3,000 Miles to Paradise: Our Unexpected Reality in the Marquesas

After 17 days and 3,259 miles, the first sight of Hiva Oa in the Marquesas should have been the end of a dream—but after the initial euphoria, I started wondering if this iconic port of call is worth the effort

‘Laaaaaaaaaand ho!’

The first shouts drifted through the companionway at 0545 on 25 April. Hiva Oa was visible in the pre-dawn light just off our starboard bow. French Polynesia: the South Sea Islands.

I lingered in my bunk a minute longer, lost in a sleepy stupor from the low drone of the engine. The last hundred miles of the crossing had been frustratingly windless, but there is no better sleep aid than constant rpms.

When I stepped into the cockpit, the island was close by to starboard. High green hills surrounded us on three sides as Falken approached the bay, a ragged ridgeline running down the centre of the island, and black volcanic slopes disappeared into the sea where the long south-easterly swell exploded onto the rocky cliffs in high plumes of spray. The crew was quiet, gazing at the land like they hadn’t seen any in weeks.

On the breeze came the rich smell of earth, my favourite part of any landfall and the most surprising – and emotional – to first-time passagemakers. We cut the engine a half-mile off and left the Farr 65 Falken to her own devices while the crew stripped down and jumped over the side, whooping into the cool water. Then we motored into the anchorage, threading between a dozen other boats.

Inside the breakwater the swell still found us, rolling the deck under our feet as we rigged the shade awning and popped the champagne. After nearly 17 days and 3,259 miles, the Marquesas were ours, and that satisfying sense of accomplishment started sinking in. And yet here’s the thing – if I ever cross the Pacific again, I might consider skipping them.

I know, I know, this is heresy. The Marquesas are sacred ground for bluewater sailors, one of the all-time iconic ports of call. They’re the mythical first landfall after the long haul from the Americas, the stuff of legendary sea stories and Polynesian fantasies. The dream.

The reality was weeks rolling at anchor and biblical rain. Weary after nearly three weeks at sea and longing for rest and respite, I eventually found what I was looking for further south-west, in the Tuamotus and finally Tahiti – still lagoons, coconut palms, unfathomably blue water, and deep rest.

Enchanted Isles

My South Pacific passage began by flying into the Galapagos to skipper Falken, which felt like cheating. In 36 hours I’d gone from playing with my five-year-old son on his trampoline in Sweden, to south of the equator, halfway around the planet, experiencing the surreal way time bends on long-haul international flights.

The Galapagos reminded me in a curious way of Svalbard – a group of remote, exotic islands, a heavily protected environment and an abundance of rare wildlife that you only see in these specific places. That the two islands are separated by 80° of latitude is moot. Where walrus and polar bears preside over the icy landscape up north, sea lions, blue-footed boobies and giant tortoises dot the terrain in the south.

The sea lions are particularly entertaining – in San Cristobal they own the waterfront, sleeping on park benches, occupying the transoms of boats who don’t put up enough fender defences, and barking at anyone who comes too close.

Before our ocean departure, first mate Emily Caruso ran the crew through MOB drills: point one: stay on the boat. The water was warm and calm, so we did live recovery practice. It was a hell of a job hauling someone up Falken’s high topsides, even in flat calm at anchor compared to the rolling Pacific swells coming our way. The drill did its job of making everyone think like a sailor: pay attention and, above all, don’t fall in.

Pollywogs & Shellbacks

We crossed the equator southbound just as the sun was kissing the horizon to the west. To mark the moment the crew shut down the engine and fired a cannon salute (yes, Falken carries a small cannon), and with that King Neptune appeared. His accomplice ‘Davy Jones’ read our supposed crimes against the deep – steering too wide, sleeping too long, being general ‘ne’er-do-wells’ – and sentenced us accordingly.

My punishment was a ‘haircut’ from the Royal Barber, whose kit consisted of a bucket of saltwater and a pair of safety scissors. We drank Doctor Doom’s foul elixir, sang shanties, and banged spoons on a pot in the place of a drum. We graduated from Pollywogs to Shellbacks, initiated into Neptune’s realm.

