Tahitian Sands and Catamaran Dreams
A serendipitous sojourn to the South Seas resets the clock of long-lost love
John Wallinger stood on the beach of the tiny, isolated atoll, staring at the horizon of an azure sea. But beyond where the water turned dark and deep, he sensed change on the way.
Here on the western edge of the Society Islands of French Polynesia, the transplanted Canadian wondered what the day would bring. Unlike the mere palmful of sky available to the eye above his Rocky Mountain hometown, in this place, the sky was without end in all directions.
And though he could see as far as forever standing on his beach, knowing what would come remained beyond his view.
“La ora na, Jawn Papa’i!”
“Good morning, Alu,” John answered without turning to see his friend and diving partner approaching from the bamboo forest behind him.
“Do you see that?” John asked, jutting his chin toward the western horizon. A thin purple arc hung above the ocean, a watercolour smudge suspended between sea and sky.
“I don tink dat be vero, Jawn Papa’i.”
“Vero” was Tahitian for storm, and Alu had better eyes than he did. “You sure? I don’t want to be out there and have a nasty squall throw us past the shipping lanes.”
Alu Laei, a native Tahitian from the island of Nuka Hiva, knew the moods of “Miti”-the Sea, better than anyone John had known on the islands. Alu said he could taste it in the water. He called it “miti papaa”-sour salt.
On cue, Alu walked to the surf, dropped one knee in the sand, then swept two fingers across the water and brought them to his lips.
He dipped for a second taste. “Hahh.” It was a questioning sigh. Alu leaned forward, his bronzed neck straining and squinting his eyes.
“Well? How does it taste?”
“Miti taste fonny, Jawn Papa’i.”
Islanders had a penchant for giving a native name to their white friends. “Papa’i” meant “wall.” Thus, his name, John Wallinger, was shortened to “John Wall. “
“Funny?” John repeated. “Funny how? Funny good or funny bad?”
Alu’s predictions were not to be taken lightly. His name, Aluluei, meant “Old God of Sailors.” After six years of working together in their small but profitable pearl farming enterprise, John knew it was better to wait out Alu’s pondering for a decision.
On more than one occasion, Alu sampled the sea, shook his head, saying. “We no go today, Jawn Papa’i. Miti be sour today.” His prophecy proved accurate hours later when the serene blue sea turned vile and grey.
But John had never heard Alu say that miti tasted “fonny.”
Alu rose, knocked the sand from his knee, turned, and smiled. “It be okay, Jawn Papa’i. Miti be good today. We go.”
In his time on the islands, John learned that the Tahitians were peculiar. Asking for a more in-depth explanation would result in a half-hour tale about the “old ways,” taking the listener back a thousand years to the sacred island home of Taputapuatea before finally returning to the question at hand.
Still slightly unnerved from the peculiar answer about the taste of the sea, John asked, “Has miti tasted funny before? Do you know what it means?”
Alu shrugged. “Somtime miti taste dat way. It no trouble, no prawblem.”
“But that doesn’t tell me what it means.” John countered.
Tahitians were a happy sort. Rambunctious and playful, always affable and kind but mysterious as well. As an outsider and a white man, John knew the island people only told him half of the story. They kept the rest secret behind smiles, gayety, and avoidance.
“If it for you, den, you will know. Miti be okay. We go.”
Shaking his head, John walked back to his treehouse bungalow a few hundred yards back from the pink sand beach to grab their lunch and dive gear for the day’s work of harvesting pearls and fishing off the tiny island of Fakarava.
Gliding across the crystalline waters over endless turquoise lagoons in the catamaran, John raised his chin to the sky, closed his eyes, and searched for worries in his mind but found none. He did not find the salt spray hitting his lips to taste “fonny.” It tasted the same every day since he’d made the island his permanent home — like paradise.
