When they think about the Society Islands, most sailors likely conjure the most famous of this French Polynesian group—Tahiti, Bora Bora, perhaps Moorea—the stuff that cruising dreams are made of. But from the moment we shimmied our 50-foot steel cutter, Atea, through the narrow, challenging entry of Maupiha’a, we knew we had found something special.
Supremely isolated, with only handful of residents and not even a regular supply ship, this fragment of land, just 1.5 square miles in size, reminds me of the last gift of the holidays, the smallest, least adorned package that goes unnoticed amid the bigger, shinier offerings. After spending time in French Polynesia’s larger, better-known islands, few have time remaining on their visa or in the season to tuck into Maupiha’a on their way west.
Located on the western edge of the archipelago’s Leeward Islands, Maupiha’a, also known as Mopelia, is 100 miles from its nearest populated neighbor. Models of self-sufficiency, its residents raise pigs and chickens, collect tern and booby eggs, and hunt for fish, shellfish, and turtle. They maintain their own small gardens and collect drinking water by catchment or cracked from a coconut. What isn’t grown, raised, or hunted is brought in by a seasonal convoy of willing international cruisers who come laden with flour, rice, sugar, fruit, and a myriad of other staples during the dry season. When the flow of cruisers ends, life returns to self-sustaining isolation until the Pacific fleet resumes the following year.
My family and I were among these cruisers in 2022, lucky enough to spend nearly three weeks here on our way from Maupiti to Tonga. Lucky to get in as well.
Maupiha’a is comprised of a circular lagoon surrounded by one main islet, several smaller motus, and a continuous outer reef. All the water that floods into the lagoon at high tide must exit through the single passage on the western side of the atoll. This fast out-flowing water can cause currents up to 9 knots, so timing entry is essential. The best time to enter is at high water with the engine at full speed. The current will still be against you at about 4 knots, but you can at least make slow progress. Once committed, there is no turning around inside the 60-foot-wide pass.
We got through uneventfully and sailed across the 4-mile-wide lagoon to the southern side of Motu Maupiha’a—an eastern islet—dropping our anchor through crystal clear water into fine white sand, as picturesque as any holiday postcard. We wandered ashore to take a stroll on the palm-fringed beach and soon ran into one of the island’s locals. Pierre was warm and gregarious, inviting us to make ourselves at home. I offered a pair of flip-flops to replace his broken one, but he insisted on scavenging a lone replacement from the windward side of the outer reef where the supply was plentiful.
We passed him again the next day, and he waved us over and offered us fresh fish for our meal that night. I accepted on the agreement that he join us, and that first meal set the foundation for communal living for the rest of our time together.
While Maupiha’a had a short period in pearl farming, it has primarily been used over the past century as a copra plantation. Starting with a workforce of three in 1917, the influx of workers shifted from several hundred at the height of the industry to the handful that now remain. For a scheduled ship to make the trip to the island, the residents must collect a minimum of 50 tons of copra—an amount that takes the current eight inhabitants about two years to harvest.
With such sporadic contact, the islanders use every resource available, and Pierre was pleased to show us how he accomplished this. He taught us how to hunt, kill, and clean meat off a coconut crab, how to determine if a tern egg was embryo-free, how to pluck a coconut from a tree and make fresh milk, how to catch a fish on an unbaited lure (in five seconds, guaranteed). By the time he was finished with us, we could be cast ashore on any mid-Pacific island and feed like royalty if given a rubber band and a rusty hook.
In exchange, we supplied Pierre with a regular dose of coffee, his drink of choice, and took him on his first sailing trip since his arrival seven years earlier. We also left him with a six-month supply of mayonnaise, the “magic sauce” to accompany smoked coconut crab.
After a week of exploring Maupiha’a with Pierre, we departed with the change in wind to find more settled holding on the northern side of the atoll. We reluctantly said our farewells, feeling we’d never find such unbridled generosity and hospitality anywhere else, only to find it replicated by our hosts in our new location.
