My Friends, or Mes Amis:

	Taipi Vai, Nuku Hiva - You can almost see Melville scrambling over the hills. (And understand why he'd want to abandon ship!)

I am babysitting "Hio" in Rangiroa's bouncy anchorage, waiting to see if the reported "gale warning" will be realized by 30+-knot winds gusting through. This is day 2 trapped on the boat and I know that our big, fat Bruce anchor isn't going anywhere, but feel that it's my responsibility, both to "Hio" and to the rest of the boats in the anchorage, to be here, just in case. We're itching to get moving towards Tahiti, where we're looking forward to being reunited with our other cruising buddies, picking up mail, and doing a little indulgent shopping. But you can only pick your weather on the day you set sail and we're waiting for a nice-looking weather window to pop through.

I want you all to know how much we appreciate hearing from all of you, and being kept informed about what's going on back home. While I have the opportunity in Tahiti, I'd like to send along a few stories back to make up for what a terrible letter-writer I've been!

But, where to begin? Perhaps the best way is to share clips from my journal

Day 1 of the passage, leaving Cabo San Lucas

Nathan is napping and "Hio" is moving swiftly and resolutely across a gently swelling sea (boatspeed of 5 knots in less than 10 knots of breeze). The sea has darkened into the empty blue of deep ocean, and I am listening to us move.

I am in sheer awe. I imagine myself taking 20 steps away from "Hio", to watch her glide and bounce south and west, to try to convince myself that we're actually underway. We're 140 miles offshore by now, mas o menos. Just me, Nathan, "Hio", and our dream.

The three of us have lots of time ahead of us to get to know each other -- think, sleep, talk, listen to music, eat, bathe, read, write, plot, ponder, and play with sail trim.

Up for a horizon check to look for other vessels, and end up looking at "Hio" instead. Look at her, with her tall mast and her big white sails and her broad, shady dodger, sailing with a quiet dignity which belies her 27-year lifetime of anticipation to explore new seas, new stars, new horizons. Yesterday's horizon was chopped into meringue peaks, today's is smoothed by fat, floured baker's hands.

Day 2 and already becalmed

We did a paper towel test after Nathan socked the floppy spinnaker. We debated firing up the engine, but I put on my captain's hat and ordered that it be swim-time. We threw over 2 paper towels to check "Hio's" progress through the water: Nada. Or, rather, no movement we couldn't keep up with. So Nathan dove in, I filmed him floating around for a few minutes, then put the camera down and dove in.

There's nothing like swimming in a horizonless, bottomless sea. It feels so wonderful to bob with the swell but also terrifying to consider the possibilities. It also makes "Hio" look very small.

Over the next few days

Our days are full of little projects, tinkering with the propane stove, wiring a light into the propane solenoid, building a light-air paddle for our windvane (christened "Tiny Tueller"), buffing up the cockpit, checking over produce and culling over-ripe and rotting fruits and vegetables, cooking elaborate one-bowl meals, playing with sail combinations in ever-changing wind conditions, tweaking the microphone on the ham radio, this and that. Nathan is a tinkerer, and his ambition keeps me from getting too lazy. He 's always making small improvements to "Hio", experimenting with ideas he'd now like to implement on his boat, "Bella Phylomena", which is waiting patiently for him in intolerably hot Mexico.

In addition to checking in with Ralph/N6ADJ nightly, I give a report on my location, course, and sea conditions to the "Seafarer's Net", and have brief, bubbly conversations with the "Alembic" crew (the 20-somethings that I was lucky enough to cruise with last year). During one conversation with Wendy, she says: "We really wanted to be able to talk to you as you sailed across the Pacific on "Hio", you were there for us during our crossing last year, and gave us so much encouragement as we were beginning our adventure, when there was so much we didn't know -- we really wanted to do the same for you. Bring it full circle." I'm just sad that the "Alembics" and "Hios" couldn't share an anchorage somewhere during this trip. One day, we've still got a Tania Aebi Fan Club party to organize. [Tania Aebi is our chick-sailor heroine, circumnavigated at age 18-20 in the 80s.]

