Around the world with Bob and Christine Harper: At the setting of the son.(Features)

We live in a floating village of people that moves around the world and of course we visit our neighbours.

Tonight was R Phurst's turn. A few nights ago they were on board Breakaway for a bit of Irish fun and a bowl of stew. This evening in a strong wind we went across the anchorage to join Bruce and Jean on their catamaran for a sundowner, or what Americans normally call cocktails.

They had left home after their son of 17 had died of muscular dystrophy. In many ways they are living the adventures for a boy who never had a chance, in the same way that Mark Twain wrote Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn for his son who died at an early age, relating the adventures and dreams his child would never experience.

The wind was gusting through the anchorage up to gale force strength today and continuing to freshen. Walkabout is out on the ocean tonight along with the South African family on La Rouche who have to be in New Zealand for July to qualify for residency.

The winds are blowing hard out of the south with a big sea running and neither yacht can lay a course for Tonga, the desired destination. They are taking waves into the cockpit and are cold and wet. Walkabout's mainsail is in disarray again , but Ian will muddle through.

The one thing that never ceases to amaze me on this voyage is the close friends we make, all the yachts showing concern for each other. There are about 250 small boats circumnavigating at any one time. They are spread over the oceans of the world. It is a understandable, I suppose, that when you meet another travelling yacht in an anchorage there is a get together to recount tales of gales, the high cost of living in French Polynesia and where the next best place to stock up is.

Our present anchorage in Captain's Cook's Bay, Moorea, is hard to beat.

The jagged mountains seem to continually change shape, from early morning when the first light from the east hits them, to the evening we the bay darkens and the sun slips out of sight, leaving the boat cool after the heat of the day. It's great to sleep covered with a blanket again.

Olle P, our Dutch friends, just pulled out today to go back across to Papeete, Tahiti. Hans' wife Marianne has flown back to Holland for a few weeks and his daughter Astrid has joined him for a holiday. They hired a car, inviting us to explore the island with them. Astrid especially wanted to see some of the famous Polynesian waterfalls.

The Fiat Panda is a good little car but not bought for its off-road capabilities. We negotiated our way up a lonely lane until Italian engineering could go no further, so we abandoned the car for Shank's pony. Hans cut walking sticks to help us on our way and we set off in the forest in search of the waterfall, the track all but invisible as the jungle encroached.

From one of the clearings we could see the falls and Hans led us on. Now the Dutch have done this with the Irish before, causing all sorts of problems. Still, we followed him. Half an hour later the heavens opened. It was time to retreat to the car. The path we had climbed was itself a waterfall of mud and slime as we made our way down. Hans was the first one to go onto his back as his feet left him. Christine was next, followed by Astrid and myself as we slipped and slithered down what was a 6in deep river of mud, mainly using our backsides to support us.

When we came to the gentle stream we had forded on the ascent, we now faced a raging torrent. Covered in mud we didn't care any more, plunging into it and carrying onwards. As we arrived back at the car the deluge had stopped, steam was rising from the jungle and us. We continued the journey, sticking to the roads for the rest of the day.

The houses on the island are beautiful, wooden pre-fabricated bungalows with roofs covered in palm fronds. The gardens are well kept. Everything in keeping with the surroundings. The majority of the islanders live on the small first area around the coast with the reef protecting them from the Pacific. The dogs bark furiously as you go by, running out to protect their properties. When you get close they wag their tails, turn around and go home again.

I am slightly wary of dogs even though we always kept them at home. I met a man with a dog once and asked him did his dog bite? He said no and his dog immediately bit me. As I fought him off I berated him. "I thought you said you're dog didn't bite.'' "That's not my dog," he replied. It pays to be cautious.

