We woke early this morning to the sound of rain on deck. Sunday morning waffles would have to be below decks!

We had heard that the church services in Polynesia were a joy to behold, so we jumped into our kayaks in and fought the wind gusts a shore just before eight o'clock mass at the waterfront church. I was delayed a little more even but the man at the landing who wanted to buy my kayak from me, for fishing. No, I told him, I could not sell it, we had a great need of kayaks to get to shore.

The mass was in Polynesian so I understood only the amens and the hallelujahs, but the simple church was a joy to behold, with carved wood supports for the alter, a plain wood pulpit, and a Polynesian looking wooden Christ figure on the wall. There were no stained glass windows, just wide openings allowing light and the fragrant air in to the congregation. There was no organ, just two guitarists providing the chords and the rhythm for the joyous singing. I did not know the language at all, but could sing along with the hallelujahs, feeling the sense of togetherness that comes only from singing in harmony with other people. I did not need to understand or believe the words of the sermon to feel that strong sense of being part of the larger forces of humanity and nature, with the earth rising to a mountainous ridge out the window to my right and the flowers in bloom across to my left, and the sense of the sea directly behind us, and the beautiful chorus of voices around us. Just thankful for the forces that made such a beautiful place and people and brought us here safely. That's it. That's as spiritual as I get.

After the mass, we met Marc, who was quick to take us to his house and show us his carvings, share some pamplemousse, bananas, and breadfruit. And he asked if I could find him the right sized bolt for his cement mixer. I promised to look on board.

We went back to the boat to get supplies for our hike to the Vaaiienui Cascade outside of town. The quay was busy, as a supply ship was anchored in the bay, and its lighter was bring pallets of materials and supplies in. The whole village was waiting. After the round trip to the boat, the freighter was leaving, and the quay was quiet. Up the road, the little village store was, improbably, open. We stepped in to see what they had and how late they would be open. I was immediately commanded by the shopkeeper to parlez Francais only, and to leave my sandals outside. That's right: no bare feet, no service. When I asked how late they would be open, the answer was they were not open, they were closed. But they will be open tomorrow.

On to the waterfall hike! Jean Pierre had not quite given us directions yesterday, but he did assure us that one cannot get lost on Fatu Hiva. The cruisers reports made it sound simple:

“Walk across bridge over river, up paved road, left on dirt track. Turn at cairn, walk in jungle following cairns and old paepaes.”

The only problem was that there were three bridges across the river, plus a ford,, depending on which way you go. After the third bridge and a mile of walking, we eagerly looked for a dirt track to the left and took the first one we saw, which seemed to follow the stream. After several forks, a bit of climbing, and no cairns, the track crossed the stream and petered out into a footpath. I went ahead of Robin about a hundred yards and saw some goats in chain linked enclosure, and what looked like a dining awning. I went back to tell Robin we must be quite lost, when I saw a man in a bright orange shirt with a dog on a leash, and carrying a machete, coming out of the woods off the path.

I greeted him with a “bonjour” and a “ka'oa,” and told him we were looking for the cascade. He smiled and pointed across the ravine, telling us it was close by on the trail on the other side. So we found the correct dirt track, which led to the cairns and the deep and cool blue pool of water under a two hundred foot spray of water falling. We had our anniversary picnic there, leftover chicken, bananas, and chocolates, and swam in the pool. We followed the track back to the laved road where there was a very clear sign for the Vaiinui Cascade.

Back in town, we were accosted near the landing by a gang of giggling children, who wanted to know if they could play with our kayaks. I said sure, as long as they returned them, and made sure to remove anything we cared about losing to the ocean. The small harbor wars filled with the sound of childrens laughter as they took turns splashing and paddling the kayaks around. The fun came to an end when the kids started venturing out beyond the breakwater, where the gusty wind might just blow a kayak all the way to Tahiti. These kids were not going to drown. They can swim! But we did have “grand besoin” of our kayaks, so once one swamped outside the breakwater, I took back the other one to paddle out and rescue the swamped one.

This town needs kayaks badly. Could someone send a half dozen?

Back at the boat to freshen up, then off to Chretien's home for our PolynesIan anniversary dinner! BYOB.