I Left My Heart on Rangiroa Atoll

On our way from the Marquesas to Tahiti, we sailed through the Tuamotus archipelago, a chain of coral atolls running nearly 1,000 nm across the south Pacific. Now, you might have thought from my description(s) of the Marquesas that I was in love with those islands. Hell, I might even have thought I was – they were majestic and beautiful and primordial, like Scandinavian women. But soon after landing on our first coral beach in the Tuamotus, I realized that, like those imposing blondes, the Marquesian islands lacked affability. They were too serious for my shallow soul. I needed an atoll.

You’re totally forgiven if you either just googled “atoll” or thought to yourself “this guy’s an atoll, what the fuck’s an atoll?” Until I was embarrassingly corrected last year on Hawaii, I thought an atoll was just a little volcanic lump of an island sticking up in the ocean. Turns out, an atoll is a very specific lump sticking up in the ocean – one made of coral, and typically formed in a ring-reef pattern. Even after I was aware of their geographic idiosyncrasies, I thought of atolls as quaint little circles of sand, palms and coral, maybe the size of a city block, the kind of thing you could swim across to check under that palm tree for buried treasure. Also nope.

As we approached our first atoll, my brain had trouble organizing what I was seeing into a landmass. It was huge but totally flat. All that was visible, stretching from one end of the horizon to the other, was an endless, irregular blur of black in between the blue sky and blue water. Like a line of text scribbled across the horizon in 2 pt font. Only as we got closer did it resolve itself into a green, lumpy smudge of palm trees underlined by a white, smooth smudge of pristine beach. It was beautiful, in a completely different way than the otherworldly drama of the Marquesian landscape.

We made our way through Teavaroa pass into Takaroa atoll and emerged into the crystal clear, aquamarine water of the lagoon. The bottom was white sand mixed with coral, and even in 20 feet of depth, it looked like you could reach down and scoop it up. After some trouble anchoring among the coral heads, we made our way to shore in the inflatable dinghy. There didn’t appear to be a dock or public beach nearby, so Alan aimed us straight for someone’s beachfront backyard. We were guided to shore by the friendly property owner, who made sure we didn’t tear our dingy up on the minefield of coral approaching his beach.

This is where I really started to fall in love with atolls. The three-generation family of seven came out to say hi and shake hands, and despite major linguistic problems, we made nice for a few moments as they welcomed us (presumably?) to their island. Their warmth was a different caliber than I had felt in the Marquesas – maybe more genuine, I thought? In any case, they assured us that our dinghy was fine there and gave us rudimentary directions to town.

A white, poured-concrete road led to the village, reminding me of the Florida Keys. The buildings on either side were tidy but looked like they were constructed from the salvage of ship wrecks (of which there were at least three nearby). The locals were clearly unaccustomed to yachties, and stared at us curiously before waving and smiling a hello or bonjour. A (the?) policeman stopped us to ask about another boat, which had gone missing, then wished us well and directed us to the local market for some sightseeing. Everyone had the same, curious warmth as the family on the beach – like finding us in the street was a kinder-egg surprise.

After our half-hour circuit of town, we headed back towards the boat on the one road along the coral ring. As we passed a little shop, two local drunks waved hello and called for us to come join them under a tree with their box of wine. It was 9am, give or take, but we seriously thought about it. You don’t know how happy I was to see those friendly drunks. This ubiquitous, unassuming camaraderie on Takaroa was unlike anything we had found in our two weeks in the Marquesas.

Those cheerful winos made me realize that our welcome in the Marquesas had felt official. Not disingenuous, just… policy. The Marquesians were universally polite and were mostly friendly, but looking back it seems like a theme-park sentiment. In combination with their neat, orderly towns, Disney-dreamscape geography and wholesome alcohol-free culture , I now recognize that the Marquesas were too perfect for my happily flawed self.

As we continued through the Tuamotus, I only fell more in love with the setting. Rangiroa atoll is so big you could fit Toronto inside it, suburbs (and Hamilton!) included. The string of coral beach islands that make up the ring of the atoll are connected by little bridges with no railings. We rented bikes and took a 13 km ride to the next town. Joyfully, we passed at least a dozen bars along the way. On the way back we stopped at five. We were far from the only customers.

From the boat, the shoreline was a green starbust display of palm trees facing into the strong on-shore breeze. The water under the boat was clear and blue, fading to aquamarine nearer the beach.  Black tip sharks were as common as yard chickens.  At one point, I looked over the side of the boat and a school of these little predators were swarming around below us.  There must have been 30 of them chasing around in circles.  With tan colouring and the eponymous black tip on their dorsal fin, they have a military look about them.  I decided to wait a few minutes before swimming.

Our anchorage in Rangiroa was just off the beach of a hotel with those little huts out on stilts in the water. Y’know? I asked at the desk during one of our bar visits – those huts cost US$1,250 per night. I could tell though, watching the people lean on their railings and look out at us on the boat, that they were the jealous ones. That was a helluva realization.

We drank too much and fell in love with waitresses (one of my favourite hobbies) and soaked up free wifi and made up an excuse to stay another day. I miss it already.