The Masteka Log — Day Seven

The last tender run: hearts, waves, and one thong held aloft. Going home, reluctantly.

The last morning was not spent packing. The last morning was spent on the beach, correctly.

Morning watch

One more walk on the silica

The company went ashore at first light for a farewell walk down Whitehaven — seven kilometres of squeaking white sand with almost nobody else on it, footprints from the tide line to the scrub, and a sun coming up soft behind the anchored fleet. Then, because it was the last chance, a swim: the water at seven in the morning as clear and cold and perfect as it had been all week.

Two figures leap at dawn on Whitehaven Beach — Dawn, Whitehaven. Two silhouettes refusing to accept that it’s over.

Two walkers on the empty beach at dawn — Morning walkers, jumpers on, sand to themselves.

Whitehaven beach under morning sky — The last look down the seven kilometres.

The dunes at Whitehaven in morning light — The dunes, holding their lines for the next visitors.

Underway

Heading home

Then the week did the thing weeks do. Bags appeared on the aft deck. Masteka 2 made her last passage back toward Hamilton Island, the company took the shuttle down to the marina under the palms, and twelve people who had spent seven days as paddlers, racers, suspects, champions and athletes became, once again, passengers.

Green hills over the varnished rail — Last looks over the varnished rail.

Fringing reef along the shore — The fringing reef, filed away for the daydreams.

A sailboat at anchor nearby — A neighbour at anchor, staying on. Envied.

The last of the blue water from the deck — One more of the blue, because there is no such thing as enough.

Shuttle ride to the airport — The shuttle. Still smiling, technically in transit.

Farewell group at Hamilton Island under the palms — Hamilton Island, under the palms, homeward.

The Cook Islands ensign flying off the stern — Colours to the last: the Cook Islands ensign — Avatiu, her port of registry, worn on the transom all week. The flag stays aboard. So does a piece of all twelve of us.

The week, by the numbers

Seven days. Twelve guests. Six crew. Two humpback escorts and one near-calving. One Cup, contested over two legs and three rounds, won by the Couples. One murder, solved; one killer, sentenced to tea duty. One training camp at dawn, one film at 109 BPM. One chef farewelled in gold. Roughly two thousand photographs — and one log to hold them.

The Voyage Home

One more walk on the silica

Heading home

The Commodore’s farewell