Quarter to seven came at … well, it came at 6:45 - the same as it always does every morning. Only, this morning was different. This morning I was waking up at Steve and Olive’s place on Pitcairn Island! I fumbled for my flashlight since there was no electricity this early, as the island generator wasn’t on yet. I dressed and went upstairs. Steve was already gone, opting to let me sleep in a bit more and have some breakfast before starting work this morning. Steve and Olive are fantastic hosts.

Wait a minute … did I say work? Work?!!

This morning I volunteered to help the Pitcairn Island construction crew place a section of concrete roadway down by the jetty. After years of planning and budgeting they’re finally paving the road from the jetty up to Adamstown. They call it “The Hill of Difficulty.” No, really! That’s the name of the road. I don’t blame them for calling it that, can’t think of a better name myself - at least not one that you could print on a street sign.

I skipped breakfast and slipped out the door, then hiked, or rather slid, down the hill to the work site. The H.O.D. is steep enough that you could nearly touch it with your hand straight out in front of you as you stood upright on it (assuming you could stand upright, that is). I got to the bottom just as the crew foreman, Tony, was doling out the jobs for the day’s pour. I’d placed a lot of flatwork in my pre-Picton Castle days back in Alberta, so I had a pretty good idea what I’d be in for this morning. The only difference was that this was not as flat … and there’s not as many palm trees lining the view, or rolling surf coming off the prairie like the swells from Bounty Bay as they crash on the rocky shore, or the sweet tropical smells from all the vegetation or . . . Well, okay, it’s actually quite a bit different from back home.

Road construction on Pitcairn is a dramatic production. You can’t just call the local plant to start hauling out truckloads of concrete out to your jobsite. No. It’s all got to be done by hand and by system here. Concrete is batched a hopper-full at a time. The hopper feeds onto a conveyor that loads a small (3 cubic meter) concrete truck that was barged onto the island about six months ago. In fact, all the construction equipment was brought in then by a small barge: a mini-hoe excavator, a crusher plant, a Komatzu dozer, and shipping containers full of various smaller equipment - all a remarkable feat in itself. You can’t really appreciate what I mean unless you see firsthand what it’s like to try to make landfall on this island. There’s no beach or breakwater, just a small jetty. The pass through a small opening in the reef has to be traversed just right to avoid the rocks and pounding surf on either side. Skill and adrenalin are necessity for boat or barge handling. With these heavy loads they had to wait for days until the weather was just right to dance with the ocean and ride the surf with such heavy loads.

Bruce and Papa Jack volunteered too. They got the dirty work - bustin’ bags of cement at the top of the hopper. A short distance away we could hear the rapping of the rammer-hammer breaking up large boulders into smaller ones so they could be shipped up to the crusher plant and turned into the rock and sand aggregate to complete the blend for some strong concrete. They’ve got the system pretty much down pat already having placed many, many meters already, reinforcing and rebuilding the old jetty that the rough seas had been beating up so badly over the years. The batching went quick. Everything did, really. We were batching, hauling, placing, floating and brooming almost three loads an hour - as fast as Tony could single-handedly screed his way up the hill. By noon we had knocked off the second section of road. That’s two down and about thirty sections more to go.

For me, it was a great morning and felt satisfying to have lent a hand. Placing concrete was like being back home for a while … well, except for the palm trees and the surf and the smell . . . and, well, you get the idea.

Picton Castle at Pitcairn, August 2005

Composed and recited by Kjetil at a concert on Pitcairn to much applause.

I hear the quad a comin'
It's rollin' up the hill.
I hope it isn't Olive,
I owe her money still.

Chorus:
We're stuck on Pitcairn Island,
For another day.
Picton Castle keeps on rollin’,
Just north of Bounty Bay.

Verse 2
When we went out mud slidin’,
Royal told me “Son,
Don’t ride down no fruit crate . . .
You’ll be carried back to town.

(chorus)

We slid down on our backsides,
Hit bottom with a splash.
Now all of a sudden,
We need a thorough wash.

(chorus)
Verse 3
When Sam was half way up a hill,
Logan hit her from above.
Down they went a tumblin’,
Then she gave him quite a shove…
(chorus)

Verse 4
Jack fell flat upon his face,
In a pool of mud.
When the stuff had all dried up,
We all were covered in crud.

