Hurrying Nowhere

Dearest Rachel –

You know me, honey. You know that when I travel, I tend to prefer being in the middle of a city; there’s so many things there to see and do. A stop like this, much like anywhere in the Caribbean, feels like being in the middle of nowhere, with the few people that are native to the area in a form of poverty that makes me embarrassed of my situation.

It’s this very attitude that caught my folks flat-footed so many years ago, when they were contemplating taking the family on a second cruise (that time to the Caribbean), and didn’t know what to make of my response to their oblique questioning. It turned out very well in the long run, as it allowed us to see Dad‘s ancestral home, among so many other Baltic treasures – as well as eventually turning the family into life-long cruisers. Eventually, we did get to the Caribbean, several times, in fact – well, it’s in the line’s name, after all, so it was probably inevitable – and I have been able to appreciate the natural beauty of such places, including that of Mo‘orea, today:

But I’ve never quite shaken that opinion of places where, as far as I’m concerned, there’s… nothing there. Interestingly, you had less of a problem with this than I did it, as – simply by definition of being a cruise – we were near water wherever we went; if nothing else, there was always a place where you could go swimming, at any time. Sure, ocean beaches weren’t the same as your beloved Lake Erie, but swimming was swimming, whether there was salt in the water or not; you could always make a good time out of it.

So I’m going to start off this letter by admitting that since there is very little I know about this place, I don’t know what to expect of it – all I do know is that there isn’t any city to hang out in. And sure, I have an excursion to take this afternoon, which will chew up half the time I’m here. On that, I can trust that our guide knows his way around, and can point out the real places of interest that I, if I were wondering about the place on my own, would almost certainly miss. But what do I make of the morning? I see no reason to stay on the ship; I’ve been here 24 hours a day for the past three days, since leaving Honolulu. As long as we’re in port, it seems pointless to stay in the intensely familiar for that much longer. but wherever do I go, and whatever do I do?

Although, for the first hour after getting myself ready to go, this question was a moot point. There would be chimes on the ship’s public address system, and I’d rush to open my door to hear if my ticket number (#16) had been called, only to hear something about how foodstuffs could not be taken ashore, due to agricultural restrictions (you probably remember our efforts to smuggle snacks ashore back in the day when it was imperative to keep Daniel fed and happy as we wandered about the port). The irony is that we could bring chocolates or other confections ashore here in Mo‘orea – but who’s going to do that, when everything is going to melt in a matter of minutes?

The first number I hear called (#2) comes at almost 9:30, which means I’ve got a lot of boats ahead of me yet. Which feels kind of weird, as I’d gotten to where they were distributing tickets yesterday shortly after the announcement; I rather assumed that the sequential order was for individual guests. If it’s for each boat as it’s set off to the island, I may still have a wait ahead of me yet. I realize that my excursion isn’t for another four hours – and I admit to preferring the air-conditioned comfort of the ship and my stateroom in particular (where I can continue to charge both my phones) – but there’s also that nagging sensation that I need to get out there, and the sooner the better. I won’t have another chance at this place, I’ll wager.

There’s just been another announcement (at ten o’clock) that the ship is waiting for their first tender to return from the dock, so that they can resume loading guests (holding #3 tickets, I assume) onto it and make for shore. The announcement concludes with the odd line of “as soon as we know where our tenders are,” which, given the clear view we have of Opunohu Bay, seems a strange thing to say; if you can’t see the tender in this weather, we have problems. And here I am, champing to get on this thing, and disappear into the middle of nowhere, where apparently even those on the ship can’t see me. Go figure.

I really need to exercise – and pray for – patience, honey. In the meantime, keep an eye on me, and wish me luck. Clearly, I’m going to need it.