The weather varies, we whine about sticky, humid nights, then get days of perfect, warm, clear, dry weather, the sea state changes, but for the most part, we're comfortable, and "Hio" is kicking down 120-150ish miles a day.

Day 13

If "Hio" was "Beowulf", we'd be there.

Of course, if "Hio" was "Beowulf", I'd still be Gilligan.

And, really, while I playfully long for little things I can't have out here, something creamy and cold for breakfast; still, warm, shark-free waters to swim in; the shade of thickly-leaved trees and the sounds of birds waking up in their branches; and friends for potluck, I'm not in any hurry. When we drew close to Clarion Island (about 400 miles south of Cabo), I was surprised to find myself a bit reluctant to leave the open ocean. Like so many of the ocean-going folks whose experiences I've read about, I enjoy the rhythm, the momentum, and the mystery of riding the sky and sea in my little boat.

It's still remarkable to know that "Hio" is all mine. Perhaps because I share the realization of this dream with so many people; so many others have woven their experience and skills and gifts into "Hio's" soul that she is ours.

I feel so silly, kissing "Hio" late at night, along the "brow" formed by the back spine of her dodger. I kiss her winches, too, and stroke her teak trim. I wrap an affectionate arm around her backstay and swing with her. I'm grateful to her, too, for hanging in, for waiting, for being patient with my mistakes.

"You really will begin to feel "Hio" you will know her so well. I know "Alembic'" so well now, it isn't even funny!" Wendy's enthusiasm bubbles like the sea we slice with speed, and leaves the same, defined, frothy wake.

Talking to them and getting email messages relayed from Ralph have become the highlight of this big journey.

Day 15

Nathan and I have been talking about boatspeed. I'm feeling a bit chagrined because "Maryanne II" and "Sounding Free", both Westsail 32s, have been clocking in 150+-mile days. Our best, to date, is 154, but we've tended to hover around 120. I've got the waterline and design edge, I should be cleaning their clocks!

"Yeah, but you know what?" Nathan notes, "To get those 150-mile days, those guys have to push. They've probably been heeled hard over and wet on those "good days". Shoot, we've hardly been heeled over this whole trip! And making a steady 5-7 knots? What do you want? Faggetaboutit!"

My competitive nature is soothed, but not quenched, by his encouraging words. What kind of trip do I want? Do I want all muscle and nightmare? Or do I want the solid, steady, pleasurable passing of time? Perhaps when I'm a better sailor, I'll be able to have more boatspeed with equal comfort.

For now, this feels just fine.

Miraculous, really. We're currently riding in the eye of the low. (Folks ahead and behind us are getting hammered by squalls.) Opaque gray clouds huddling along the circular horizon, an indecisive array of cloud formations -- fat and fluffy, thin and wispy, and mackereled; jockey for position above. The sun giving them all shape and making me hot and sticky.

"Tiny" at the helm.

And a grateful me, just watching it all.

Day 18, across the Equator

We shared our equator-crossing with a flock of phosphorescent dolphins surfing our bow as we crossed the line. We toasted all the people (you) who made this crossing possible for both of us, tipping back champagne that had been given to us for this purpose by Daddy's Daddy Dashew. I gave most of my share to Nathan and Neptune (plus a small dash for "Hio"), so still can't be sure if the buzz I caught could be attributed to the alcohol or the sheer wonder of the crossing.

After Nathan tucked himself back into his bunky (we crossed during his off-watch), I went back up to the bow to wait for the moon to rise on my own private ceremony. The moon rose orange and egg-shaped, just waning from full. I waited for her to rise completely from the low fluffy clouds on the horizon, then spoke aloud to her and Neptune. I told the moon that I was glad she had risen to bear witness to my equator-crossing gifts to Neptune, because my boat bears her name: Ava'e.