(chorus)

Verse 5
Tomorrow we will be headed back,
To our barque out in the bay.
In the longboat we will be carried,
Although we’d like stay.

(chorus)

Verse 6
Far from Pitcairn Island,
That’s where we soon will be.
But our memories, they stay with us,
Somewhere far out at sea . . .

(Maybe another chorus)

It started off innocently enough. I had really just wanted to take a walk. I was on Pitcairn Island, off the coast of nowhere, in the eastern Pacific. When I have been in the tropics, (or as in the case of Pitcairn Island, the sub-tropics) I have enjoyed going out into the bush, to test my ability to handle strange environments. The jungle in the Pacific is about as strange as it gets for someone born and raised in New England. Giant spiders, crabs stuck in coconut shells, rats, rats and more rats, and ferns as big as a house. Bamboo groves grow high into the canopy, sometimes with stalks a half a foot thick Trees that resemble The “Ents” from “Lord of the Rings.” All quite strange for someone used to oak trees and poison ivy.

After Saturday church service I decided to get away from it all, a strange concept really when you’re on an island like Pitcairn, more than 3 thousand miles from the coast of South America and about as far from New Zealand. I was walking down a mud path when it happened. I saw a glint in amongst the underbrush, and in a nanosecond I reverted back to a former pursuit, one that almost caused my demise back home on the island of Martha’s Vineyard-bottle hunting.

Back home, I became an avid hunter of old forgotten bottle dumps-what I call a “’bottle dumper.” Over a few years I had become a “dowser” of bottles. Like those fabled folk of old who, through use of a special forked stick, could find water where there was thought to be none, I could find bottles when hardly trying. My body was the dowsing stick. I had only to walk into some nearby glade and, sure enough, there in the under brush would be the glinting of long-forgotten glass. I can’t explain this affinity I have for searching out these relics of the past. I have come to see bottle hunting as a metaphor for life. How you hope to find some treasure, how pursuing one shining object leads you further into an unknown wood, towards another. For most these objects are trash. For me they are priceless relics, and when you finally think you have had enough and figured that there was nothing to be found, there by your foot would be the hidden treasure that you had long searched for, a hand-blown, colorful, beautifully embossed bottle of “Dr. Wako’s pure elixir for liver and kidney ailments.”

So I stopped for a second and peered into the jungle. It was an opportunity that I had secretly longed for. No longer did I have to suffer the sidelong glances from friends and loved ones, asking, “Why can’t Joe just keep his nose to the grindstone instead of his nose in the bushes?” Here I was, 6 thousand miles from home, with days free to rest and relax on one of the most exotic islands I had ever seen, one that was potentially full of bottle dumps, and here in front of me was the shining bit of glass! I could tell that I was headed for pay dirt.

It usually happens this way; you see the first glint and you go to it. It turns out to be a beer bottle from last week. Let down a bit but not disgruntled, you think to yourself, “Where there’s one, there’s another.” In the 1800s, when bottles were first mass produced, most people lived in rural settings and there were seldom collective garbage dumps. When folks found themselves with more bottles than they could reuse, they often made special dumping areas near there homes and after collecting a fair number they loaded up a wheel barrow and went off to their bottle dumping site.

Generations of bottles can be uncovered in one area if you have the tenacity to sit, wait and look. One of the best techniques for finding bottles is actually to stop, to let the problems of the mind recede. Then the bottles seem to appear from nowhere.

In New England there is a right time to go bottle hunting, in the spring before the new growth takes over. Here in the sub-tropical jungle of Pitcairn Island, it’s a different matter. Giant banana trees shed their leaves as do all the plants, coconut, ferns, breadfruit, guava, taro, cassava. So the jungle floor is a mess of old and new. There is no winter or fall to wilt it all. To find the odd sign of a bottle dump takes a keen eye and a quiet mind. There I sat under a bamboo stand near a banana grove, wondering if anyone had been here before. Had they left a marker for posterity, a bit of trash in the form of a bottle?