As soon as we landed our dinghy ashore, a mother and daughter came out to greet us. Adrienne and Karina had been in the middle of burning coconut husks, and they took a break from this sweaty work to extend a warm welcome and escort us around the area, showing us their small garden, a motley collection of animals, and their home. They offered us that day’s catch, and I accepted on the grounds that we share the fresh-caught spoils.
I came ashore that evening expecting to be given a fish that I would cook over an open fire, and I packed a number of side dishes, plates, and a bottle of wine to accompany the meal. When we arrived, the table was set and a full five-course meal was already prepared, a green coconut waiting on a plate for each of us. I offered the wine, but it was rejected for the slightly fermented coconut as the “champagne” of choice.
I humbly accepted the one-sided extravagance that was offered us, knowing that they put aside that day’s work to provide us with such a lavish meal. We had fresh grilled fish, tuna sashimi, coconut crab “paté,” stewed giant clam, and a freshly baked chocolate cake. The night was chatty and festive, and evenings of shared meals continued throughout the duration of our stay.
As with Pierre, Adrienne and Karina invited us to join them in their daily routines and taught us about life on the island and how to survive on it. They took us to one of the smaller islets to walk among booby hatchlings, their downy heads straining to get a look and size us up as a threat. We were shown how to hunt for coconut crab in the night, Karina’s strong, deft hands a stark contrast to my timid, blundering fingers. I would willingly survive on bird eggs, but only desperation would force me to tackle one of those Hulk-sized pinching terrors.
We went on a snorkeling exhibition to learn how to pry giant clams from the rock. I massacred one of these vibrant purple beauties with a flathead screwdriver but had no interest in removing any more, having witnessed the mass graveyards of shells throughout the Caribbean. Forty clams were harvested for a single meal, served as a delicacy that night, and it was, indeed, a tasty one. However, I felt guilty eating something that I knew to be endangered. I was only playing “stranded” on the island for a short time, and with an estimated 80 boats passing through in a season, there would be an incredible demand put on the clam population. Hopefully a balance is reached during the off period to let the population recover in time for the next season’s fleet.
Karina also took us out to snorkel the pass, a popular gathering spot for grey, white, and blacktip sharks. I was nervous to get into the water with a large group patrolling the seafloor. They were curious but not aggressive, so we enjoyed being swept along with their darting silver forms following underneath us through the pass.
Resting in 15 feet of water outside the pass was the highlight of the tour, the scattered remains of the Seeadler, a World War I German sailing warship that had grounded on the outer pass 100 years ago, turning the island’s population of three into an instant settlement of 111. The mixed group of crew and prisoners of war were stranded for several months, building the “Seeadlerburg Settlement” out of the broken wreckage of the ship. The history of the ship and the story of its crew is as rich following the wreck as before it grounded, and to see its rusty bones scattered across the scarred seabed was a poignant moment for us all.
Little did we expect our days and nights to be so richly filled with new-found companionship when we drove Atea through the daunting pass into this little mid-Pacific refuge. We could not have guessed from the outside the treasures that lay within. While the modern world has settled into much of French Polynesia, Maupiha’a remains a slice of Polynesian past. There is no church or school, no medical facility or governmental office. There isn’t an airport, cruise terminal, or tourist center. Definitely forget your Marriott or Four Seasons.
Whoever visits, whether permanent or transient, must arrive fully self-sufficient. According to Pierre, this is part of the attraction; life is simple, needs are basic, and demands are minimal. To live on or even visit Maupiha’a is to live in the present and take each day as it comes—and that was the greatest gift of all.
Kia Koropp and her husband, John Daubeny, have been sailing their 50-foot Dennis Ganley-designed cutter with their two children since 2011, including routes through the Indian, Atlantic, and Pacific oceans, Asia, Indonesia, and the Caribbean. You can follow their travels at svatea.com.
March 2024