Cruising French Polynesia is a Feast for the Senses

Serenades and champagnes aboard a sleek, elegant vessel

The sun just popped over the horizon and looks like a giant red ball. It pushes back woolly predawn light and colors begin to play on the water. The air that moments ago brought goose bumps is now warming. A steward maneuvers breakfast from his giant tray onto the teeny table and the smell of fresh croissants tantalizes. It’s a feast for the senses, all on my small balcony.

Gary and I are on Radisson Seven Seas Cruises’ m/s Paul Gauguin, sailing from Papeete, Tahiti through the Society Islands of French Polynesia. A tad surprising we’re here, given we had thought cruising is for when we’re 65. For this trip, we pushed our preconceptions aside in celebration of a special anniversary that warranted somewhere new-to-us, tropical, romantic, and luxurious.

A group of Polynesian lovelies serenades and champagnes us aboard this sleek, elegant vessel. With a maximum of 320 passengers, it is much smaller than the behemoth ships being launched these days. The public spaces have an aura of an exclusive club, with brass polished to a gleaming patina and plenty of wood trim. Our stateroom is all dark wood paneling interspersed with bright mirrors and is filled with ocean air courtesy of the sliding door open to the balcony.

We spend a lot of time on our balcony. Looking at the ocean, there’s about a zillion shades of blues to admire. The foreboding dark blue of the deep segues into brilliant turquoises in the shallows. The white crests of waves breaking on the reef look like frilly white bows. Palm trees fringe the islands, shading small beaches and fronting steep volcanic hillsides. At night, there are the stars above and flying fish flashing in the ship’s wake.

I tear myself from the balcony for a tour on Taha’a, the second island port of call. The jungle is a canvas of deep greens accented by flowers in blazing pinks, yellows and reds. Freshly picked fruits are as vivid in taste as their colors - yellow star fruit, orange papaya, brilliant white coconut. Wrinkly black pods of drying vanilla beans emit an intoxicating aroma reminiscent of Grandma’s baking.

On board, vanilla goes far beyond cookies. In L’Etoile, the main dining room with no set dining times or seating arrangements, there’s a savory vanilla sauce for lobster. At the al fresco restaurant Pacific Grill, the tasty spice complements fresh island fish and stars in a knockout frozen soufflé. With much of the world’s vanilla produced in French Polynesia, it is the taste of the islands.

After Taha’a, we sail for Bora Bora. The ship navigates the only opening in the wide reef surrounding the island and moors in its large harbor. While sampling a drink complete with the obligatory tiny umbrella decoration, we meet a couple who’s staying on board. “While everyone is off on an excursion, we have the place to ourselves.” Not that the ship ever feels crowded but they’ve done this cruise before and don’t feel the need to disembark. However, we can’t pass up on exploring the island of which James Michener wrote “Anyone who has ever been there wants to go back.”

The efficient tender service zips us from the ship to the town pier. We negotiate a rental and are off in some French golf cart of a car to circumnavigate the island. The coast road sandwiches us between the dappled ocean and the sharp volcanic crests towering above. We pass stands with rainbow hued pareos billowing in the breeze but stop at some black pearl shops. The pearls are called “black” because they are locally farmed in black-lipped oysters. Ranging in color from creamy white to pink to misty black, their satiny luster gleams with an understated, sensual elegance. Continuing our drive, we pass some energetic fellow passengers on rental bikes. As they battle the fierce head wind, we’re glad of our little putt-putt and the forewarning of the wind our steward gave.

Besides dispensing advice about touring the islands, the crew spoils us. Our cabin is kept so tidy; I want to take our steward home. As I finish adding buffet items to my luncheon plate, a waiter whisks it from my hand, escorts us to our favorite veranda table, and then gallantly serves my plate. Although their contracts are long and homesickness inevitable, the Gauguin’s crew return rate is over eighty per cent. Having your needs met almost instantly with such prideful service is addictive and we’re already bemoaning the fact that being en route to Moorea means the cruise is almost over.

Before reaching Moorea we circumnavigate Tetiaroa, the small palm-fringed and reef-ringed island chain purchased by Marlon Brando in 1966. Imagine owning a tropical paradise.

Dreaming of that, we begin our last excursion; a 60 km drive around Moorea. There are glimpses of romantic overwater bungalows, small villages nestled in jungle vegetation, and pineapple fields perched on steep hillsides. We watch fishermen unloading their freshly caught blue fin tuna and hanging them on a rack for roadside sale. En route to the top of the Belvedere for views of our ship anchored in the bay, we explore the ruins of a marae, an ancient Tahitian sacred place. The jungle has already clambered over much of its low walls.

As we sail from Moorea, I spot a friend looking wistfully back at the island. She’s sad to leave but grins and holds up a handful of cruise brochures. No way will she wait until 65 for her next cruise and neither will we.

Author : Karoline Cullen and Gary Cullen