In 2018, I traveled solo to the French Polynesian islands. By day I surfed, snorkeled, sailed, and swam, stopping only to sleep in an over-the-water bungalow on stilts. On my final night, I lay belly-flat, face peering through the glass-bottomed palapa as neon fish darted between pylons and coral gardens. That’s when I vowed to return someday to this living postcard with my husband, Benjamin.
Recently, that day came to fruition by means of transportation we vowed to never experience: a cruise ship. Obviously not all cruises are created equal, but the thought of being “landlocked” with hundreds of strangers in a floating hotel just wasn’t our style. For us, cruise ships checked all the wrong boxes.
But then there was Windstar, a cruise line of six yachts that accommodate no more than 342 guests. For roughly $8,000 per person their 12-day Tahitian cruise included round-trip air to Papeete, pre-and-post cruise accommodations at Hilton and Intercontinental Tahiti Resort, ground transfers, and of course the sailing experience.
Once we calculated costs for food, hotels, excursions, and island hopping, Windstar had us stacking hands on their Society and Tuamotu Islands cruise. The vessel that would take us there was Star Breeze, an all-suite yacht that underwent a $250 million renovation in 2020.
Flinging open suite 507, I wheeled my bag over the threshold and dropped it where I stood.
“Look, we have champagne and strawberries ... and a walk-in closet and a huge bed!”
After settling into our suite, we headed straight to lunch at Star Grill, one of two dining venues added in the renovation.
“It’s strange,” I said swirling my glass of wine, “to sort of prepay for everything.”
“Yet freeing,” Benjamin added.
That it was, to explore six decks and get lost somewhere between the Yacht Club and Compass Rose. The latter would become our speakeasy, and eventually our nightly headquarters. For now, it was just one of seven drinking-and-dining venues.
Despite the fact we’d be spending the next 10 days at sea, I couldn’t wait to get the show on the water. Our dockside farewell included a visit from French Polynesia’s president, Moetai Brotherson, during a celebration of food, music, and fireworks.
It was after dark by the time we made it back to our suite.
“We’re moving,” Benjamin noted. “Look out the window.”
Sailing was so smooth, I hadn’t even noticed we were underway. Those first few days, what was not to love? The ship never felt crowded, with a casually elegant clientele that chose boutique-ship amenities over luxury grandeur demanding tuxedos and diamonds at dinner.
In their place was Windstar’s partnership with the James Beard Foundation, where an onboard culinary team worked with 20 top chefs to create daily menus and cooking demos.
After full bellies—and a full day at sea—we were ready to see land. First stop was Fakarava, the second-largest atoll in the Tuamotu islands. Just 37 miles long, the island is home to roughly 800 residents, including Aldric, who rented us bikes.
Diving for pearls and climbing for coconuts pass the time for locals, who export both to stay afloat. Beyond the main village of Rotoava, we pedaled through rows of palm groves, trunks wrapped in rainbow anchor buoys like gumdrops on sugar straws.
We traced the island, pausing at a lighthouse from 1957, and again at the Catholic church, Saint Jean de la Croix. There was an eerie abandoned feeling about Fakarava that intensified as we framed the water’s edge.
The first of seven stops on our itinerary, I told Benjamin to be patient; the quintessential turquoise waters would be waiting in Huahine, Rangiroa, Bora Bora, and Mo'orea.
Back on the ship, we could smell “vacation” in the air, with a South Pacific spirit that came with adults jumping off a cruise ship. In hindsight, the Watersports Platform was a highlight of the trip, unfolding from the vessel as our drawbridge to freedom.
The evening was capped by dinner and a Captain’s Brief that ironically lived out Windstar’s slogan, “180 degrees from ordinary.”
That speech marked the unfortunate moment our trip would turn. In the forecast were 100 mph winds, 10-foot waves, and plenty of rain. A trio of cyclones was in our path and approaching the Society Islands. Capt. Simon Terry explained this was his first such experience in 32 years at sea.
There were two options: sit anchored in heavy swells off the Society Islands, or sail northeast to the Marquesas where the seas were calm and the skis blue. Once the storm passed, we would salvage what we could of the itinerary by heading nearly 1,000 miles back to the Society Islands.
The captain chose the latter, a wise move considering we were in the backwash of the strongest cyclone in 40 years. For some passengers, the idea of heading to the “unchartered” Marquesas gave a sense that we were adventurers.
Although the Marquesas were “off limits” to cruise ships, Windstar’s 36-year reputation in Tahiti gave us the green light to pivot our route. Capt. Terry’s relationship with three island mayors would make us the first cruise ship since 1997.
Of the six inhabited islands, we would be visiting four, starting with Nuku Hiva. At that point, I just needed to touch the earth. As San Diego country folk, we walk barefoot in the garden, hug chickens, and eat tomatoes off the vine.
Benjamin kicked off his shoes and knuckled his toes into the sand. He was doing much better than I, enduring seasickness despite patches, pills, pancakes, and any carb I could get my hands on.
As the largest of the Marquesas, Nuka Hiva once served as refuge for Robert Louis Stevenson, Herman Melville, and of course the Windstar passengers who were steadily going stir crazy at sea. As the setting for 2001’s “Survivor,” I got it—the dramatic peaks, black-sand bays and lush terrain. In lieu of originally scheduled pearl diving, we snuggled into jeeps for an island tour.
Somehow, with just 24-hour’s notice, the locals pooled their resources together to line up 4x4s to escort us to the island’s main attractions: sculpture gardens, Notre Dame Cathedral, and Anaho Bay.
