Ripped from the travel journal of yours truly: how to get into a Tahitian newspaper.

Tahiti Journal, Day Four (12/12/2000)
We got up late. I didn't even budge until 9:45.

We packed up and decided to get a quick bite before checking out. It was still raining.

We bolted to the ferry harbor, running from awning to awning, trying to dodge the rain. [note: I have never experienced rain that fell so hard, so constantly. We would find out later that this storm was actually the edge of a hurricane.]

We go to the Ono-Ono [note: a high-speed, low capacity ship that traveled a route between the islands several times a day] booth, and it was closed. We asked the Routelle cart lady why it was closed, and replied, "la pluie beaucoup!" [which I think meant "too much rain." ] We asked her if there was any other way to get to Huihine, but today, the answer was no. We munched a waffle (no silverware) at her cart [note: I had a waffle with chocolate and hazelnut spread on it... don't see these kinds of snacks in the states] and decided what to do next. It appeared that the ferry to Moorea was our only real choice.

We [each] bought a ticket, and within minutes, we boarded the Aremiti IV. The ship was more of a shuttle between islands than a bona-fide ferry. Inside, it had two decks, with the lower deck peering through windows, past the railings. [note: This makes the Amemiti seem small-- but the Aremiti IV was big enough to hold about 150 passengers and 12 cars. Hardly a rowboat.]

Initially, we sat down at the table upstairs, but Eric suggested that we go downstairs to get a better view of our voyage.

Not being the types of individuals to sit in the back row, we chose the front seats [of the bottom deck], just right of the center isle.

The rain persisted.

As we sat, waiting for the ferry to depart, we noticed that the water out at the bar [the demarcation between the bay and the open waters] was very nasty. From the dock, the water seemed to swell menacingly.

We pull out the mini-DV cam to document the terrible conditions, the aircraft-like interior [of the ferry], and the strange French radio station.

We kept filming.

We noticed a much larger ferry [note: in retrospect I think it was a cargo vessel] cross the bar, and begin getting kicked around a little. That ferry was gigantic, and our boat was not even 1/4th its size. But- as they did not cancel the trip, we assumed that all was within operational limits.

We began to move. The storm grew worse.

The lower deck was half-full, as was the top.

As we crossed the bar, we continued to plow through the rough, with the swells growing increasingly bad. We turned the DV back on to document the increasingly intense swells. Soon the bow of the boat began plowing into the waves, and the water began washing over the front observation windows, in huge waves.

This was both exciting and anxiolytic... while it was "cool" to be in the rough waters- after three or four waves, we began to question how long the boat or the windows could take the punishment.

The crashing of the waves had knocked open the lid of a compartment directly in front of the large, center observation window. The plastic sheets inside began washing out while the lid flipped back and forth in the waves.

Another set of particularly treacherous waves were upon us, and the first one came up over the observation windows, obscuring all view, replacing it with green water- like an aquarium glass.

The second wave came- and as it reached the same level as the previous, the window imploded, blasting Eric and I with a sheet of broken glass and hundreds of gallons of seawater.

Water continues to pour in, and the ship kept plowing through the waves.

A panic erupted in the cabin; my initial reaction was to try collect my belongings and move to the back stairs.

My backpack and this journal were in my hands immediately, the Tilley [a hat] and my satchel were swept to the back- along with my shoes. I'd taken my sandals off to dry them (and my feet) from walking through the rain. Now, they were gone - and the cabin was now a foot deep in water, and at the bottom, broken glass.

As I glanced about, trying to ascertain the situation, I grabbed by Tilley as it washed by- and is doing so, I jabbed an inch of glass into my right big toe.

The ship continued to rock; I was still the closest to the window. The other passengers began moving up the stairs, but the violent rocking, water, and chaos was making it difficult.

I fumbled to pull the glass from my foot as I tried to keep from losing my balance, fighting the water. I pull the glass out, ignoring the other cuts, and grab my satchel.

Eric was helping people up the stairs- especially a young American student named Eda, who was hysterical. She was calling out for her mother [who was not on the boat] and openly prayed not to die. Eric kept pulling her up the ever-rocking stairs.

Some slipped and injured themselves, and others stayed cool. Eric yelled to me across the now-mostly-vacant lower deck. I yelled that I was fine, and he said likewise. He hollered if I knew where his suitcase was; I located it. It was jammed under a seat, open.

I ripped away at it, and pulled it out. The water kept washing by me. Eric then returned and he grabbed his suitcase. I glanced around for casualties-any unconscious or injured. There did not seem to be any.

I began moving up the isle, finally. The steward began yelling to me from the stairwell, and I told him to leave me alone-and he ran back up the stairs. I assembled my gear on my person and moved up the stairs, fumbling for the handrail as the ship rocked.

Maybe two minutes had passed since the window broke.

As I climbed the stairs, I became aware of many more cuts on my legs and feet. They stung and bled. My eyes stung from the saltwater and my body shook from the adrenaline.

As I crested the stairs, I was soaked in seawater and some much diluted blood.

The upper deck was in chaos.

Most people were in their seats with their lifejackets on- either calm, petrified, or ill. Some were panicking-including Eda, whom Eric returned to and comforted as a paramedic would.

I put my stuff on a seat and sat beside it, trying to survey the scene. A woman was in shock, lying in the isle beside me; a man with bloody bandages pressed to his face sat in front of me, and a girl had vomited on herself across the isle. Many folks simply sat- pale, blank and motionless.

Eric returned to where I sat. We chatted for a second to make sure all was good and neither of us were badly hurt.

By now- the blood, injuries, and sea sickness had taken its toll. Eric and I made it to the available head (toilet) and took turns. Him first, then me. I probably could have gone without vomiting, but I felt much better for having done it, as did Eric.