But the wind didn’t return. The engine went back on, the sails stayed limp, and our ceremony faded into the monotonous cacophony of the iron genny. For days we pushed on, the boat rolling in a low swell, the rig shuddering every time the boom and the sea got out of sync. Old sea captains cursed calms more than storms for the damage they did to ship’s gear and crew morale. We were able to tick off 350 miles under power in two days – a far cry from the weeks the square-riggers could be becalmed here – but frustrating all the same. Patience in the doldrums is easy to preach but hard to live.

Article continues below…

The tropical South Pacific is also hot. And very humid. Nothing could have prepared us for the heat of equatorial sailing. When we slept, our bodies left an imprint against the sheets like a crime scene outline, but in sweat.

Outside it was marginally cooler in the breeze, but then we had to avoid the sun. We had an umbrella rigged up in the cockpit to provide a little extra shade (this despite the superstitious implications – umbrellas on board, like bananas, are considered very bad luck at sea). The only shade before noon was a small sliver next to the mast on the port side, which had become a popular spot for the on-watch while taking turns driving.

1,000 MILES Offshore

When the south-east trades finally filled in, Falken flat-out flew, covering 225-plus miles for eight consecutive days. The sailing was effortless; a poled out yankee and reefed mainsail made for fingertip steering, with each watch gunning for the surfing record. We regularly hit double-digit speeds, and topped out at over 16 knots.

Though thankful for the wind, we hadn’t had many truly great starry nights on the passage. But one particular evening late into the passage, they were out in full splendour. The Milky Way dazzled to port, the Southern Cross lost among the myriad stars surrounding it. The Big Dipper hovered on the horizon to starboard, its pointer stars aimed at Polaris, now well below the northern horizon from our perspective in the Southern Hemisphere.

Arcturus and Spica, two of the brightest, were visible behind the helmsman’s head. It’s impossible to properly describe how stunning a fully starlit sky is at sea, where the only light pollution for a thousand miles is the masthead tricolour weaving around aloft as the boat pitches and rolls.

While we still had a long way to sail, by now the cracks had started to show in the crew’s resolve to stay in the moment. I was partly to blame – I’d raised the topic one night of what food everyone was most looking forward to eating when we arrived ashore (the correct answer is always a cheeseburger and a cold beer). But we hadn’t fully broken the spell.

The stars that night were a reminder to stay present. Falken had sailed 2,307 miles, with 1,000 more to go.

Marquesas to Starboard?

But our mid-ocean dreaming of burgers and beer gets to the core of why I might consider skipping the Marquesas next time. What is it that you want most after a long passage? Not having an opportunity for that first great meal ashore (there is one mediocre restaurant on the waterfront in Nuku Hiva) nagged at me.

Voyaging in remote places is a series of continuous ups and downs, emotionally and physically, and they tend to balance each other out over the long term. The Marquesas are spectacularly, exotically beautiful, but they are rarely comfortable. Anchorages are tight, deep, or exposed. Unlike the Caribbean, there aren’t shops and cafes on the waterfront – only goats, horses and an open-air market (though the French grocery store was well-stocked and the hardware store helpful).

Refuelling required a jerry can shuffle in the dinghy. I readily acknowledge that for many these are simply features of the adventure, not a negative. But I’d never really heard anyone mention it before. I’m also not a typical cruiser, Falken is not your typical cruising boat. It’s a business. Between 59° North passages with paying crew, we usually have just a few days of staying put to rest and reset.

In the Marquesas we had down time, but weren’t truly able to explore. Handling Falken’s big mainsail without a full crew is a project in itself, so sailing off to find a better anchorage wasn’t on the cards.

We did some exploring – hikes into lush valleys, enjoyed beers with other sailors, and completed minor boat work. But more often it felt like we were just waiting to depart while enduring the heat, humidity and ‘no-nos’, the horrendous sand flies. I wasn’t actually sure we’d ever get out of Nuku Hiva.

