Take 60 primary school kids. Spend six months teaching the wee boys the Fakarava Haaka and the wee girls how to hula. Dress them up with flowers in their hair. Put them on stage an hour before their time and finally, have four local dignitaries make droning, interminable speeches.

Net result, 60 screaming kids charging around, wound up to a high pitch finally totally out of control of their teachers.

Once the oldies had said their piece the kids took their positions, well, most of them and performed. The wee girls were shakin' their booties, swinging and twitching their hips like Shakira on Speed. Meanwhile, the wee boys pretty much dud what they fancied seldom in time to the music and about as coordinated as a male newcomer to my old circuits class warm-up. In fact, some were better!

Such was the end of our few days on Fakarava. A few days lounging around the palm fringed beaches, the wifi bar and, finally, giving my Christmas heart rate monitor its first outing.

A month or so ago in conversation with Dick, one of our cruising buddies I said I'd go for a run with him. Given this was the first road in a while the opportunity was not to be missed, or it would have been if I could have found an honourable excuse.

I should have tried harder. 30c under a blazing tropical sun. A sun that has been firing the concrete road to the temperature of my brother-in-law's Jamie Oliver pizza oven. The locals look on with quizzical possibly stunned looks like we're completely bonkers. "Hey grandad, come quick and look. It's these crazy white folks again, this time running!!" They know there's nowhere to go and no reason to rush.

Anyway, Dick was gentle with me, taking it easy while the little digits on my watch monitor zoomed into the red only to become blurred and unreadable from the sweat lashing from my every pore. It maybe lasted 25 minutes. Each minute at least 6 minutes long and the last ones stretching out even farther than the end of the road that blurred into a sweat blanked mirage.

Dick had to dash so I did the "I'll just do some stretches" thing. The exhausted mans opportunity to gasp some oxygen while appearing is if he's fine. A natural at this running thing. Just as well I did the stretches as without, I probably couldn't have walked yesterday.

Really great news is we meet up with Dick again in Papeete, the capital of Tahiti in a couple of days. Think I'll keep a low profile!

Fakarava was the last of our Tuamotos. We didn't really do them justice but if you're not a diver there's only so much you can do in a one street town, or more accurately, a palm fringed beach. Some cruisers spend weeks in one anchorage just chillin' but I'm afraid the Letton "press on" gene keeps us moving. That and there's no way Anne was getting into shark infested waters. Not without a rocket pack anyway.

Still got 23,000 miles to go. Can't be just hangin' aboot so after a blustery, rainy night which filled the tank we cast off our mooring at 07:00 heading for the 08:00 slack water at the pass. My ass.

We shot out of there at nearly 9 knots charging through standing waves with the echo sounder saying 2.4 where it should have been over ten. Just as well I didn't have my heart rate monitor on.

250 miles to Tahiti. Two nights at sea, one if we can average over seven knots but I already know we will arrive at 2am in the pitch black.

Maybe that's why cruisers spend weeks hanging off their anchors. Maybe they're just putting off the sailing thing!

Not sure why it's a stunning day. Trade winds blowing at 14-20. Monitor wind came flicking back and forward keeping us on course while Anne sleeps and I type nonsense into a phone!