At the bottom of each garden are a few graves, well cared for, complete with headstones. It seems out here you can get buried at home. Now this of course has certain advantages, mainly the cost. Think of the saving in funeral cars. It also means you don't get involved in a long carry around the town on a bad day, disrupting commerce and traffic. The down side is tripping over your relations on the way to work every morning never mind the problems that would arise if you ever wanted to move house. Do you swop great grannies with the new owners or do you take them with you? It doesn't bear thinking about.

The Pacific hasn't been an easy ocean for us to cross because of El Nino, but things are now starting to settle down. I have just talked to Walkabout and La Rouche on the radio. The winds have eased, the seas are settled and the boats will be in Tonga in a couple of days.

Yours aye, Bob. Captain Cook's Bay, Moorea

Christine's Bits . . .

Bob is not feeling the best today. His ear problem is back again.

Usually every time he's been swimming or snorkelling a little vinegar goes into his ears and that seems to keep them right. The routine has lapsed and he is suffering as a consequence.

Kees (Pronounced Case), another Dutchman, our hippy friend from Happy Island, sailed in yesterday. He had the perfect cure for earache. Parboil a large sliced, round section of onion, wrap in some soft material and lay it on the ear while it is still warm. Very powerful things onions - says Kees - look how they make you cry.

Bob is feeling a little better. Whether it was the prescription ear drops, the pain killers or the onion cured him, or a combination of all three we may never know, but one thing is for sure, I'll have the vinegar ready next time he comes out of the water.

Regards, Christine.

Around the world with Bob and Christine Harper: At the setting of the son.(Features)

We live in a floating village of people that moves around the world and of course we visit our neighbours.

Tonight was R Phurst's turn. A few nights ago they were on board Breakaway for a bit of Irish fun and a bowl of stew. This evening in a strong wind we went across the anchorage to join Bruce and Jean on their catamaran for a sundowner, or what Americans normally call cocktails.

They had left home after their son of 17 had died of muscular dystrophy. In many ways they are living the adventures for a boy who never had a chance, in the same way that Mark Twain wrote Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn for his son who died at an early age, relating the adventures and dreams his child would never experience.

The wind was gusting through the anchorage up to gale force strength today and continuing to freshen. Walkabout is out on the ocean tonight along with the South African family on La Rouche who have to be in New Zealand for July to qualify for residency.

The winds are blowing hard out of the south with a big sea running and neither yacht can lay a course for Tonga, the desired destination. They are taking waves into the cockpit and are cold and wet. Walkabout's mainsail is in disarray again , but Ian will muddle through.

The one thing that never ceases to amaze me on this voyage is the close friends we make, all the yachts showing concern for each other. There are about 250 small boats circumnavigating at any one time. They are spread over the oceans of the world. It is a understandable, I suppose, that when you meet another travelling yacht in an anchorage there is a get together to recount tales of gales, the high cost of living in French Polynesia and where the next best place to stock up is.

Our present anchorage in Captain's Cook's Bay, Moorea, is hard to beat.

The jagged mountains seem to continually change shape, from early morning when the first light from the east hits them, to the evening we the bay darkens and the sun slips out of sight, leaving the boat cool after the heat of the day. It's great to sleep covered with a blanket again.

Olle P, our Dutch friends, just pulled out today to go back across to Papeete, Tahiti. Hans' wife Marianne has flown back to Holland for a few weeks and his daughter Astrid has joined him for a holiday. They hired a car, inviting us to explore the island with them. Astrid especially wanted to see some of the famous Polynesian waterfalls.

The Fiat Panda is a good little car but not bought for its off-road capabilities. We negotiated our way up a lonely lane until Italian engineering could go no further, so we abandoned the car for Shank's pony. Hans cut walking sticks to help us on our way and we set off in the forest in search of the waterfall, the track all but invisible as the jungle encroached.

From one of the clearings we could see the falls and Hans led us on. Now the Dutch have done this with the Irish before, causing all sorts of problems. Still, we followed him. Half an hour later the heavens opened. It was time to retreat to the car. The path we had climbed was itself a waterfall of mud and slime as we made our way down. Hans was the first one to go onto his back as his feet left him. Christine was next, followed by Astrid and myself as we slipped and slithered down what was a 6in deep river of mud, mainly using our backsides to support us.