After more than two weeks at anchor in a rolling Taiohae Bay, when the crew arrived for the next leg, days of torrential rain delayed our departure further when the harbour became flooded with debris washed off the mountains. So when the skies finally cleared, we bolted.

Five hundred blissful, beam reaching miles later and the contrast between the chaotic anchorage at Taiohae in Nuku Hiva and the tranquillity of Kauehi village in the Tuamotus couldn’t have been any more stark. Where in Nuku Hiva Falken had rolled heavily in an unbroken swell that backwashed against the seawall, we sat perfectly still inside the protected lagoon at Kauehi atoll.

In Kauehi the sea-level elevation allowed the breeze to blow freely, and kept the bugs away. Crystal-clear water was highlighted in spectacular shades of turquoise and deep blue, occasionally disturbed by yellow-tinted lemon sharks that swam by the boat. We spent two blissful nights here, relaxing and exploring. With no cell service at the village, refreshingly nobody was even on their phones.

Not being able to enjoy the same little luxuries that had accompanied all my Atlantic landfalls after a long stint as sea perhaps clouded my judgement of Hiva Oa and Nuku Hiva. And one of those is being able to sleep on a still boat. There are no docks anywhere in the Marquesas and, with no fringing reef and incessant swell, there are also no calm anchorages.

The strain of spending three weeks at sea isn’t relieved in the same way it’s relieved in say, Horta. It wasn’t until Tahiti, seven weeks after I’d joined Falken in the Galapagos, that we finally got that truly cathartic moment of luxurious release.

Tahiti was familiar, in both the best and worst senses of the word. High-end marinas – or a protected anchorage inside the reef at much less cost; a huge air-conditioned Carrefour grocery store; hipster smoothies at the beach bar; rum distilleries and rainforest hikes. It was everything a crew fantasises about towards the tail end of any long passage.

With its protected lagoons, fruit falling from the sky, friendly people, and French cuisine galore, Tahiti is like true paradise – why would you ever choose to leave? But for me, the passage ended in Tahiti, both literally and figuratively. I flew home after a week exploring the island and recouping my energy from the long ocean passage.

Returning dreams

Expectations dictate what you get out of a voyage. With hindsight, I realise my first Pacific crossing was about the South Seas myth at the expense of enjoying some of the reality. For my second Pacific crossing – and there will have to be a second – I know I can choose our own path. But, honestly, I don’t think I could resist going back.

Because for all my griping, you simply can’t miss the Marquesas. The sense of achievement of arrival after 3,000 miles at sea is unmatched. The cultural depth – from the tattoo traditions to the exotic feasts – is unlike anywhere else. You’re not being sold anything in the Marquesas, which may have frustrated my yearnings for a post-crossing reward, but in the moment is quite the relief.

And that first sight of land after weeks at sea… there’s nothing like it. One morning you’re looking at an empty horizon, the next at unfathomably steep mountains carved from the sea. So if you’re crossing the Pacific for the first time, definitely don’t avoid the Marquesas.

Instead, calibrate your expectations. It’s so easy in the age of Starlink to expect that anywhere you go, things will always be more or less the same. Leave all that behind, and experience the Marquesas for what they are – an isolated outpost in the middle of the vast Pacific with some of the most dramatic scenery and friendliest people on Earth. Ignore my heretic hot take. Go.

---

If you enjoyed this….

Yachting World is the world’s leading magazine for bluewater cruisers and offshore sailors. Every month we have inspirational adventures and practical features to help you realise your sailing dreams.

Build your knowledge with a subscription delivered to your door. See our latest offers and save at least 30% off the cover price.

Note: We may earn a commission when you buy through links on our site, at no extra cost to you. This doesn’t affect our editorial independence.

---

The post 3,000 Miles to Paradise: Our Unexpected Reality in the Marquesas appeared first on Yachting World.