BOATYARD INITIATION

All boatyards are essentially the same: they're dirty and full of lingering toxins, the boaters in them are always trying to get out as quickly as possible, and they all have a core group of skilled but rough-edged workers that size up the newcomers. This yard is no different. Used sanding discs, plastic lunch wrappers, and discarded paint trays lie strewn about the dirty ground and it's quite obvious that all my neighbors are rushing to float again. The tough Tahitian yard crew keep to themselves, using nods and grunts as they work in polished unison to lift and move boats in and out of the water and about the yard.

The morning of the haulout was my first challenge for acceptance among them. As they untied my docklines, a hulking but kind-faced man asked me for the 5th time if I needed some help to steer Swell into the submerged cradle. I'd already assured him I could do it myself, but this time I shrugged my shoulders and motioned him aboard. I turned over the engine and he stood ready to fend off of the neighboring boats. But Swell backed flawlessly out of her slot, turned like a showhorse, and made decidedly toward the cradle. After oversteering slightly for the sidewind, she slid in at dead center. Botching this maneuver would have been the equivalent of falling on your first wave in a tight line-up. No one really takes you seriously after that.

"Bonne pour une fille! (Good for a girl!)" Taputu said with a smile as we secured the lines thrown from either side of the launch ramp. Slowly Swell and I rose from the sea. Before it was too late, I jumped over the stern rail into the sea with my camera in a drybag to document Swell being driven to the northeast side of the yard. When the tractor finally pulled away, I looked around at my new turf. They'd placed us in a choice locale right next to the lagoon. It was open to the breeze and steps away from where my dinghy would be tied at the marina dock. I must have passed the test.