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Part 3: Once the sun had drawn flaming curtains around itself and descended into the sea, we sat down to a hearty supper and chatted over glasses of Australian shiraz in the cozy, lamp-lit saloon.
By Heather Freckmann — Spring
2004
KAPA
As fascinating as the wildlife is in Tonga, I still think Mariner’s Cave is the first thing boaters should cruise to see. It’s named for Will Mariner, a teenager who was its first European resident in the early 19th century. It is well hidden, with the entrance six or seven feet beneath the surface, and its cavernous interior room lies nearly 15 feet inside Nuapapu Island.
We rounded the northeastern tip of the island and cruised along its leeward coast, sheltered from the piping 15- to 20-knot southeast trade winds. Scanning the shoreline cliffs where the craggy rock plunges into the sea, our skipper quickly located the entrance. Again, we were happy to have a local expert as our guide.
We jumped into the refreshingly cool water with our snorkel gear and fins. I stared at the gaping black mouth in the rock under the water and murmured to my fiance: “I don’t know if I can do this.”
He gave me a reassuring glance and, goaded on by my skipper’s remarks, I dove down and kicked hard. I remembered to face upward inside the tunnel so I wouldn’t bump my head. The world went from inky black to neon blue, and I exploded toward the surface.
I found myself inside a massive room decorated with stalactites that soar nearly 50 feet overhead. Lit only from the entrance tunnel, the water shimmers and glows with liquid fire. This isn’t a cave. It is a hauntingly beautiful cathedral.
“I did it!” I shrieked, my voice careening back at me in delighted echoes. Smiles stretching from ear to ear, we swam back to the boat and each popped open a cold Ikale, Tonga’s local brew. Another benefit of hiring a captain: We were free to soak up some rays while cruising to our anchorage for the night.
Raymond selected a lovely spot in a large protected bay off Kapa Island. On shore, golden light danced across the island’s palm trees and glinted on the bay’s riffled surface. We could see a few Tongans from Falevai village going about their evening chores. We heard the pleasant lilt of voices greeting one another, and we saw women wearing malos (the Tongan version of a sarong). The smell of wood smoke drifted out to our boat from within the thatched and cement houses ashore.
Once the sun had drawn flaming curtains around itself and descended into the sea, we sat down to a hearty supper and chatted over glasses of Australian shiraz in the cozy, lamp-lit saloon. My fiance went up for some fresh air, then bounced back down and grabbed my hand. “You have to see this,” he urged.
The dark sea behind our yacht was gently twinkling. We knelt on the swim platform and swirled our fingers through the water. Blue and white stars of phosphorescence burst in mini-novas, leaving bright trails in their wake. It was mesmerizing.
In the milky hours before dawn, our proximity to the village meant that a particularly earnest rooster got our attention, but I found myself giggling in my berth rather than bemoaning the day’s early start. I lay there a little while longer, soothed by the quiet lap of the sea against the hull, until it was time for a steaming mug of dark, rich Royal Coffee. We sipped as we watched a middle-aged Tongan man paddle his canoe full of supplies along the Kapa shore. Raymond told us he was probably returning from a shopping trip to Neiafu, nearly ten miles in the distance.
Ten miles—it seemed so far away at the time. But just like the kingdom of Tonga, it was more accessible than we could even imagine.
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