“You got lucky with me, Corinne. Nobody is going to put up with your shit. No one is going to love you like I did.” Eighteen months had passed since her divorce from Damon, yet his final words to her as he lugged the last of his boxes from their home still echoed in her head. They still hurt. And after a parade of terrible dates with horrible men, she feared her ex-husband’s words were true.
Looking out the window as the plane flew high above the immense blue sea, she wondered, “Is it me? Am I the problem?”
She didn’t know why it happened or when, but she awoke one day in darkness — the light in their marriage snuffed out like a candle in the wind. Her sweetness turned to sarcasm; her warmth and kindness turned to ice and daggers.
Although she could never prove it, Corinne knew her husband was unfaithful. She could smell it on him: deceit and contempt. He wore a new vanity, a change in his stride, and cared more about the polish on his shoes than putting a smile on her face. The sourness oozed from his pores like spoiled milk.
“You need this, Corinne. Get away from the cold; get into a new scene.” Jolene, her best friend and colleague in their mortgage brokerage, said the day Corinne was scrolling vacation bookings in the tropics. “Find an island surrounded by white beaches and littered with dark-skinned men. You’re forty-five, single, and a knockout. Find play again. Find your laugh.”
“I’m hardly a knockout, Jo.” she’d responded.
“Do you see yourself in the mirror, Cori? No one should be allowed to be this gorgeous.” Jolene told her, sweeping a hand over her friend’s slender frame. “I mean, honestly, it’s unfair to so many people. I feel bad when you come for dinner, and Derek has to look at you, then me. I’m a toadstool, and you’re a lily of the valley.”
“Hahaha! Shut up! Derek doesn’t look at me like that!”
“Derek is in love with you. Believe me, if I up and died, he’d be bringing you flowers the day after my funeral.”
“Jo! Stop it! That’s a terrible thing to say!”
Jolene placed her hands on the back of the office chair and spun Corinne back to the computer screen. “Look,” she said, pointing to the vacation property, then read the landing page. “Hiva Oa. ‘A mysterious set of islands in French Polynesia.’ Small, not too pricey, secluded white sand beaches and private bungalows.”
“I don’t know anything about French Polynesia.” Corinne protested.
“You’ve heard of Bora Bora, haven’t you?”
“Of course,” Corinne answered, her fingers moving the mouse to the website gallery.
“Well, that’s French Polynesia. This place sounds like baby Bora Bora. It’s half the price, and you have your own beach! And look, jungle hikes take you to giant Tikis scattered on the island. One-bedroom bungalows, everything is included. Snorkeling, deep-sea fishing, guided hikes surrounded by bamboo forests, vanilla, and frangipani orchards. Paradise!”
Corinne couldn’t argue. The place did look divine, and the cost was reasonable.
“Go. Get the hell out of Regina and forget about everything. You deserve it.”
A month after making the booking, Corinne Kleinvogel peered out the plane window at the scattering of islands dotting the tropical waters of French Polynesia.
It was a rough go after his parents died, gunned down in a bank robbery gone wrong. Following years of coasting around the country, working one type of job to the next, a letter arrived from his Uncle Wendell that would change his life once more.
During his career in the Navy, Wendell found Hova Iva during shore leave. He fell in love with the islands, the people, and the distance provided from a mad, civilized world. Without a family of his own, Wendell saved his money, took extra duty, and extended tours at sea to build his nest egg. He’d backpacked on puddle jumpers each shore leave, returning to Hova Iva, staked out a spot on the island, then made it his home.
The letter explained that his uncle’s final days were at hand. He was leaving his island home to his only living soul in the family, his nephew, and though Wendell strongly encouraged John to visit the island before deciding what to do with it, the decision was his.
John returned to Canada after the trip down to the island for his uncle’s funeral and the handover of his estate. Within a month, he sold the home his parents left him and every worldly possession he couldn’t fit into two suitcases and a backpack.
He’d been an islander ever since.
