SUNDAY, OCTOBER 6:

On the way to breakfast, Tara climbs a tree to pick a gardenia for her hair. A limb snaps and she nearly falls out of the tree. The infatuated French Policeman sees all this and I tell her, “Maybe he won’t arrest you if you give him a kiss.”

After breakfast, I get into a long conversation with T who is a horse whisperer from Santa Barbara. He has worked with Monty Roberts who sent him off on training assignments in France and Germany. Tara would love this conversation, but she has gone off to the beach to sunbathe.

Several other Americans join us and most of the morning is spent in conversation I find enjoyable.

Tara and the kids snorkel off the end of the hotel dock while I journal write. Tired of writing, I join them and float around for awhile. Later, I lie on the dock and listen to Texas music on my Walkman while the clouds over the reef form from one interesting shape into another. I am really relaxing here.

Cheyenne has picked up a coconut and she asks me to open it for her. After watching others, I figure I can do it, although I have no sharp stick or anyone to hold it. So I find a reinforcing rod set in cement and set to work. This is not as easy as it looks. But within a few minutes, I manage to peel away the tough outer husks. Then hitting the coconut with a rock in exactly the right place, the top breaks off and coconut milk and brown crap covers me head to foot. There’s plenty of coconut milk left for us to drink and we all begin to eat the coconut meat.

“If we’re ever stranded on a desert isle, we’ll survive,” I tell Chey. “And we can wring the oil out of the meat to use as body lotion.”

“Sure, Dad,” she says.

We decide to take a long walk to the bottom of Cook’s Bay. Along the way, local children play on a coconut palm that grows out of the bank, parallel to the water. A boy no older than five, leaps upon the tree and boldly walks nearly to the palm fronds before preparing to jump into the sea. Tara takes out her camera and asks him to wait. She snaps a picture. He jumps.

At Club Bali Hai, I linger too long reading Tahiti books in the gift shop. Tara and the kids head on down the road. After purchasing my books I head out after my family. The owner of Alfredo’s Restaurant drives by, sees me and stops. “Want a lift?”

I shake my head, tell him how much we enjoyed our meal at his place a few nights ago. “I remember you. Thanks,” he says, driving away.

Over a few visits while on our walks, Tara has made friends with a woman who runs a well-appointed souvenir shop along the main road. The woman will come to LA in December to buy for her shop. They exchange e-mail and contact information and plan to get together again in LA.

We have a quick lunch at a snack shack run by Polynesian women. Cheyenne and I have chicken egg rolls. Delicious. Tara and Hunter have baquettes sandwiches and Tara and I split a piece of unique home-made cake.

A Polynesian woman from our hotel offers us a ride back to Kaveka. We accept. On the roadway, the four French policemen who live at the hotel come up behind the van, honk and hit their siren. Our driver tosses a hand gesture out the window. We pull into the hotel parking area and they pull up to block her. I ask if they’re going to arrest her.

“It they arrest me, they get no dinner,” she says.

Tara on the Hotel Kevaka dock.

Next door to the hotel is La Poterrede L-Aquarium, an artist/potter’s personal gallery. We’ve been going to stop in all week, but haven’t managed so far. Tara and I visit the large shop filled with beautifully-presented pieces of jewelry, pottery and art.

Tara lingers to purchase last-minute gifts. I return to the hotel deck for a beer. When my wife joins me, we’re distracted by a commotion in the water below us. Two large blue fish are taunting three octopus. Lots of splashing and carrying on. Chase, one the Utah boys jumps in to get a closer look.

We learn that stonefish tend to lie beneath the sand at this location. If you’re stung by one, it is evidently one of the most painful wounds you can experience. An American expatriate sitting on the deck warns Chase, says he has a friend who was once stung. “He’s still severely fucked up.”

Chase tip toes out of the coral. The American goes on to say, anyone that walks barefoot in Moorean coastal waters is crazy. Stonefish are everywhere. I recall walking barefooted in the water at the beach the day before. Cheyenne was wearing reef walkers.

Kris is sitting with the group. He has coral cuts on his leg. The inspiring American, whom I’ve already labeled Mr. Happy, tells him he’s in big trouble. “This is the tropics, man. Coral is a living organism, it gets into your system and finds a place to lodge and grow. You get rheumatism or have a heart attack on down the line. Why didn’t you pee on the cuts when you got em? You should have had everyone pee on them. You could have used lime juice, but pee is just as good.”

We all offer to pee on Kris’ leg. Mr. Happy continues, “Ya can’t take anything for granted here. Everything gets infected fast in the tropics.”

I won’t go into his rant on scorpion fish that will kill you. But once we’ve covered the evils of the island, he goes off on tourists. “The people who come here now don’t spend money. They come in on package tours. Sure they take a couple island tours, but that doesn’t feed the local economy.”

I learn he has been on the island 17 years. He married an island girl, has several children and is trapped on Moorea. “Going island crazy,” he says. I ask him what he does for a living. “The black pearl business.”

With the octopus conflict over and Mr. Happy gone, we decide to order a tropical pizza for dinner. The kids join us.

Then it’s back to the bungalows to pack our suitcases.

Click HERE for the continuation
of Dick’s Moorea Journal

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