When we came to the gentle stream we had forded on the ascent, we now faced a raging torrent. Covered in mud we didn't care any more, plunging into it and carrying onwards. As we arrived back at the car the deluge had stopped, steam was rising from the jungle and us. We continued the journey, sticking to the roads for the rest of the day.

The houses on the island are beautiful, wooden pre-fabricated bungalows with roofs covered in palm fronds. The gardens are well kept. Everything in keeping with the surroundings. The majority of the islanders live on the small first area around the coast with the reef protecting them from the Pacific. The dogs bark furiously as you go by, running out to protect their properties. When you get close they wag their tails, turn around and go home again.

I am slightly wary of dogs even though we always kept them at home. I met a man with a dog once and asked him did his dog bite? He said no and his dog immediately bit me. As I fought him off I berated him. "I thought you said you're dog didn't bite.'' "That's not my dog," he replied. It pays to be cautious.

At the bottom of each garden are a few graves, well cared for, complete with headstones. It seems out here you can get buried at home. Now this of course has certain advantages, mainly the cost. Think of the saving in funeral cars. It also means you don't get involved in a long carry around the town on a bad day, disrupting commerce and traffic. The down side is tripping over your relations on the way to work every morning never mind the problems that would arise if you ever wanted to move house. Do you swop great grannies with the new owners or do you take them with you? It doesn't bear thinking about.

The Pacific hasn't been an easy ocean for us to cross because of El Nino, but things are now starting to settle down. I have just talked to Walkabout and La Rouche on the radio. The winds have eased, the seas are settled and the boats will be in Tonga in a couple of days.

Yours aye, Bob. Captain Cook's Bay, Moorea

Christine's Bits . . .

Bob is not feeling the best today. His ear problem is back again.

Usually every time he's been swimming or snorkelling a little vinegar goes into his ears and that seems to keep them right. The routine has lapsed and he is suffering as a consequence.

Kees (Pronounced Case), another Dutchman, our hippy friend from Happy Island, sailed in yesterday. He had the perfect cure for earache. Parboil a large sliced, round section of onion, wrap in some soft material and lay it on the ear while it is still warm. Very powerful things onions - says Kees - look how they make you cry.

Bob is feeling a little better. Whether it was the prescription ear drops, the pain killers or the onion cured him, or a combination of all three we may never know, but one thing is for sure, I'll have the vinegar ready next time he comes out of the water.

Regards, Christine.

Around the world with Bob and Christine Harper: At the setting of the son.(Features)

We live in a floating village of people that moves around the world and of course we visit our neighbours.

Tonight was R Phurst's turn. A few nights ago they were on board Breakaway for a bit of Irish fun and a bowl of stew. This evening in a strong wind we went across the anchorage to join Bruce and Jean on their catamaran for a sundowner, or what Americans normally call cocktails.

They had left home after their son of 17 had died of muscular dystrophy. In many ways they are living the adventures for a boy who never had a chance, in the same way that Mark Twain wrote Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn for his son who died at an early age, relating the adventures and dreams his child would never experience.

The wind was gusting through the anchorage up to gale force strength today and continuing to freshen. Walkabout is out on the ocean tonight along with the South African family on La Rouche who have to be in New Zealand for July to qualify for residency.

The winds are blowing hard out of the south with a big sea running and neither yacht can lay a course for Tonga, the desired destination. They are taking waves into the cockpit and are cold and wet. Walkabout's mainsail is in disarray again , but Ian will muddle through.

The one thing that never ceases to amaze me on this voyage is the close friends we make, all the yachts showing concern for each other. There are about 250 small boats circumnavigating at any one time. They are spread over the oceans of the world. It is a understandable, I suppose, that when you meet another travelling yacht in an anchorage there is a get together to recount tales of gales, the high cost of living in French Polynesia and where the next best place to stock up is.