Heading back to the tender, we heard mumbles from dissatisfied guests who were craving to get into the water. With liability at the forefront of Windstar’s minds, they made daily apologies for the rough water, strong current, and shark-infested waters. We all rolled with the punches, clinging to hope of a brighter tomorrow.
That too was shadowed by windy conditions that made it impossible for tenders to escort guests to Fatu Hiva Island. And so, bypassing island No. 2, we sailed to our third island, Hiva Oa.
Old school buses transported us from a shipyard to the main village of Atuona, where we shopped, hit the beach and visited the largest tiki sculptures in the Pacific. While some toured the cultural center and resting place of painter Paul Gauguin and singer Jacques Brel, I instead begged to borrow a surfboard from a cruise waiter.
The moment I saw him bobbing offshore, I had an insatiable hunger to catch wave after wave.
And I did, feeling as if I was surfing in a place where few had tucked before. Eventually I relinquished his board, joining Benjamin to snorkel into coves, diving into the abyss until our lungs called truce.
Scratching the sand were wild chickens and tethered horses, backdropped by the sound of drumming in the distance. Hiva Oa was feral, where wild boar and barefoot children ran from—and eventually toward—one another in a hunt that started by age 6. There was a self-reliance about the place, rich, pure, and healthy in every sense.
It was a good day, and perhaps our best, considering we were at the edge of the world at one of the most remote corners on earth. The cyclones had changed everything. The predictability that we feared most about cruise travel was now the one thing we craved most. Nothing was certain, especially for Windstar’s shore excursion team, who booked activities, only to rip up tickets by morning.
Even when seas were calm, the waters were too dangerous to swim due to sharks and jellyfish.
Instead, passengers played cards, read books and hit the gym. Strewn across the Yacht Club were half-finished puzzles beside finished cocktails. There was nothing left to do except talk to neighbors. After daily naps, Benjamin and I headed to Compass Rose, a bar visited by those in-the-know.
“You make the most of it,” said Entertainment Director PJ, holding his glass high.
It was as if a celebrity was in our midst. Several times a day, the ship’s bells would chime, signaling another stormy update from PJ. Most of them negative, he somehow kept us all smiling despite our Tahitian dreams had flatlined. When not entertaining us with his renditions of Andrea Bocelli, PJ kept telling us, “Rainbows are waiting.”
He was right. There we were, together—safe and warm—with nothing but time and budding friendships on our hands. Oddly enough, they bloomed through each chime of another announcement.
“Ding, ding, ding.”
Doors would open, heads would tilt into the hallway, news was heard, and doors would slam shut. Minutes later, we’d all exit and make our way to the social setting of our choice. Ours happened to be Compass Rose, where Jocelyn, the bartender, shook up a smooth martini that couldn’t be matched. The staff’s happiness was infectious, to the point we formed bonds with crew and guests alike.
During those landless days, we became friends with Karen and Floyd, Jill and Roy, Cindy and Ron, Dottie and Keith, Susan and Anthony, and Chadwick, a TV personality—and now dear friend—who loves biscuits as much as we do.
Despite the rocky seas, we all became Windstar roadies, united in cocktails at Compass Rose.
“Sorry I’m late,” Benjamin said, shimmying onto his barstool. “I was talking to John the dentist.”
I didn’t know John.
“Did you change our 7 p.m. reservation with Brent?” he added.
Jocelyn threw down a cocktail napkin in front of my husband and started shaking up the usual.
Clearly, we had adapted, like many others who had graced Windstar. Among them was Christopher Prelog, Windstar’s president who got his sea legs while working as a waiter on board. With now more than 20 years in the industry, Chris and his wife were on our cyclone journey.
Ironically, I connected with her on deck as she rescued a baby seagull, and I offered my humble advice as a farm girl with 80 birds. That’s how things went during our 10 days of slow living.
Despite the crew’s efforts, ports were closed in the Society Islands, with hotels flooded in Bora Bora, and a decree issued by France that marinas remain closed.
With one day left on our trip, we just wanted to go home.
And then, the sun came out as if she was shining just for us—and the other 310 passengers who battled the storm. Despite the rainbow, we would have to watch the beauty from the boat. As if on cue, three bells rang, preparing us for yet another letdown.
“Good morning ladies and gentlemen. This is PJ, your cruise director, ready to share some very exciting news. The decree has been lifted. Mo'orea is all yours.”
I almost cried.
The heart-shaped island was appropriately timed, saving the day—and the trip—with its eight peaks, translucent bays and waters in 50 shades of turquoise. Renting a speedboat, Benjamin turned corners past velvet mountains and white sands where Mount Rotui towered over Cook’s and Ōpūnohu Bay. Over-the-water bungalows reminded me why I first came to the islands, and parrot fish, purple corals and sea turtles reminded me why I returned. Stingrays soared like birds under water and blacktip sharks stirred the sandbanks.
Back on shore, we reunited with strangers-turned-friends, toasting to one island’s power to erase three cyclones. We recapped our day as if an entire trip was wrapped in six hours. Rumors spread that Windstar would be fine-tuning our mishap trip into a two-week voyage called “Tahitian Treasures and Magnificent Marquesas.”
And we were the brave pioneers.
In reality, it wasn’t Mo'orea that saved us, but rather a family-like crew of optimists who served us with joy. It was a 20-something waiter-become-Windstar president who went leeward to stay ahead of the storm. It was a cruise director who sang Bocelli’s “Because We Believe” to keep us convinced Tahiti existed. It was a dentist named John who made us late for dinner. It was a waitress named Jocelyn who kept days at sea shaken, not stirred. And most of all, it was a couple who finally entered a living postcard to swim among neon fish in coral gardens.
