Marinas really should come with a health warning, "Caution: Marina Velcro Disease prevalent here".

We stopped for a few days - in fact, we had no intention of going to the marina, we were on our way to the anchorage but, under a bit of pressure I said OK, we'll just go in for a look. That was nearly three weeks ago.

As perhaps the main "cross road" for Pacific Puddle Jumpers, the marina was full of boats we knew. Party on! On passage, people diverge to visit their chosen spots then, like bees to pollen, or more like, yotties to a party, all come together again to make further assaults on their gin and beer supplies.

Being tied up to a big steady pontoon in a new marina, flat calm, no anchor clunking, no chain wrapping, stress free, shore powered, walk off the boat environment was, after six months at sea, just too much of a luxury to miss.

Having just typed that, maybe "luxury", while correct in relative terms, misses the point that as an option, like our posh pals Julian and Lyn, we could be on the Queen Mary. Or like my brother, doing our trip but with P&O. Now that's luxury.

In keeping with our relative luxury approach to tourism, in an effort to see more of the island we decided we'd get the local bus to the furthest point on the island. Jumping in, we showed the driver our map and pointed to where we wanted to go. He hadn't a clue what I wanted, despite hours of Michel Thomas Learn French in Twenty Minutes. He wasn't much interested in the fact that the "ciel was bleu aujourd'hui" or that I was 16, so some locals came to the rescue.

The consensus was that there was NUTHIN to see way out there so we should sit tight and get off with the lady and her two kids in front.

"D'accord" I said completely fluently and we headed off in the chicken shack on wheels that passed for a bus.

A half hour later, our new best friend turns and says, "come with me". Shades of Morocco go through my head, but away we went. Off the bus, along the street, down a dirt track, definitely Morocco I'm thinking, to this woman's house on the beach. Strangest thing was, in her back garden which ran down onto the beach, was a Contender, the same single hander boat I used to race as a boy. Somehow it found its way from Bob's Boat Yard in London to Tahiti.

Anyway, our NBF, had us hop in the car and she drives us for 30 minutes into the tropical rain forest interior. Was that the sound of drums I heard????

As we parted Anne went into her wallet to give her a boat card. She thought Anne was getting some money and vehemently said "No, no, no."

Polynesia so far has been like this. Everyone is so friendly and unlike the Caribbean no one has a hidden agenda.

Such a pleasure.

Meanwhile, back in our peasant / sea gypsy existence we finally managed to tear ourselves out the marina, although we might still be linked by the huge tendrils of weed we accumulated during our stay, and headed for Mo'orea, 15 miles west of Tahiti.

We are on the deck of the Bali Hai hotel under the mountains, sipping a coffee in the blazing sun.

It's tough, but someone's gotta do it.