In the following years, John did well for himself and became well-known among the island folk. It began innocently enough, helping a family repair their cistern, which had cracked, causing them to lose their rainwater — the primary source of freshwater on the island. Next, he fixed the transfer pump for a small vacation villa. His knack for fixing things and being a clever problem solver earned him the Tahitian moniker “Rima Taote,” which Alu explained as being a loose translation to “Hand Doctor” or “Handyman.” John’s refusal to accept money for his good Samaritan services increased his likability.
Instead of cash, he employed a barter system for transactions, happily accepting delicious meals, fresh fruits, vegetables, seafood, artwork, hand-crafted furniture, jewelry, and boatloads of 40-foot-long Polynesian ‘ohe’, the yellowish-green poles of bamboo. He used the abundance of this donated plant as a building material for two additional treehouses on his plot, which he rented out as private vacation accommodations to tourists.
It was how he got his start in pearl farming. Coming to the aid of a wealthy owner of the island’s largest oyster farm, he implored John to help move a large stone Tiki from the jungle to his property.
Word was out that a hotel developer intended to “relocate” the Tiki to the new tourist property. This news did not sit well with the locals, so under cover of darkness and using the developer’s heavy equipment, “Rima Taote” brought the Tiki to the oyster farmer’s land, nestling the monument in the dense jungle behind his estate.
The hotel developer was shocked to arrive at the Tiki site to find his equipment in place, but the statue was no longer there. Word quickly spread about the vanished monument with much excited telling of folklore and legends. Payment for this coup was a plot of private lagoon seeded with pearl-producing Black Lipped oysters.
He split everything 50/50 with Alu, and now, with biennial harvesting and delivering highly sought-after table fish such as Ruby Snapper, ‘Uravena’, and giant lobsters, for the high-end tourist restaurants, along with his trade-offs as “Rima Taote,” John saw no end to life happily sustained from all that the islands and sea provided.
By early afternoon, he and Alu steered into the marina, the boat’s live wells stocked with the day’s catch and today’s purchasing chef eagerly awaiting to see their haul.
Taking breaths so deep she felt lightheaded, Corinne could not get over the fragrant island breeze. When the cabin door opened and she descended from the small plane, scents of vanilla, coconut, and frangipani filled the air. The sounds of a lazy surf lapping the shore and playful songs from beautifully painted birds charmed her soul. She couldn’t have imagined a finer place.
Checked in and her bags delivered to her private villa, Corinne chose to stay in the sun, take in the grounds, and then walk to the beach. After a short meander, identifying the spa, an open-air restaurant, and the three cascading emerald pools with unimpeded sea views, she found the path to the villas and marina.
Walking toward her from the dock came two men. One, dark-skinned, tall, lean, and muscled, caught her eye. The other, a Caucasian with a mop of windblown sandy-brown hair with much the same physique, carried a long, silver fish over his shoulder so iridescent she thought the scales could be white gold.
Hauling a line of freshly caught fish of various sizes and colours, the men chatted happily as their bodies glistened with sweat, laughing between deep breaths from their cargo and the climb to the resort.
As Corinne approached, the men looked up and stepped to the side of the path. The darker one held a broad smile, dipped his head, and, with an accent, greeted her, “Laorana,” but his smile dropped as he was suddenly pulled off balance.
His partner stumbled toward her, the fish on his shoulder now loose and twisting in the air. Alu watched John jump and juggle, trying to catch the slippery specimen and preventing it from landing on the ground between them.
Corinne froze and shrieked as the silver-sided fish filled her view, sailing through the air toward her.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” John exclaimed, finally wrestling the bonefish back under control. “I slipped; I’m so sorry. Don’t worry though, he’s dead,” he stammered.
Her face flushed, and Jocelyn looked to her toes, “It’s fine! It’s fine,” she repeated, taking two small jumps away from the fisherman. “A close call! That’s probably my dinner. I’m glad it didn’t get ruined.” Keeping her head down, Jocelyn scampered toward her cabin.
“Bonefish!” John called back, still staring at the woman trailing away toward the villas. Then, he shouted, “It’s quite good — the bonefish!”
