Strange Rumblings in Huahine

Huahine is known for two things. Marlin fishing and being the start of the rankest and nastiest paddling race in the world. Fittingly our story starts here. After a sleepy day on the main island of Tahiti. The Crew buzzes off into the blue, landing with a rumble and a screech on the outer island of Huahine. The main drag through town is paved and so is the runway which we just skidded down. Other than that, roads are crushed coral. The water is unbelievable blue, wrapped in a wreath of reef and plumes of whitewash. Smiles are gigantic and so are the mosquitoes. Listening to prehistoric geckos click and growl as they scamper across the ceiling. Water laps and crackles along the shore. There is something magic around here. Mixing with the salt and heat. Feeling it swirl through the screens in the muggy summer night air.

There are fifteen or so of us in The Crew. Laying on futons in Sophie’s living room, hiding out from the mosquitoes. Sophie’s home is filled with oil paintings. Speckles of paint on the floor by the back window. Walls and rafters and fans and tables, deep golden wood painted in thick coats of varnish. A lanai flanks the house with long teak floorboards, where we set out great pots of stew to relish and scarf quickly in the early evening. The garden feels old, like nothing has moved for thirty years. Canopy and flowers sprawl, stopping at the edge of all that unbelievable blue. A red fishing boat sits down the ways and sheer green cliffs rear triumphantly from neon blue splendor. 

Waking up early, dogs giddily barking on the hunt for a stray rooster. We pile into the van and head for town. Hopping down the dirt road and sloshing through puddles. Propping the trunk door open, sliding rubberized slippers along the dusty road into town. Blinker clicking. The van ribbits down another dirt road, heading for woomping subwoofers. Pulling through the scrub and into a park filled with hundreds of canoes. Rigging is underway for Hawaiki Nui. The reason for our pilgrimage. Rumbling through the grass to our Matahina, our racing canoe. A red missile, waiting for us to light the fuse.