The French explorer Bougainville called them the “dangerous archipelago,” a name that echoes with the ghosts of old sailing ships. Before we arrived, I saw it as a romantic holdover. Now, as we point our bow north-east, back towards the safety of the Marquesas, I know better. The ghosts are real. They are the steel hulls and broken masts we encountered, but they are also the bleaching coral and the rising sea. They are the sudden gales and ripping currents.

The warnings first came in whispers across the cruiser networks and then came closer and closer. A boat had sunk in the Marquesas before we had come south.

The Marquesas quickly began to reveal their dual nature. They are a place where the mythic and the mundane exist side-by-side. One day, you feel like you’ve sailed into a Herman Melville novel,