The woman raised a hand and waved as she strolled away, her sandy-blonde hair bouncing off her shoulders.
Alu stood on the path, holding the heavy string of fish and staring at his friend. John walked over, took his end of the line, and raised the bonefish to his shoulder again.
Alu did not move.
“What?” John asked as though nothing had happened. “Let’s go.”
“You look like you just see de ghost of sawmting, Taea’e.”
“I slipped and almost creamed that woman with this fish. C’mon, Martin is waiting for the catch.”
Alu squinted, giving his “taea’e”(brother) a searching look.
“No, Jawn Papa’i. dat is de face of a man spooked. Who dat girl? You know her?”
John tugged at the string of fish, leading Alu to follow. He could lie to himself and Alu, saying the woman was a tourist, but he knew — the moment she turned her shoulders toward them, and he was dead certain when her fingers tucked the windblown strands of blonde hair behind her ear. Thirty years ago, that woman had been the love of his life.
“Her name is Corinne Kleinvogel, or it was back then,” John explained. “We spent one summer together when I was twenty and she was seventeen. Christ! What are the odds of that, you think?”
“I tink you best go bring her some flowa and say sorry for de scare, and you take her to Martin’s for dinner.” Alu’s eyes were as wide as his smile as they resumed delivery of their catch. “Jawn Papa’i, you don have nawtin to say about your life in the mountain world. ‘Borin’, you say, ‘nawtin to tell,’ you say.”
Having reached the vendor’s door at the back of the resort’s kitchen, Alu gave it three boots with his heel. “Jawn Papa’i, dat,” he said, throwing his head toward Corrine’s villa, “is nawtin borin!”
Overcome and feeling faint, Corinne rolled into the hammock on the seaside-facing porch. Her mind wrestled with the rationality of what she had seen, but the reaction from her body told her it was true — the man who’d almost knocked her over with the flying fish had to be John. The face had changed somewhat, but not those eyes. The bright, glacial blues that had visited her in dreams for years since the heartbreaking end of their summer romance were the same ones that, moments ago, pierced her soul.
“Good lord,” she said to the breeze. “What are the odds? Was that really him? Is it possible I traveled halfway across the globe to find someone I loved when I was a seventeen-year-old girl?”
But in that brief moment, she saw more than shock; his eyes showed instant recognition.
Seeing Corinne again hit like a hurricane. With his equilibrium lost, he’d stumbled badly and nearly introduced the woman to the taste of bonefish lips. And though he’d recovered as best he could, John was less than convinced she’d recognized him. “And why would she?” he mused. “That was a lifetime ago, and it lasted a minute; if you think she’s been quietly pining for you all these years, you’d better have another drink.”
Winnie, the lovely young island girl tending the patio bar, smiled as she handed John the elaborate tropical cocktail contained in the coconut shell.
Beside the drink sat a small green parcel made of palm leaves, plucked from a local artisan. Inside was a likeness of a “Lory,” a Tahitian Blue Lorikeet. Its deep blue plumage, black slash across the eyes, white throat, and chest were luminous, etched flawlessly in the Mother of Pearl canvas; both were for Corinne. All that remained was for him to find the courage to deliver them.
Alu lingered, talking in hushed island tones with Winnie but glancing at his friend, ready to offer encouragement if warranted; then he smiled when John stepped from the bar, the gift and drink in hand.
Turning back to Winnie, Alu sputtered, his fingers pointing behind her. “A hora’a i the mau tiare!”
Winnie furrowed her brow at the command. “Why give the flowa? The lady have plenty flowa at da villa.” With a sweeping gesture of a beautifully shaped arm, she added. “Dey flowa everywhere. She don need no more flowa. Better be he take da rum for dis hallo.”
At the steps to the pathway, Alu caught up with John. “Jawn Papa’i!” he called. “For da lady.”
John frowned at the local rum in its ornate, hand-crafted blue bottle. “I’m hopeful, but isn’t that a bit presumptuous?”
