Departure

The Marquesas was the ideal place to give birth. A land overflowing with running rivers, streams rushing to the sea, rock faces awash. We had met two midwives at the Birthing Centre, one gentle, one kind. They relaxed me. The air was green and the birthing rooms glowed white. We walked around the wooden verandah, the louvered windows open to the verdant garden, overcome with hibiscus and frangipani. It could happen here, my baby; you could arrive. However upon our arrival to Nuku Hiva, they were already waiting for us, ready to stamp in our passports an imminent departure date.During our first few days in French Polynesia we asked too many questions. We had heard that if a foreign child was born on one of the islands they would automatically receive citizenship, which would then mean being able to live and work in the EU. We had made inquiries to that effect, and furthermore whether we would be able to give birth free of charge, under the care of the government. The government officials had answered our questions with attention and without any evidential bother, yet it now seemed that someone had been unhappy with our familial plans. It was decided by the Immigration Officials that once I left French Polynesia the crew and Andrew could stay the length of their original visa - 3 months, but I had to leave to give birth elsewhere. His father, unseen for 3 years was due to fly in, so Andrew was to stay and I was to go. 

We had dropped anchor in the horseshoe shaped bay in Nuku Hiva, where the rain kept steadily falling. It ran down the teak decking, and pooled in gullies made by the steps between the stern and the bow. Water dribbled down the walls below deck, whilst the Navigation Station held a steady downpour, a constant drip, drip that filled more than one bucket. The air was heavy with moisture, lending a dampness and stickiness to all things. Fruit tied to the stern lent a sense of colour and I felt like making banana bread. As the air filled with the smell of baking, his voice sang to me from the radio. The rain cascaded off the biminy,  and I sat in our steamy wooden boat with the waterfalls surrounding us, listening to your father’s familiar voice, and I wept, because I must leave. 

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The alarm on our unused mobile phone woke us. Andrew still heavily asleep from a night of pint sized Tahitian beers with our crew, I had slept lightly, filled with our child, unconsciously aware of the days journey ahead of me, taking my body by plane this time, back home, back to Australia, where the landscape is a sad green. I heaved my body over the safety rails into the dinghy, Andrew waiting, holding the revving outboard. The boats were still sleeping, slapping in the small dark, early morning waves, as we weaved towards the lights of shore.
We didn’t talk much. Our shadows were dark in the yellow streetlights, and I looked so round.  His hand out, hitching as the first cars began to make their way to work in Papeete. Someone stopped, our first ride and we went straight there.
It always seems too soon, the flight is called, our coffee cups are left.
We walked outside to say goodbye, and he bent his head. I watched him walk. His tall back, long steps, moving quickly away, back to the boat, back to it all without me.
And then life carries you on, he walks one way I walk the other, we are both alone. I checked in, went through security. I remember a man tried to guess the sex of my baby as I tried not to cry.