Written October 2024, Huahine, French Polynesia
Normally, I imagine people travel to this slice of paradise we call French Polynesia to unwind on a crisp, white sandy beach, sipping a piña colada beneath the scorching sun while waves of fluorescent turquoise water tingle at their feet. Then, they enjoy the vibrant marine life, go on a sunset cruise, count stars in the inky night sky, and buy souvenirs from local shops.
Normally, that’s what you get when you visit French Polynesia. Just not if you’ve been here this past month. Now, picture this: strong winds, torrential rain, a sky so moody it could make Eeyore seem cheerful.
Welcome to September in French Polynesia—where the brochures lie and the sun plays hooky. If you came for the dream, sorry—it’s on vacation.
Since arriving in December, I hadn’t once worn long sleeves or slept with a blanket. Until now. Me? I loved it. Our guests? Not so much. They came for tropical bliss and got stuck on a humid boat, playing crappy games or watching shitty movies to pass the time. Even the sea creatures at our favorite dive spots decided to ghost us. Can’t blame them, really.
So, when a semi-decent day finally popped up in the forecast for Huahine, I took matters into my own hands. I suggested a hike, but the only marked trail was miles away. Hitchhiking a dozen people on a tiny island? Not my cup of tea. But when I glanced at the map, I noticed a faint, unmarked trail nearby, beckoning us into the wild. So, off we went.
At first, it was easy—a muddy, wide road leading us deeper into the thick greenery of Huahine. One thing I’ve noticed about this island, different from the rest of the Society Islands, is the pine trees climbing up the mountainsides. I haven’t seen them anywhere else, and I’m mesmerized by the contrast—lanky palm trees set against dense, towering pines.
We walked to the sound of a trickling stream as the road morphed into a narrow, overgrown path. Soon, we’d wandered past the point marked on the map, moving through seemingly nothingness. So, we decided to follow the stream and see where it led.
Eventually, we stumbled upon a small cascade, where the water tumbled into a pool of light, cool blue. Too small for a swim, but let’s be honest—none of us were in the mood to practice the Wim Hof method that day.
Most of the guests bailed at this point, and I nearly did too. After all, I’d only planned for a casual walk. But as I stood there, staring up the muddy ascent next to the cascade, something in me refused to turn around. I have a bad case of FOMO when it comes to adventure, and going just a little further wouldn’t hurt, right?
So, three brave souls and I scrambled up the slippery slopes, embracing the unknown. We stumbled upon more cascades, waded through thickets, and battled relentless mosquitoes that seemed to thrive only this deep in the wild. Unfortunately, I have the kind of blood that makes those little bastards go crazy.
Adventure called, and damn, it was messy and unpredictable. But that’s the magic, isn’t it? Who needs a path when you can blaze your own? I loved not knowing where I was going. Now that I think about it, that seems to be a greater theme in my life.
We tried finding some sort of peak in this green enigma, hoping for a postcard-worthy view. But there was none. And yet, I was reminded—once again—that real adventure can never be planned. Adventure, even the smallest kind, is simply exploring the unknown, whether it’s your surroundings or something within yourself.
So, for all you adventure seekers—if you find yourself in Huahine, grab a machete and carve your own path. The best trails are the ones you create yourself.
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