The first day was somewhat successful. I managed to find a few relics, a Mullins Fruit Company jar made in Boston and some shards from old black champagne bottles. But on the second day the truth of bottle dumping did shine forth. Bottle dumping is like life. Many times you go in search of something—a job, a mate, a car, a mate with a car—but what you find may be totally different. The first day I started with the intent of finding peace in the jungle. I found some of that, but then was led off in the frenzied hunt for bottle dumps. Eventually, what I came upon was the town ‘tip’, (dump in Pitcairnese). Dumps have always been intriguing to me. What people throw away tells much about their lives. So what better place to understand the lifestyle of the people of this strange and remote place than at the town tip?

Pitcairn has some deep gullies. They are like arroyos, in the southwestern USA, filling up only when it rains. So the people long ago figured that a gully would be a good place to put trash. The gullies lead to the sea. All over the world the sea has long been used as the final resting place of the waste of human beings. So the people figured eventually the trash would wash away to sea. After locating the town tip, I made my way to the bottom of the gully, going back in time perhaps 30 years as I meandered.

Down at the bottom of the gully I discovered a place that was serene and rather magnificent. There was a dry waterfall and a perfect place to sunbathe. I soon heard the roar of the ocean. On Pitcairn the land and the ocean meet in abruptness, so when I heard the sound of the ocean I became excited. I continued on and found myself on one of the enormous lava flows that encircle the island. Like many cold lava flows around the world, it showed the formerly molten nature of the land-hardened black swirls all over, with embedded rocks and shells. It looked like someone had made an enormous cake mix to bake and had left it in the middle of the process.

This particular lava flow is right under what is called “Christian’s Cave.” It’s where Fletcher Christian hid from his fellow mutineers after they had settled here, after having stolen His Majesty’s Ship Bounty, when he was being pursued by his former shipmates. I couldn’t help but wonder if he had used this gully to hide at times, or to fish and get sustenance. He and all the mutineers must have known this place. Perhaps even the Polynesians who had inhabited Pitcairn long ago had also walked here. What started off as a simple walk in the bush became an adventure of the mind. I perused the odd assortment of trash left over the years and could discern some of the habits and realities of the people here, finally leading me to the original white settlers, the Bounty mutineers. I didn’t end up in the standard places that most people visit when they come here, but I saw the island from a wild perspective, similar to that of the first visitors of the place.

So I had begun looking for one thing, peace of mind, rest, relaxation and ended finding another. As in life, so in bottle dumping.

Not to be mistaken for lava, the molten rock that spews from active volcanoes, Lava Lava is a Polynesian word for what we North Americans refer to as a sarong (in the South Pacific, it is not called a sarong until we reach Bali). It is a piece of cotton cloth about the size of a beach towel, and can be found in all sorts of bright colors and prints. Captain Moreland and a number of the men on the Picton Castle crew routinely wear their sarongs in all sorts of weather, but mainly on sunny days. The women tend to wear their sarongs on special occasions, seeing as they can be tied in such a way that they can appear somewhat formal. It is a Picton Castle tradition that the crew wear sarongs (and sometimes a funny shirt) when attending Sunday Marlinspike.

Yesterday afternoon the Captain called a muster on the hatch in order to discuss the culture and traditions of our next port of call, Rarotonga. He and returning world voyagers let us know the “do’s and don’ts” of the region, and a number of the things that we must try to see and do throughout our visit. Most important of all, however, we must wear our sarongs, but we must learn to wear them correctly (so as not to humiliate ourselves in public)!

All hands were instructed to bring their sarongs on deck before the muster. All across mid-ships were flashes of color: sarongs tied around necks, tucked under arms, and wrapped around waists. There were black sarongs with brightly coloured dragons, bright pink sarongs with tribal designs or little blue fishies, and even a few Bob Marley prints! The most popular print sported by our crew tends to be the Hibiscus flower, a very important symbol of the South Pacific islands groups.

Captain Moreland stood on the hatch first and demonstrated for the men the different methods of ensuring the Lava Lava will not fall off. Where it is placed on the hips is key, as is the tightness of the initial wrap. A few rolls at the waist, and it should stay put for a few hours. He demonstrated that the sarong can be adjusted to any desired length, and to suit the wearer’s function (for example, fishing, or even playing soccer!).