Alu shrugged, the rise of his shoulders meeting a large grin. “Sawmtime women be like Miti, Jawn Papa’i — Dey fonny.”
Tucking the rum beneath his arm, John nodded, turned, and went to see Corinne.
On the two-minute walk to the guest villa, John traveled back thirty years to the day Corinne left him standing there with her baby blue t-shirt clenched in his palm, watching her sobbing behind the car’s rear window as her father drove away.
He remembered how everything around him slowed to a blur and how the noise from the party faded to a low hum the moment she’d stepped into his rental house that early summer day. He would find out later Corinne was a classmate’s cousin, staying the summer while her parents traveled for work.
She’d styled her hair like she was going to prom, twisted and tucked high, with ringlets falling across a cheek. A cute nose, small ears, and the most kissable lips he’d ever seen shimmered glossy and pink beneath green eyes that sparkled with joy and mischief — the girl was stunning.
John shook his head as he recalled that night; grabbing a wine cooler from the iced tub, he strode through the crowd of friends, ignoring everyone, his eyes never leaving the gorgeous girl sitting on his couch.
She saw him coming halfway across the room. Their eyes met, and she smiled, then looked away and leaned into her cousin sitting beside her. But she looked back and smiled again. This time, she didn’t look away.
He remembered introducing himself, the beautiful girl explaining how her cousin pulled her along to the party, and a few more words in a honey-sweet and satin-soft voice.
John remembered offering his hand, how she took it, and how she unfolded her legs from the couch, rose, and walked with him away from the others, asking if she would mind if they left.
“Isn’t this your party? Your house? Shouldn’t you be here?”
She had a great jawline, smooth and feminine but broad and strong. A fabulous smile. Warm and sweet. She was exciting. Adventurous. Bold. They were two blocks from the house, they hadn’t stopped talking, and she hadn’t let go of his hand.
John didn’t let go of her all summer.
He saw her lying in the hammock, the sun hitting the tops of her tiny, high-arched dancer’s feet when she swung out from the shade of the palm tree, her little toenails painted snow white.
“Hi, Corinne.”
Her hair fell off her bare shoulders as she sat up, swinging behind like strands of gold silk. “I was sure it was you. I hoped you’d come.”
“You look as beautiful as I remember.”
“I look old, John.”
He was twenty again, looking at the prettiest girl he’d ever seen, “You look the same, Corinne.”
She smiled, remembering how she’d loved the sound of his voice, “You always liked saying my name.”
“You’re the only Corinne I’ve ever known.”
John set the coconut drink on the table; next to it, the rum. He extended his hand, and she took it, pulling her from the hammock. She skipped a step and a half on her toes as she fell into a new vision of her past.
He passed the palm leaf box to her, unable to find any words.
She smiled as she unwrapped the gift, and then her lips, glossy and pink, closed to a tight line when she unfolded the tissue-covered bird on the shell.
“I never liked my last name until I knew you. Kleinvogel — little bird.” Her eyes, damp with tears, shimmered with new joy and old memories. “You didn’t forget that either.”
John stepped to the side and leaned on a pillar, letting his eyes take her in. “Corinne, I haven’t forgotten one minute of that summer.”
Looking at him the way he was looking at her, she answered. “It’s been thirty years, John.”
“It’s been thirty seconds.” His words came without thought. “I don’t have anyone — are you…,”
“…No.” She answered, “I don’t — I’m here, alone.”
The ornate rum bottle rolled along a plank as the catamaran rocked softly atop the calm, blue water. Sand-coated, Corinne’s feet looked like slippers of gold, and her white-painted toenails peeked out like seashells from the grains.
She watched tall, tanned, and beautiful John jogging toward her with an armful of tropical fruit and wearing a grin as wide and warm as a Polynesian sunset.
AN: This is a workover of the original story published in early 2023 and shortly after shipped off. I lost track of it and felt like I lost the characters in this story that I liked so much, especially the islander, Alu.
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