Elemental Truths
As a brief hiatus from voyaging, I moved onto a motu in a remote region of the South Pacific. The most geologically mature of French Polynesia’s five archipelagos, the Tuamotus have been weathered and rendered to rings of coral rubble. Once upon a time, each ring encompassed a formidable volcano. Now, all that remains is an exposed barrier reef, just barely enough earth to establish an inner lagoon from the surrounding sea. Here, the natural boundary lines are upheld by natural law. Nature governs and time melts into the momentum of evolution. The resulting environment is a pure expression of eternal elemental truth.
Flanked by the open ocean on one side and a cozy lagoon on the other, motu life was a soft transition from boat life. Salty breeze still blew through my hair and, from the vantage point of my faré (Tahitian for “home”), the sun still rose and set on the cusp of the sea.
By night, the wing-span sky still arched overhead. I tracked the Southern Cross as it slid along the Milky Way. I looked to Orion for guidance when I felt a bit lost and to the moon when I needed a mirror. And, if the stillness of land unsettled my mind, I rest assured thanks to the lullaby of ambient swell.
Summoned by the sun, I awoke at dawn and strolled along a winding path towards the lagoon. Treading lightly upon the craggy coral terrain, my bare feet eventually formed thick soles. There was no need for shoes in a place sans shops, restaurants, and formal dress code. Instead, the ability to roam free from “foot prisons” was advantageous, affording a liberated mode of mobility.
The path from my faré to the lagoon only took a few minutes to traverse, as the whole motu was no wider than half a kilometer. By the time I reached the water’s edge, early morning light peeked over the eastern horizon, painting the lagoon pink and dusting the shoreline with salt crystal specks. Despite the land’s end, I kept walking, stepping onto a bridge that stretched 100 meters out over the water. Along the way, I greeted the resident perroquet (parrotfish) grazing in the coral shallows and the throngs of black tip reef sharks that prowled the pilings.
I came to know the two most handsome perroquet as Simon and Garfunkel. They would coyly twirl as I walked by, nonchalantly broadcasting their bold color and regal form. If the wind was calm, I’d stop and admire them through the magnifying lens of the placid lagoon before continuing my commute. Towards the end of the bridge, where the underwater suspension plunged 15 meters to the seafloor, my stride induced a slight structural sway. So I swayed in response, as if I were dancing on a boat.
The end of the bridge smoothly transitioned into a planked dock. Built atop a shallow coral bommie, the stilted, tin-roofed structure was the heart of Kamoka Pearl. One of many within the lagoon— and one of hundreds within the Tuamotus— this particular pearl farm pulsed with a legendary life-force, as its foundation was laid in relative ancient times.
Enduring the course of time, Kamoka’s resiliency indicated sustainability. After innumerable waves of people and storms and industry wobbles, only the most pono (Hawaiian term for existing in harmonious "right relation") practices persevered. For example, instead of using pressure washers to pre-clean the oysters, which are fueled by nonrenewable resources and suffocate the ecosystem with excessive runoff, Kamoka participated in biomimicry, emulating the organic cleaning process as seen in nature. They encouraged the mutually beneficial tendencies of specific fish species and utilized man-power fueled by mana and good ol’ fashion clean food. They synchronized the workload with the mood of the lagoon and, instead of imposing an agenda, allowed intention to manifest in alignment with the phases and seasons and cycle of the moon.
Through the eras and evolutions, Kamoka formed an intrepid sense of soul. Even in the dead of night or dawn of a new day, a residual hum resonated within the open-air space. I savored the mornings when I was the first to arrive, imbibing in the buzz as a close substitute for a cup of coffee.
Migrating from our respective farés, we gathered just as the sun breached the Southern Hemisphere sky. Few words, if any, were exchanged. In respect to the fragile quiet of morning and French custom, we connected with our eyes and gentle air kisses on each cheek. Or, as practiced by Polynesians, we touched our foreheads together to exchange ha, the breath of life. Regardless of greeting, an air of reverence was honored. For, the the serenity of morning can’t be reclaimed once the day gets kicked into gear.
Revving to life, the 40hp Yamaha outboard engine was our call to action. Dive fins, masks, and gloves were gathered. Necessary gear for the mission ahead was assembled. Before the drowsy blink of an eye, we were loaded in the camion (Tuamotu version of a “work truck”), full-throttle forward in motion. Quietude ensued as the aluminum mini-barge charged forth, carrying us across a dreamy seascape. Words couldn’t encapsulate this world and the engine would drown them out if we tried.
Shifting into neutral, the camion glided to a stop, but the momentum kept rolling. While someone secured the boat to an indicator line, the rest of us slid overboard. At the surface I took a few breaths to reorient, to assess the conditions and the task at hand. Ranging between 5-8 meters below, a row of my-size baskets hung from horizontal station lines, ready to be retrieved. Each basket contained approximately twenty oysters and, therefore, potentially twenty precious pearls.
One by one, we dove. One, two, three or perhaps even four baskets were ushered up to the boat, depending on the strength and skill of the diver. But the count didn’t matter as much as the rhythm. Inhale, hold, dive, arrive, assess, untie, kick to ascend and rise up. Up, down, over, under, we sank into a metrical motion that stretched time into an infinite sense of reality.
Day by day, dive by dive, breath by breath, we retrieved and replaced baskets. We fished for food and surfed for fun. We traversed coral earth and cracked coconuts for milk. We harnessed every possible electromagnetic particle of sunlight into the cells of our bodies and rooftop panels. We ritually observed the spectacle of sunset and, sometimes, instead of tucking in beneath the velvet veil of dusk, we took the hint from Orion and danced until dawn.
Regardless of the prior day or night, I awoke every morning to the earth, the sun, the air, the water. They were all that survived after the wing-span sky swept my sense of self clean. They’re all that remain after a volcano erodes and an outboard engine corrodes. As the basic building blocks of life, the elements are all that was and all that is and all that will be. As such, they’re the keepers of secrets and keys. And if we allow them to saturate our bare skin, they unlock a knowing within that defies time and space. For, an eternal truth is merely a recognition of something that’s existed within us all along.
