THURSDAY, OCTOBER 3:

I work off a large breakfast by hiking to a car rental office a mile or so down the road. My family and I are soon off in an under-powered Peugeot five-door to explore the island on our own.

The Beachcomber Inter-Continental Resort is our first stop. Tara and Cheyenne want to swim with dolphins. The US Navy turns over retired dolphins to Dolphin Quest in Hawaii and French Polynesia. This foundation takes care of these highly-trained creatures who are so used to associating with man, they could no longer survive on their own.

There are no dolphin-swim openings today, so we reserve a time on Saturday and decide to rent wave runners. While waiting for our appointed time, we watch others interact with the dolphins. Tara and Cheyenne stand together on a small bridge over the dolphin area and begin to mentally project pink light to the male dolphin swimming around in a large enclosed area.

To my disbelief, he swims over almost beneath the girls and tilts on his side so his eye is out of the water. He watches them intently. There are other people on the bridge and in the surrounding areas, but this dolphin fixates on my wife and daughter. In time he dives deeply, swims around the area and then comes back to repeat this process.

The Beachcomber is a luxury American-style resort. One of the 9/11 survivors on this island ... so far. It doesn’t appear that many people are staying here.

The Sutphens at the beach.

Driving wave runners at full throttle though the turquoise water is an adrenaline-producing experience. Cheyenne rides behind me on the first leg of our speedy journey. I’ll never forget her delighted laughter every time we cross waves and go airborne. Riding with Tara, she complains that mom is a slow poke.

Hunter could remain here all afternoon, but by the time we leave, his shaved head is glowing red, although he swears he used several coats of sunblock.

Club Med generated buyers for dozens of small businesses across the street from the resort. With the resort closed, these people are hurting. We purchase some gifts from a shop run by a young Italian male who tells Tara he bought the business a few weeks before 9/11.

Ouch.

We tour the island and take lots of photos and video. Later in the afternoon, we decide to check out another luxury hotel -- the Sofitel Ia Ora. Many of the thatched-roof bungalows are on stilts over the water, with stairways leading from the water to the elevated rooms. You can swim from your room to shore and vice versa.

While the Beachcomber had a strong American feel, Ia Ora is French. We eat late lunch here and pay way too much for too little.

On the way back around the island, we stop at The White House so Tara can shop. Derek, our tour guide, claims it’s the best place on the island. We need to find presents for Shane and Tara’s brother Jason who are taking turns watching our house and feeding the cats. Plus October is a big Libra friends and family birthday month.

At Maria Tapas, Tara and I both rent computers for 30 minutes to catch up on our e-mail. Tara has an American keyboard. I have a French keyboard and all the keys are in different places. It takes five minutes to find a period and I never find the dash. Then I have to have to hunt and peck messages.

“F*0&%%!*ing FRENCH keyboard. Tara mumbles something about what you resist you draw to you. But I have not been fighting with any more French people. This is probably because I have not run into any. The few tourists on Moorea seem to be predominately American. Everyone in our hotel is from the US.

For the evening, the kids go off with three young people from Utah. Tara and I drive back to the Beachcomber feeling if there is any nightlife on the island, it will be here. Wrong. In the huge bar/lounge, the cabaret singer sings to us alone. Eventually, a few couples come and go, but I don’t know how you could keep an operation like this open under these circumstances.

My Arizona roots run deep and no matter what kind of exotic drinks are offered, in a warm environment I prefer tequila and tonic with lime. Outside Arizona, people look at you funny when you order it. The waiter writes it down, goes over and over it. He returns with a double shot of Gold in a glass accompanied by a can of tonic water. “Is this okay?” he asks.

We end the evening at water’s edge in layback-loungers on the Beachcomber sand. The night is pitch black and a million stars appear visibly brighter in this pitch-black sky.

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