Fagatele Bay

After almost a week of being on Tutuila and most of my time being spent in the office, I finally managed to jump in the Pacific. Though it wasn’t without its trials. I woke early Saturday morning and gave Sara a call to see how her last day of firm life for the foreseeable future went. After reading a few chapters in the book I brought, one of my neighbors stopped in to suggest I go to the gym with him. Needing a workout and lacking a plan for the morning I jumped at the chance to get out. Turns out the gym is free and is run by a native Samoan who makes his living as a professional MMA fighter on the mainland. He then uses his income to support a gym he trains at and spreads the gospel of sanctioned violence to his homeland. Needless to say it was unlike any gym I have seen before.

It was an old auto-repair garage that had been updated with a few stacks of weights and large mats for sparring. Turns out my neighbor was coming to the gym to teach a jujitsu class. Never having participated in jujitsu and being the only person besides a professional fighter, who won his last fight in 23 seconds, and the instructor at the gym at 8 in the morning I gamely decided to try it out. Turns out long gangly guys are not ideally adapted to rolling around on the floor and applying choke holds. Though it was a good work out and I managed to fit in some weightlifting after being shown the finer points of an arm lock and guard. Being off of lifting for a few months, my arms were jello by the end of the workout.

My neighbor then suggested some snorkeling to clean up. Desperate to get out and see some beaches I agreed with the condition that I get to eat breakfast. After eating we picked up a two other guys who were up for some aquatic adventures at our housing complex and headed out Fagatele Bay National Marine Sanctuary. The hike in started at a gate where we asked the Samoan family living there if we could cross their land to access a jeep track that led to a path down to the Bay. The husband (who suffers from some fierce elephantitis) said yes, and the wife berated him in Samoan. We figure we better get moving before she convinced him that letting us bypass the gate with a 40 feet jaunt across their front yard was a bad idea.

The jeep track ran down a ridge that looked over Fagatele Bay to the west and Larsen Bay to the east. It was a serene stroll through a coconut forest. After about a mile the trail to the Fagatele branched off. It was a steep dirt track that cut down the slope to one of the few beaches in the Marine Reserve. A native family was making their journey up the trail as we were descending. They warned us the waves were large and hinted that we would be disappointed by what we would find at the beach. Not to be deterred, we continued down the steep trail towards the Marine Reserve access beach.

The trail was steep, rocky in spots, eroded dirt in other areas and littered with coconuts shells in various states of sprouting and decay. Careful attention had to be paid to foot placement and slips did occur. My flip-flops survived, but there were a number of broken and cast off sandals along the route. I made a mental note to bring heavier duty footwear next time I took this way.

The beach was tiny at high tide, surrounded by rock cliffs on three sides and the ocean on the fourth with only a wooden staircase to access the sheer hillside above. The bay was pretty spectacular, the waves were crashing against the lava rock cliffs that line almost every other point in the bay. The cliffs reflected the incoming wave, making echoes of as the bounces the reverberated back and forth. Actually, the waves were huge and breaking very close to shore, even making the beach we were on disappear underneath the break’s runout. After diving on the coast of Northern California for years, I thought I had been in some big surf, but these tall mid-Pacific waves were out to prove that notion wrong.

On this small patch of sand we undertook donning our fins and masks and made our way out into the shallows. It was then I realized this beach was right up on a reef, a shallow reef. A reef that was getting pounded by 15 foot breakers for a few hundred yards out. Not wanting to get caught in the waves, I put my arms and legs to work and sprinted to deeper water. The big waves I encountered on my way out were big, but I was able to see them coming and dive under them, letting the mountains of water pass harmlessly over me. After 5 waves I was hyperventilating and regretting the extra sets of lifting I did with my arms and shoulders at the gym that morning. It wasn’t until I kicked and pulled myself into deeper water that the waves reduced to swells that I was given a moment to relax. A long float later in the water made murky with the detritus stirred up by the waves and some time spent observing the aquatic life of the reserve I contemplated the swim back into shore with the wave intensity seemingly increasing in the shallows.

Our fearless leader, who I was now remembering a few other coworkers called a risk taker, opined that the best way back was to figure out a break in the sets of waves and then make a dash back in and hope the next set doesn’t roll in. One of the smarter members of our expedition opted to try a different beach ono the other side of the bay with a less intense break and make the overland route back to our gear. Nearing the point of exhaustion I didn’t think I could muster the swim and barefoot rock scramble back across the Bay. After watching my fellow newbie begin his swim in and get lost behind the swells I was worried.