For the ladies, Bosun Lynsey and Lead Seaman Rebecca (both former world voyagers), demonstrated the many different styles in which a Lava Lava can be worn by a woman. There were so many possibilities that they had to consult a picture book to figure out where all the knots and wraps go!

At one point, all of the female crew members were pouring over the book on the starboard side of the hatch, and were helping one another figure out how to tie on the various styles for themselves. All of the male crew were standing on the hatch or on the port side, trying to find that sweet spot on the hips and just the right level of tightness to feel secure. A few twists at the waist and deep knee bends revealed a lot of satisfied Lava Lava lovers!

While on Pitcairn Island I had many wonderful experiences, but perhaps the highlight of them all was on the lonely side of the island, at a place called, “Tedside” (the other side), where my friend Dave and I met the island’s only giant tortoise, Mrs. T.

I had first seen her picture on a Pitcairn postage stamp, a painted portrait of her gazing over her territory, her neck long and straight, her features young and colors bright. She made a fine postage stamp, but at the time I did not associate Pitcairn Island with a giant tortoise I was collecting stamps and wanted some with the pictures of the Bounty on them, that is what I thought of when I heard the name “Pitcairn Island”.

Upon further enquiry, I was told by my host Mayor Mike, with whom I was staying, that the tortoise was donated/brought over by the ship Brigantine YANKEE from the Galapagos Islands in the mid to late 1950’s or maybe the 1930’s. She was set loose to roam freely about the island, which was well suited for her needs, except that she had no mate. In fact, it was not until recently that Mrs. T was discovered to be a female and not a male. Her original name was Mr. Terrapin, as it is shown on the now out of circulation postage stamp.

This piqued my interest a bit. I said, “there’s a Galapagos turtle on Pitcairn?” Well if you know anything about the people of Pitcairn, then you know that they love to share what is theirs with the rest of the world. So, we watched a video, then (Dave and I) were promptly invited to take a ride over to Tedside and see if we could catch a glimpse of her. Soon Dave and I were bouncing along down a road hidden from the sky beneath a canopy of Banyan and Banana trees. Deeper we traveled, and further from Adamstown and the well trundled roads of the island until we came upon a gate. Our host Michael stopped while Dave unlocked the gate and opened it. “We put this here to keep her on Tedside”, Michael Said. “But before, she’d been as far over as St Paul’s on the opposite end.” I supposed she may have been munching out their gardens near that spot.

Once through the gate, we went a little way and saw her resting on the side of the road and we came to a stop close enough to get a good look at her but not too close to frighten her off. “She’s a big one”, I said, noticing that she was as big as any of the tortoises we saw while on the Galapagos. “She’s probably about 250 pounds/Kilos”, Mike said. “Want to feed her?” The next thing I know, we three are standing under a Banana Tree scratching our heads, looking up at a bunch of ripe Bananas. “Anyone bring a knife?”, Mike said. I shook my head negatively, and Dave went and shook the tree. Suddenly a Banana fell to the ground, then another, then four or five at once. Triumphant, we filled our pockets full of the ripe sweet fruit, climbed aboard the ATV and headed back up the road to where we last spotted Mrs. T. There she was, having not moved an inch, as though she was in no hurry to get anywhere fast. Having secured our appointment with her we watched as Michael demonstrated how to feed her. “You pull the banana and hold it out like this”, Mike instructed as he approached her slowly, bending to his haunches. Mrs. T’s head was in her shell until she smelled the offering, when out she came, stretching her neck, nostrils venting at what Mike held in his hand. She knew what it was, and did not hesitate longer. She opened her beak-like mouth wide and took a bite of that Banana right from Michael’s hand. Dave took his turn, and then I had mine, repeating the action just as I was shown.

“She used to be quite shy”, Michael said, “But lately she has come out of her shell, I guess you could say”.

We each ate a banana for ourselves before heading back up the road toward Adamstown. Along the way we were told that one day they would like to get a mate for Mrs. T. I hope it is soon. 50 years is a long time to wait even for a turtle with her face on a postage stamp. Next time I hear of Pitcairn Island I will think not of Mutineers, but of a lonely turtle named Mrs. T.