The first offering was the Tucson dog-tag I wore across the Pacific in 1995. I explained to Neptune that the tag is a momento from the trip I made to Tucson to determine whether or not I should sign on with Sarah and her folks aboard "Beowulf". Something about finding that dog tag as we hiked behind the Dashew's house affirmed my heart's decision to go

The second offering was the lock of hair that was the first cut from my head for my pre-departure head-shaving. I explained to Neptune that the lock of hair represented my own will, independence, courage, and sense of humor to sustain this dream.

The third and final offering was a piece of line from my Turk's Head bracelet that "Alembic" Amy made for me in Bora Bora last year. I told Neptune and the moon about how I had promised to wear it on my wrist until I crossed the equator, but later decided (as it shrunk and chafed at my skin) to cut it off sooner, as a symbolic gesture to affirm me taking my dream into my own hands. So while taking it off was about looking within rather than without to determine my course, I dedicated that scrap of bracelet to all the people who have encouraged and supported and challenged me to get here.

Here: the Southern Hemisphere. Looking at the moon on the other side of the world.

As I finished my private ceremony, blowing kisses at Neptune and the moon, I noticed that the moon had joined us, moon, sea, Neptune, "Hio", and me, with a narrow band of liquid light.

Day 23

Nathan keeps reminding me that there was a time when I said, rapt: I could do this forever! I want to slap his chuckling, cleft-chinned face

I am so sick of being on this boat in these conditions. We're close reaching into strong messy tradewind conditions, heeling and being "hossed" by steep and confused swells. The boat is still wet inside and out from our 2 days of heavy-duty rains that followed our blissful equator crossing all the hatches are closed down against the spray, and the cockpit is periodically thumped by foaming crests of waves. So, mold and mildew are our stinky uninvited guests. And it's hot. And it's too hectic to shower or cook real food. And has been for what, 4 days? Or: forever?

I'm lying in my sticky stinky junk-filled bunk, feeling alternately a bit sorry for myself and lame; looking into the smiling faces of my friends from Portland. Photos taken inside warm, dry, comfortable, stable homes, and I ache for that.

I am exactly where I want to be, doing this.

But part of me wants to go home and rest and have dinner parties with people who won't sail away.

This life is demanding, even on days when I only have ambition enough to read a good book. Yeah, yeah, it's rewarding and exceptional and beautiful, too.

I just want a hearty, hot meal, and a happy tummy to put it in, and clean sheets. And freedom from mustiness.

Waah.

Suck it up

Sigh

Day 25, Landfall!

I'm like a kid, pretending to have outgrown Christmas.

It's 10:20 AM and Nathan spotted land over an hour ago. If I had gotten out of bed with the magnificent sunrise, maybe I could have been the first. But I wasn't, so I'm in no big hurry to get a glimpse of it.

[Next morning, at anchor.]

Nice try: "outgrown Christmas".

I have been giddy for, oh, 10 hours.

I crawled out of bed, all nonchalant, and headed not for the cockpit, but for the head, where I took care of business slowly, methodically. As I did, I chatted casually with a fairly blase Nathan, who had been looking at Hiva Oa on the horizon since the sun came up. I didn't ask him why he didn't shout "LAND HO!" on sight, I just asked him when it appeared, and asked what our morning single-sideband radio net had to say when they heard about our impending landfall. I was in no hurry to see for myself.

But when I stepped up the companionway and lurched gracelessly into the cockpit, all the cool drained out of me. I could feel it puddled between my toes as I looked up at the fragment of rainbow hanging over Tahuata in the distance. "Land Ho" a la rainbow, no less.

"Land Ho?!? Nathan, that land is big!" I was expecting a gray-blue bump way out on the horizon. I didn't even bother to collect my jaw, which was sloshing back and forth across the rocking deck. I didn't bother to poke my eyeballs back into their sockets. I just let them bug out and sponge up this big crazed cliffy and green ISLAND!

We couldn't smell it until we dropped the hook, because the wind was blowing sea smells from behind us. I couldn't smell it, but there it was.

