We anchored in about 20 metres of water, on a sandy bottom, steep palm topped cliffs above us and only a couple of other boats in the anchorage. A pod of spinner dolphins frequented the bay most mornings, staying for hours, leaping from the water with boundless energy and spinning mid-air, before flopping joyously back into the water.

The water in Tahuata was like nothing I had ever experienced before. The colour of water always feels too ineffable for words, but if I had to try I would call it a deep, dark blue, laced with tones of green and turquoise. Perhaps it is more truthful to describe its feeling; fresh and clear, neither warm nor cold and so clean it didn’t even feel salty. Swimming in it felt truly like being cleansed.

Every morning Jasper and I would jump in and pull ourselves slowly down the anchor chain. We would hang there just above the sea floor and look around us, everything so quiet and calm, suspended in blue. Sometimes there wasn’t much to look at except rolling sand, but other times a stingray, often with its jackfish buddy would cruise around nearby.

Our days were spent exploring the village ashore, getting to know some of the locals and watching them at work. We had the good fortune of arriving during a period of instruction from artist and master carver Eriki, who was visiting from Tahiti. Each day, in a communal space at the centre of the village, the men and women of Hapatoni sat and carved together; in rosewood, cow bone and pearl oyster shell they created bold, yet intricate designs to celebrate their ancient culture and sell to visiting boats or send onwards to Tahiti. Whilst their parents worked, children played in the harbour basin, jumping off the wall and gleefully washing up and down the slip with the swell. The strength of this community was abundantly clear; it was a gift to witness the peace in their simple way of life and strong ties to their ancestors.

In the evenings darkness enveloped the boat - with no visible light from the village, there was no distinction between the inky water around us and the star-pricked sky. Whilst eating dinner in the cockpit we would hear thuds and splashes, which on shining a torch to the water we found to be hundreds upon hundreds of fish. Initially the fish would flee, but after a few minutes they would return, drawn to the light, like moths to a flame and follow when we moved it. Throwing in leftovers was the evening’s entertainment, the torch a spotlight on them swimming and crashing around frantically for rice. In amongst the fish were all sorts of weird jellies and strange lights, conspicuously absent in the daytime.

One afternoon, a short dinghy ride from the bay we found a small rocky point jutting out from the cliff. It looked interesting and like it might have anchoring potential.

A little wary of the surging swell, we chucked the anchor onto a small ledge a few meters down and kept the outboard running whilst we figured out if it was a safe spot. Thankfully there was just enough wind to hold us off the rocks, and not too much for us to drag, so I dove down and dug the anchor in little better. We pulled our fins on and in we went.

Freediving in the Marquesas feels entirely different from the rest of French Polynesia, characterised by darker waters and sheer rock faces, it can certainly feel a little on the spooky side. Diving with a barrier reef feels friendly by comparison, the gradual shelving of coral leading you down to the deeper water, a nice buffer zone to open ocean. The Marquesas shares no such hand holding, but perhaps holds greater rewards. For one, the size and amount of fish - you’re never sure what is going to swim past; a roaming job fish, a huge school of juvenile rainbow runner, or a swooping manta ray emerging ghostlike from the depths. The water here felt so rich with life and so wild. The combination of rocks, boulders and ledges, dotted with coral heads, so robust and beautiful in their strength.

For me, freediving in the Marquesas felt lonely, a little scary and incredible all at the same time, it felt like I was operating in a different, heightened state of consciousness. When I try to analyse this feeling I can only think that since the island itself is so remote, when one is under water at the edge of such a land mass one is suspended in another paradigm of space than normal experience. Claustrophobia is the fear of enclosed spaces, agorphobia is the fear of open spaces. To me the sense of discomfort and excitement I experienced freediving in these islands seemed something very primal and innate to our nature. 

We spent nearly two months sailing in the Marquesas, moving slowly from island to island, but I feel we hardly scratched the under the surface. One day I would love to go back and be able to devote more of our time to freediving these rocky outposts of civilisation. Until then I will try to remember how its waters made me feel so viscerally alive.