Our present anchorage in Captain's Cook's Bay, Moorea, is hard to beat.

The jagged mountains seem to continually change shape, from early morning when the first light from the east hits them, to the evening we the bay darkens and the sun slips out of sight, leaving the boat cool after the heat of the day. It's great to sleep covered with a blanket again.

Olle P, our Dutch friends, just pulled out today to go back across to Papeete, Tahiti. Hans' wife Marianne has flown back to Holland for a few weeks and his daughter Astrid has joined him for a holiday. They hired a car, inviting us to explore the island with them. Astrid especially wanted to see some of the famous Polynesian waterfalls.

The Fiat Panda is a good little car but not bought for its off-road capabilities. We negotiated our way up a lonely lane until Italian engineering could go no further, so we abandoned the car for Shank's pony. Hans cut walking sticks to help us on our way and we set off in the forest in search of the waterfall, the track all but invisible as the jungle encroached.

From one of the clearings we could see the falls and Hans led us on. Now the Dutch have done this with the Irish before, causing all sorts of problems. Still, we followed him. Half an hour later the heavens opened. It was time to retreat to the car. The path we had climbed was itself a waterfall of mud and slime as we made our way down. Hans was the first one to go onto his back as his feet left him. Christine was next, followed by Astrid and myself as we slipped and slithered down what was a 6in deep river of mud, mainly using our backsides to support us.

When we came to the gentle stream we had forded on the ascent, we now faced a raging torrent. Covered in mud we didn't care any more, plunging into it and carrying onwards. As we arrived back at the car the deluge had stopped, steam was rising from the jungle and us. We continued the journey, sticking to the roads for the rest of the day.

The houses on the island are beautiful, wooden pre-fabricated bungalows with roofs covered in palm fronds. The gardens are well kept. Everything in keeping with the surroundings. The majority of the islanders live on the small first area around the coast with the reef protecting them from the Pacific. The dogs bark furiously as you go by, running out to protect their properties. When you get close they wag their tails, turn around and go home again.

I am slightly wary of dogs even though we always kept them at home. I met a man with a dog once and asked him did his dog bite? He said no and his dog immediately bit me. As I fought him off I berated him. "I thought you said you're dog didn't bite.'' "That's not my dog," he replied. It pays to be cautious.

At the bottom of each garden are a few graves, well cared for, complete with headstones. It seems out here you can get buried at home. Now this of course has certain advantages, mainly the cost. Think of the saving in funeral cars. It also means you don't get involved in a long carry around the town on a bad day, disrupting commerce and traffic. The down side is tripping over your relations on the way to work every morning never mind the problems that would arise if you ever wanted to move house. Do you swop great grannies with the new owners or do you take them with you? It doesn't bear thinking about.

The Pacific hasn't been an easy ocean for us to cross because of El Nino, but things are now starting to settle down. I have just talked to Walkabout and La Rouche on the radio. The winds have eased, the seas are settled and the boats will be in Tonga in a couple of days.

Yours aye, Bob. Captain Cook's Bay, Moorea

Christine's Bits . . .

Bob is not feeling the best today. His ear problem is back again.

Usually every time he's been swimming or snorkelling a little vinegar goes into his ears and that seems to keep them right. The routine has lapsed and he is suffering as a consequence.

Kees (Pronounced Case), another Dutchman, our hippy friend from Happy Island, sailed in yesterday. He had the perfect cure for earache. Parboil a large sliced, round section of onion, wrap in some soft material and lay it on the ear while it is still warm. Very powerful things onions - says Kees - look how they make you cry.

Bob is feeling a little better. Whether it was the prescription ear drops, the pain killers or the onion cured him, or a combination of all three we may never know, but one thing is for sure, I'll have the vinegar ready next time he comes out of the water.

Regards, Christine.