25 days and 3 years and "I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! I CAN'T BELIEVE I'VE DONE THIS! WE'VE DONE THIS! I AM SAILING TO HIVA OA ON MY SAILBOAT! WOO-HOO! AND I'M DOING IT WITHOUT SARAH!"

I took a deep breath. "No. That isn't true. I wouldn't be here without Sarah, I'm not doing this alone, really, so many people are a part of this landfall."

"Yeah," Nathan replied, "but only you and I are here. Only you and I are doing this."

Hoorah!

Hiva Oa

Well there's just so much to tell. And I think Jim shared some of the good stuff about new local and cruising friends, about our first tastes of pamplemousse and other rich Marquesan produce, about me dumping "The Jack" in the surf and losing a bunch of laundry , the stuff I got back is still itchy with imbedded sand, no matter how many times I wash it; about my fast- improving French-speaking, and about how we finally got to clean "Hio" up and start having potlucks with buddy-boats in the crowded Atuona anchorage.

I also had a short-lived "relationship" with a young local man, the story, I think, would best be told in person. Suffice it to say that I'll always treasure knowing him, but am certain that we two are not meant to be. But, boy, was I whipped for a week! And my French improved in leaps and bounds!

My desire to spend time with Albert kept us at anchor in what is probably the least pleasant anchorage in the Marquesas. While the digs weren't the best, spending a lot of time there gave us an opportunity to develop friendships with both locals and cruisers, and, of course, it is the connections I make when I travel that I value the most, far more than the scenery. Which, even in the "ugly anchorage", is remarkably, breathtakingly beautiful.

As I wrote in a "piece" that the Dashews have been encouraging me to put together:

	Mes soeurs - my new "little sisters" and I enjoy the festivities. (Hiva Oa).

I could live on Hiva Oa, this remarkably lush island whose soaring peaks gather clouds like a sheep carder gathers wool, tangling them and holding them until they are torn away by the muscular hand of a strong wind. Our slow walks into town, employing muscles unused during our 25-day passage from Cabo have me convinced that any thing could grow here. What does grow here is plenty for a well-fed life: bananas, pamplemousse, oranges, mangoes, papayas, breadfruit, coconuts, avocadoes, lettuce, cucumbers, onions, garlic, ginger, pineapples, vi (a sweet local "apple" whose meat is laced with prickly spines, and that really isn't much like an apple at all), and tiny hot red peppers that burn holes in our tongues and can burn your skin, if you forget they're in your pocket and sit down on them.

One could easily live off the land here, plant trees and gather the abundant fruit at your leisure, and live off the sea, grab a panga and troll for tuna, mahi mahi, dorado, and eat them raw as "poisson cru". The locals seem nowadays to rely more on imported, canned, and processed food, whose availability has given them a taste for variety.

The "civilized" world, upon discovering these islands, set out to convert the locals, to recreate them in "our" own image: as devout believers in a European God and devout consumers of European goods.

They succeeded.

Whether it's television, taste buds, or basic human instinct that drives indigenous people in lands far away and isolated from the US to imitate American and European culture, I'm not trained to decipher. I simply see groups of young Polynesian boys in characteristic surf/gangster attire: long beach shorts, baggy t-shirts, black wool watch caps, carrying skateboards or boom boxes playing a mix of rap, techno, and reggae music). Their mothers buy potato chips and coca cola for their fat kids to snack on; their fathers, wearing t-shirts advertising American universities and sports teams, drive shiny hill-conquering 4-by-4's. They look just like us.

It's disappointing, really. I'm curious to see them as they would be without the influence of my dominating culture. From my perspective, the island gives them everything they need to live on their own terms and in a manner that more naturally suits their environment. The island offers everything but the escape and adrenaline of the action movies that are my new local boyfriend's favorite kind of film. And of the alcohol that is a favorite recreation.

