By James Evenson
I always thought I’d die out here. Not like you’re thinking—more metaphorically. There is nothing that has given me more pleasure or sense of accomplishment than the feats of human endurance I’ve faced at the hands of our favorite mistress. She almost got me a few times—like the time my catamaran split in half off the coast of Hawaii, or the time my boom broke in half and started violently swinging around the cockpit, threatening to kill anyone stupid enough to try and control the boat. I’ve even run the boat under full sail right up on the rocks… twice! I pictured raising little boat monkeys, swinging from the rigging, climbing the mast, and all other iterations of dangerous behavior I’ve seen through my portholes. I envisioned growing old and gray with the deep wrinkles that seem to belong to a character in an adventure novel. Hell, I am one of those characters—or about as close as you can get.
Twenty-three years I’ve lived on the water. I’ve been to places I didn’t even know existed. Magical, mystical places. Cultures so ancient, I don’t even know how to wrap my brain around. Being from America, a 100-year-old house is considered old. The places I’ve been are measured in millennia—one hundred decades. Even writing this now, it doesn’t make sense to me.
There’s an island in the South Pacific that I’m going to bet you’ve never heard of called Mai’ao. The Forbidden Island. I’d give you the GPS coordinates, but they’d do you no good because foreigners are not allowed in without an express invitation. That’s exactly how it came to us: through a friend of a friend who grew up there. First, I need to tell you the story of why Mai’ao is called the “Forbidden Island”—it’s the fault of one Eric Trower, a British citizen who settled in the village in the 1920s. He opened a shop where you could find every foreign goodie you could imagine: pre-packaged food, chocolate, alcohol… Being the oh-so-kind businessman he’ll be remembered for, he even opened a line of credit for all customers so everyone could partake in the delicious morsels from faraway lands. Then one summer day he decided to cash in the IOUs—all at once. The people didn’t have the cash, so they paid the debt with the only thing they had of value: their land. For nearly 15 years, Eric Trower became the owner of 80% of the island. The locals told us his evil plan was leasing the land to the destructive phosphate farmers of the time. You can Google photos of the rare “raised atoll” of Makatea to see the eviscerated, moon-like terrain they were left with from selling the island to the highest bidder.
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