I favored my right foot as I limped out of the bathroom. On my right, [I saw] the girl Eric talked to. I introduced myself, but she was still fairly gone, distant, dazed. Her friend, Lana, made the connection that I was Eric's friend, and said so. Clear that they were both were not feeling chatty, I returned to my seat.

I surveyed the damage on me: one cut on my left shin, left big toe, heel, instep, ball of foot; and on my right thigh, edge of foot, heel, and right big toe. None seemed to need stitches too badly.

The attendants continuously barked instructions and information-in French, so of little help it was to us.

The trip gradually got less rocky, and in 15 minutes, we had gotten into Moorea's port.

We slowly shuffled off the ferry, but not before we returned to the lower deck to resume searching for the many items we had lost. I eventually found my shoes and my camera-but my film, a book, a lock, and many smaller things had been washed away. Eric lost several things from his backpack. Later, he would realize that one of them was his money belt, containing ~ 500 USD. [Note: this was a belt with a hidden inner compartment for money, made for travel. Hence, "money belt."] At the time, though, we were more concerned with the immediate problem of cuts and getting to a hotel to dry our stuff out and rest.

An ambulance showed up, but some betadine on my cuts-nothing more-and and did the same for several others. The old man with the head wound would spend the night in the hospital, or so I heard.

While waiting to get a taxi, I chatted with Ian, a Canadian returning from Australia to Vancouver B.C.; he was going to Club Med on Moorea.

A reporter, named Jeannot Rey, with the "La Depeche" local newspaper, was on the scene after most others had left. He started talking to me, asking questions, taking photos. Soon after, he began talking to Eric.

Ian got a taxi to Club Med, and asked us if we wanted to go with him - since out hotel was only 1 km away [from his].

We wrapped up our business with Jeannot and gave him any film we had shot in case it proved useful.

We saw the girls, Lana and Eda, again. They said they were staying at the Moorea Village, and to come by that night at happy hour. We said, "sure."

The taxi arrived; Ian, Eric, and I got in- or rather, tired to. Ian was mostly dry, whereas Eric and I were soaked. She [the driver] said she didn't want us getting her seats wet. I was getting a bit irritated at her, but she relented and we got inside.

A half-hour later, we got to Club Med. Instantly, our old "friend" (met on the plane) Nancy walked by. She was from Brooklyn, and it showed. She was very friendly, and helped find us some bandages while we got our stuff organized.

Ian kept me company while Eric looked over his stuff and waited for Nancy to return. She brought us the bandages, and told us to come back soon for drinks, etc.

Hobbling through the light rain, we made our way down the main road. Coming back towards us was Lana and Eda. They looked better, changed clothes, and were now looking for a place to buy a phone card. Apparently, Eda wanted to make good on her wish to have her mother, by calling.

We hadn't been paying attention to the local phone card vendors while we walked [we'd seen nothing but trees and land crabs so far], but we suggested Club Med. They wanted to check a shop down the road. Not much in the mood to chat, we told them that we'd meet up with them a bit later.

We make it to our desired destination, Chez Nelson, and ask for a room. We get a "module" for 3000 CFP a night. It is right by the ocean-as they all are. Honestly, I can't imagine how any of the bungalows are significantly better than any other.

We move in, spread our stuff out, and change. We rest momentarily, and then set out again. We were famished. What little we had eaten was now gone, and the excitement had passed. Only hunger, fatigue, and a dazed feeling remained.

We go to "Glacier Snack" [I think I realized much later that this place was called "Chez Surge" or something like that, and "Glacier Snack" was some random sign nearby] down the road, back toward where we came. We had sandwiches and a Hinano beer. And of course, the dangerous duo of Lana and Eda returned. They came back to our table and sat down. They had sandwiches too.

They hadn't yet located their phone cards-so only a few hours later, we return to Club Med. I thought that they would have this kind of tourist need covered-and we had Ian and Nancy as allies on the inside.

I wasn't sure if we could get in, but the guards at the gate gave us no hassle. In front, sat Nancy and Ian, chatting. Nancy had been there a few days; Ian, who she met through us, arrived when we did.

So, Eric, Eda, Lana, and I strolled up and said hello.

By this point, Eric had determined that his money belt had been lost, and sought to call his parents to have more money transferred from his account to mine, and to call the wharf to have them look for the belt.

Nancy and Eric went inside, leaving Ian, Lana, Eda, and I to chat. After a few minutes, Eric emerged and Nancy gave him her phone card. It has about 30 minutes of time on it. She insisted we take it.

With little more left to do or say at the moment, we thanked Nancy, told Ian we'd see him later, and walked off.

About 100 yards down the path near the gate, Eric tells me that Nancy had made reservations for me and her to go to dinner and dancing at the "Tiki Village" - and the only reason we could just walk in the place is because she'd called the guards and described us, and told them to let us through.

So, rather than fulfilling her expectations-I had shown up at Club Med with two young, attractive women, asked her for her phone card, and left without knowing what she had been planning.

I felt like a jackass, for many reasons. I felt bad about her apparent loneliness (she'd recently been divorced), and this was made worse by my surprise visit and disappearance. She went to Tiki Village alone. On the way by, in the shuttle, she passed us as we walked-and yelled and waved at us very nicely. I could not understand what she said, and I merely waved and my wave was a little too late, and a little too weak. That also made me feel worse.

Eric and I returned to our place, and the girls went to theirs. We showered. Later, we met them at their "hut," (which was more like a small apartment, compared to our single room with two beds) and had some drinks and went swimming.

Exhausted by the day, we agreed to meet up the next morning to rent scooters, see the island.

We walked back. It had stopped raining. It was perfectly dark from the cloud cover.

At Chez Nelson, we chatted with our neighbors briefly and went to bed about 1:20.