it is the only place to get fuel on the island. In the dinghy we came to the corner of the dock 5 feet from the stern of the freighter ship. The dock is an industrial space for unloading cargo. 15 feet of solid concrete rises up to the platform. Under it is open; the swell of the ocean fills this void in short intervals. The compression of the water in this void against the dock causes an a powerful, heavy spray of sea water 20 feet out. It does so with a hiss only the ocean could muster and small ironic rainbows catch the mist.

Our small craft floats at this pressure point. Drenched and continually sprayed I tie the painter line on a 20 foot ancient, rusted ladder. The greatest concern is being sucked under the dock and sunk or worse yet crushed. I climb to the platform with some line and hoist up 5 Jerrycans. After being Filled 100 yards away, with a strong knot the heavy containers are lowered back down. An hour later we went back to fill 5 more, in the rain. It was the most surreal experience of the trip.

Fred Orr, In Memory

For those of us who knew him we have lost a hero. Brain cancer took Fred Orr in just 4 months. It is sad, none of us is prepared for tomorrow without our Fred. And, sad for Fred, because he loved living so much. Fred would love nothing more than to attend his own funeral. To be with the legions of friends, the legions of women who loved him, and the perfect excuse to take a few of them out for a drink afterward.

The severity of his illness was incomprehensible. Now only his absence is left to reconcile. Too lose someone in our life reveals the influence they had-- through Fred much of my life has been molded, and still much of my future will be modeled.

Fred is 45 years older than I. Yet, the grin we shared when together was equally that of a 14 year old. We shared a certain giddiness together-- silently knowing we would continue to have fun after everyone else had gone back to work. It started just 5 years ago at a Friday lunch. At that table sat 6 people spanning every decade back to Roosevelt. This most extraordinary group has met every Friday since. At 1 o' clock --Jaguars and compact-cars pull-up-- we gather around the table for what is often the best part of the week. Fred and I would have one drink, then two, then it became 3 o'clock, then it became too late to go back to work, then drinks were a ritual 4 days a week. Our closeness was instant and never stopped growing.

It never came up, but I guess we knew it odd to be such close friends. Of which he nor I are in short supply. We liked the same things, we saw so much beauty in the world, we were doing as we pleased. Fred and I are the sort who do as we please. He was not wrought to prove any nostalgic advice-- Fred was more secure with himself than that. Each day was something to enjoy and tomorrow would be even better. That is how Fred lived. Because of this state of mind, Fred and I were bonded by a common youth.

Fred would delight at the success of others. If it were a big jury verdict, an attractive date, a trip you were taking, Fred's response had the same genuine enthusiasm. Who can't conjure that slow Dixie accent exclaiming, “Oh my God, that's wonderful!” In my observation his friends wanted the same for him. He deserved that, for Fred believed in good and had you believe in it too. He a trial lawyer by trade; an Atticus Finch by character.

What he leaves us is both concrete and cerebral. He leaves a legacy in Atlanta, the legal community, in politics, and in the lives of the many he touched. Long before Fred became ill we would part and say “I love you”. Fred meant it. Fred meant to say he loved this life and sought to tell all of us he loved that we were in his.