It was a little over a week ago that the longboat, O’Leary, bounced on swells that had formed in the ever-changing wind; packed with literally tons of cargo, half of our crew (the Port Watch, including the 2nd Mate and the Captain), and a dozen or so Pitcairners, we plowed towards an island whose beauty is such that I could not have imagined it in all my life. Yet, for some time my eyes were focused astern studying our staunch and stout ship, the Barque Picton Castle, as she lurched in the waves. She appeared majestic and at home in the South Pacific, off the rugged shores of Pitcairn Island. Dark streaks of rust stained her topsides, and as she swayed under the constant swell, it was as if she were sighing with relief to have come to a rest after having some 2800 nautical miles of ocean pass her keel. An uninterrupted 22-day stretch of deep sea voyaging (after leaving San Christobal, Galapagos Islands), frequent squalls, harsh sun and powerful waves can weather anything or anyone. I was filled with pride at the sight of her and for being a part of her fourth global circumnavigation.

I turned my focus to the island and surveyed the lush mountainsides dotted with houses and the way in which the palm trees clung perilously to the sheer rock faces and cliffs. The landing at Bounty Bay looked like a small gash in the rocks surrounding the small island. Ship’s Landing Point lay broad on the longboat’s port beam, towering and jutting out while we waited for the right wave to carry us past the jetty and into the shelter of the landing. Looking around at the ship’s crew, I found we shared the same nervous smiles as we squirmed with impatience. The engine came to speed again and in moments we had surfed into the landing, tied up alongside, and began to unload in frenzy.

The sun shone bright through the dust that had been kicked up on the landing, and I stood off to one side and looked at the state of pandemonium unfolding around me. Twenty-three sailors had just stepped onto land for the first time in 24 days, having spent the past two days hove-to in the lee of this sub-tropical island awaiting their turn to go ashore. More islanders had come to meet us at the landing. They had opened their hearts and home to the Starboard Watch before us, and now extended to us the same generosity. They were as curious about us as they were about the condition of the much-anticipated and appreciated cargo we had carried with us. Waves pounded the outskirts of the landing while friendships were struck and ATVs were loaded for the muddy drive to various homes. I was invited by Pania Warren, a shipmate of mine who is originally from Pitcairn, to stay at her Dad, Pawl’s house along with John Kemper (former third world voyager), Kolin Murray (trainee, Canada), and David Zimmer (trainee, USA). After the dust had settled and the excitement scattered to other parts of the island, Kolin and I sat awaiting the second run on the ATV with Pania. We sat there absorbing the quiet beauty that cast light on how far we’ve come.

I looked back at the ship making its way offshore beyond the jagged rocks, the endlessly crashing waves and the long, rolling swells. She not only fulfills the Captain’s commitment to transport essential cargo to virtually isolated islands along the trade wind route, but she also carries men and women of all ages who possess the ambition, tenacity, and commitment to sail a square-rigger to other parts of the world. As crew, our ultimate goal is to treat her well and to sail clear around the world, but she gives so much more to us in return for our efforts-fulfilling our personal dreams and aspirations, and instilling confidence and pride in all those who know her. She has become my ship, too, and while I do everything I can to satisfy her needs, her loyalty dwarfs mine as she offers us far more than a mere glimpse at the far corners of the world.

Have you ever gone deep into the woods or way up high into the mountains, isolated from pretty much anything that is out there to distract you from the real fun? Maybe you’d bring along your tent or trailer to sleep in, a few pedal-bikes, and some lawn chairs. You’d build a big fire at night and have a meal of freshly caught fish that would be fit for a king, or at least for you and your friends. Oh, yeah! And you and your friends have brought along your ATVs too! Those fun little four-wheeled machines can take you almost anywhere that you’d want to go, through rocks and mud and up steep hills. Those quads are fun!

I remember sitting around one of those campfires once-well, probably more than once. We’d talk about the adventures we’d had on our ATVs that day and about how cool it would be to live in a place where that was all you had to drive around. There’d be no cars, stoplights or even sidewalks-just trails to ride on. What a blast that would be!