The trip leader went next picking his spot during a lull and suddenly I was alone, bobbing in a bay with huge waves breaking on a sharp, shallow coral reef between me and dry land. Mustering up what little strength my arms had left, I watched a large set pass by and then launched myself towards shore. I surfed one smaller wave through the first the first 20 yards of quickly shallowing reef, still 100 to go. The rip current from my benefactor wave started to pull me backwards. I looked down through my mask and could see myself being pulled away from shore. Turning, the next breaker was upon me. The only option was to turn and dive through the avalanche of water. I spun, again and returned to my effort to get myself ashore without chunks of the reef imbedded in my skin or worse. I also realized that my gaming of the waves had pulled me off target. Instead of heading towards our small beach, I was pointed towards the rock wall that hemmed in that little tract of sand.

Adjusting my course back towards our beach I began to fight the current. As an experience abalone diver and beach goer, I know on some intellectual level that fighting a strong current is only a way to exhaust yourself and make your chances of reaching shore dwindle. However, this really didn’t register until I fought the crosscurrent for the amplitude of another wave. Seeing my destination draw further away as the current swept me to the rocky and steep portion of the bay triggered the memories on fighting currents from some dark corner of my brain.

I changed course and started making for a rocky shelf that I could see between the waves that were breaking against it and lazily washing over it. I pulled with all the strength my arms had and managed to catch a rock on the shelf just as a wave surged me up to the outcropping. Thankfully, Spencer had given me an older pair of warm water diving gloves the day before I departed. These saved my fingers from scraped up, my left leg was less lucky and ended up worse for wear from being dragged over the sharp lava rock. Scrambling up the rock I pulled my mask from my face and my fins from my feet and assessed what the next step in my improvised exit strategy would be.

The rock platform that I washed up on had cliff that looked unscalable looming over it, especially considering the noodles my arms had become during my odessey in from the edge of the reef. Another, lower bench of rock was in the direction I need to go to make it back to our starting beach. The waves would crash over the bench, but it would empty of water quickly and have a few moments before the next wall of water came through. Judging this way the best alternative, I timed my jump down, scrambled in the lull between the waves and managed to pull myself up to the next, taller bench along the shoreline. This rock outcropping was high enough to be out of the waves’ reach. Finally securing a moment of peace I leaned against the cliff wall and made sure my wounds were not going to be the end of me.

My current perch had a tree growing out of some fissures in the rock. With a long drop down to the water in the direction I need to go, the foliage was my best route out. I used what little strength I could recover in my arms to shimmy up the tree and reach a spot I could hike over to the staircase down to the beach.

Making my way there, only one of the four people I started this swim with was waiting for me, it was our noted guide/risk taker. The other two were nowhere to be seen. After a long wait the guy who chose the other side of the bay as his exit point came trotting up, much to the joy of his puppy. My other newbie coworker was still MIA. Our searching eyes could not locate him anywhere in the water. We started to gather our gear and contemplate the hike to a spot were a phone call to rescuers could be made. Close to the time we finished changing and packing our gear, our missing snorkeler came stumbling out of the woods.

He had gotten pulled further down the bay by the same currents that had taken me and had to scramble across more lava than I care to contemplate. Our party reestablished, we made the long steep hike out.

A rinse in the pool at our housing complex revived me. I washed my gear out and realized that my rash-guard had not made it back into my bag. I went and check the truck we took and it wasn’t there either. Damn, I knew where it was already, hanging on the tree watching over Fagatele Bay.

A shower later I had recovered some of my senses. At least enough sense to make a trip to the gas station to ensure I could make it out and back the dirt road that led to the trailhead. I was driving the bumpy dirt road back to the trailhead. Another successful negotiation with the native family dwelling at the start of the trail and I was headed back down the same track again.

The second trip allowed me to take a little more time to appreciate the views from the ridge. The bays on both sides looked spectacular from up high. The steep green slopes jut straight up from the water. It’s a place unlike anywhere else I’ve been.

Back down at the beach, the tide had gone out and the breaks were no longer swamping my sandals. Dangling from the tree I’d placed it on hours ago was my rash guard, waiting for its owner to claim it.

The trek up was trying, but not bad. Reaching the car I realized another trail led off to Larsen Bay. Having some daylight left and not knowing when the next time I’d be this far out, I opted to do a little exploring. I veered down the single track trail that cut down the slope to the next bay east. It was another path cut into the slope, but I did remember to change into my Chacos from the second trip and the more secure sandals were up to all the trail had to throw at us.

The Larsen Bay trail saw much less traffic than the route to Fagatele. Spiderwebs were frequently catching my face and arms. Tearing my way through I made the hike down to the bay. I was greeted with a beach made up of large, broken coral. I will definitely need to bring some swim or dive gear here next time and see if the water is any less treacherous here.

Back at home I rewarded myself with a Stienlager, treated my wounds with a rubbing alcohol/hydrogen peroxide/neosporin regime and took some time to appreciate surviving the day and the “Rapture” that billboards proclaimed would happen today.