On August 6, the Starboard Watch returned to Pitcairn Island for our second two-night stay in less than a week. Except for a small Jeep that is being kept on the island for storage, and the cement truck that the road crew is currently using (and will return to New Zealand), there are no cars on Pitcairn. I had arrived on the island that we dreamt about around the campfire all that time ago! Quads (All Terrain Vehicles are known as “bikes” on Pitcairn) are the only way, besides on foot, to get around on the island. Hoofing around the island on foot may seem like the “healthy” choice, but the Picton Castle crew learned a very important lesson during our eight-day stay on Pitcairn Island: When it POURS rain (or even trickles a little) on the unpaved, clay roads of a sub-tropic island, there isn’t a shoe in the world that will give you enough traction to prevent dramatic spills when walking up, and especially down, the hillsides. Just walking from one home to another takes a great deal of effort and time, and will leave you caked (literally head-to-toe) in mud! The islanders have long since overcome this mere inconvenience: every household has at least one bike. Zig-zagging around the 1200-foot-high island is a maze of trails. They’ll take you to places like the Hill of Difficulty, Ted Side, Highest Point, Ship’s Landing, St. Paul’s and Down Rope. All of these are places that you must see when visiting Pitcairn, and the easiest way to get to them is by “bike” - especially after a soaking rain!

Only two things will prohibit you from riding to one of those places: (1) You need an ATV, and (2) You need to have a Pitcairn driver’s license. A driver’s license? Yes.

I really wanted to take advantage of the terrain and the muddy, winding roads, so I spoke with Roger, a gentleman from New Zealand who is working on Pitcairn for a few months. Roger suggested that we go see Brenda Christian about getting me a license.

“Sure you can get a driver’s license,” she said, and she fished out a one-page “Rules of the Road” for me to study.

Let’s see - 25 km/hr speed limit, 20 km/hr in town, keep left of oncoming traffic if the road conditions allow, uphill traffic has the right of way except if the oncoming traffic is towing a trailer, lights on one-half hour before sunset and off one-half hour after sunrise, and make sure your parking brake is applied whenever you leave your bike unattended. No problem. This wasn’t so hard!

“OK,” said Brenda after giving me a few minutes to look over the rules. “Are you ready for the road test now?”

My what?” I looked up at her a little shocked. I’d never heard of an ATV road test before … but then again, I’d never heard of an ATV driver’s license before, either.

“Certainly! You wouldn’t think I could give you a license without knowing whether you can operate a quad, would you?

Roger excitedly pointed towards his quad. “Go ahead, use mine!” he said, urging me along with his other hand.

So Roger gave me a quick briefing on the whereabouts of things like the bike’s brakes and gears and other necessities as I sat in the driver’s seat and watched. Brenda hopped on the rack behind me. Apparently I was taking her as a passenger too! I backed out, found first gear, and we were off. Brenda directed me along, “Right, left, stop” I gotta be careful, I thought, This is my only chance to get a license before we leave the island and I don’t want to blow it!

We drove along, turned left and headed up the mountain away from Adamstown. I sped up to the limit-25 km/hr after checking with Brenda that we were safely out of the town limits. She called back to me, “Go Faster!”

Immediately, my first thought was, It’s a trap! If I break the speed limit once it’ll be all over and I won’t get my license. I held my speed at 25.

“Faster!” she chided me with a hint of a giggle from the back seat.

“I can’t!” I called back to her, “I’ll be speeding then and you won’t give me a license.”

“Oh, pooh!” she came back at me, “I thought you said you liked to have fun riding these quads. I already know you can handle one, so let’s have some fun!”

Just then we rounded the hump of the hill and there in front of us was a long, muddy puddle right in the middle of the trail. “Speed up and go straight through it!” she ordered me.

I shrugged my shoulders to myself … She’s the boss … I pinned it. Muddy water sprayed everywhere. We emptied the puddle. What a surf!

The whole road test turned into the same kind of fun. She only needed to see that I could keep the machine under control and that I could climb and descend hills and be able to stop and start on the slopes. She was happy … and so was I. Back at the house she wrote up my license. I was legal to operate a quad on the island and she also told me that the license is international. I’m legal to operate a quad anywhere in the world!

Now back onboard the Picton Castle and underway to Mangareva, I have a chance to sit back and relive my moments on Pitcairn Island. As I hold my licence and smile, I realize that what is in my hand is much more than a cool souvenir from an even cooler island; it is a dream come true.