I was really bothered by the alcoholism I saw in Hiva Oa, and continue to see as I work my way around the islands. Young men and women while away listless hours drinking expensive Hinanos and Heinekens and bags of red wine and are constantly on the make for "whiskey", which is their word for any kind of hard alcohol. I watch them drink and think: we've done this to them. Most drink to get drunk, pressing beers on one another; they drink vast quantities quickly, and, in turn, are quick to fight. It's sad to watch. After a few days joining the partying young soccer players, Nathan got burned out, as well. Albert's alcoholism and the monotony of the scene in Atuona made him and the anchorage easier to leave behind, although I always hate goodbyes, no matter the circumstances.

We visited two other anchorages on Hiva Oa, Hanamenu, an uninhabited bay (has a couple of shacks that are used for periodic pig-hunting and copra-gathering) which is famous for its freshwater spring, and Hanaiapa, whose small village and valley are simply breathtaking. We shared the two spots with our "buddy- boat", "Distant Beat", 30-somethings Phil and Tuesday and their "crew", Canadian 20-somethings Sandy and Nicki; rain kept us cozy inside "Distant Beat", watching videos and having potluck and talking about every movie we've ever seen. When weather permitted, we ventured out for long hikes and even longer church services.

Tahuata

Sometime in the middle of our time at Hiva Oa, we made the quick jump over to nearby Hana Moe Noe Bay on Tahuata stayed there for a few days with friends on "Mangoe" and "Maryanne II", it rained for most of our stay there, but we got a good afternoon of playing in the waves on the beautiful beach, and I got to attack "Hio's" nasty, dirty waterline and hull. It's remarkable what can grow on a boat when she's cruising at 5-8 knots for 25 days!

Nuku Hiva

From Hiva Oa's Hanaiapa Bay, we race "Distant Beat" to Nuku Hiva. If both boats had relied exclusively on wind, "Hio" would have dusted the 40-something-foot ketch, but Phil fires up his engine as the wind drops in the middle of the night (after we passed 'em , and they had a head start!). Nathan and I have a beautiful, slow sail to "Baie du Controlleu.r" To make it in before nightfall, we, too, had to resort to our "iron genny" (engine).

We drop the hook among reef sharks and manta rays, quickly, to have time to shower before yet another potluck. The Big-Eye tuna we caught on our way into the Bay is to be the guest of honor; Phil has rounded up his sushi-making materials, and Corrinne, from "Shakti", would be arm-twisted into making a soy-based "poisson cru" (like sashimi, so damn good!).

The next day, after a quick hike in to the valley that Herman Melville's Typee made famous, to check out some ancient ruins and snake a few pamplemousse from the local health clinic, we scoot over to the main bay in Nuku Hiva, Taiohae, where I had made my first French Polynesian landfall aboard "Beowulf", in 1995. Once again, we catch fish just outside the entrance to the bay, this time, its a wahoo big enough to feed 13 aboard "Hio", the crews of "DB", "Shakti", "Mangoe", "Locura", and "Hio".

A trinity of brilliant-white pikake birds welcome me back to Nuku Hiva -- these birds and the dramatic green peaks are the only familiar elements of this place I've been before. Otherwise, it's entirely new. And I am thrilled and grateful to be here.

We have come to Nuku Hiva to catch the finish of the first leg of an inter- island outrigger canoe race (Ua Huka to Nuku Hiva, 6 hours, 6 rowers). Some friends from Hiva Oa are competing, and we're psyched to see them arrive, and plan to race with them from Nuku Hiva to Ua Pou. We spend our few extra days before the race hiking with the "Locuras" and some other friends, potlucking, birthday partying, frisbee-tossing, and shopping. Nathan is like a kid in the well-stocked hardware store, but refrains from buying anything.

Nothing about Nuku Hiva compels us to stay, Taiohae is just "big-city" enough to keep the locals from being as open and friendly as they have been in Hiva Oa. Anyhow, I'm even more inspired to chase the canoe race, because I've met a cute boy from New Zealand (I had the hardest time realizing that we spoke the same language!) who is on the first all-Maori team to compete in this race.

The canoes leave before Nathan finishes his coffee, so they get a head start, but our sails do the hard work for us, and we have a beautiful trip, charging through the widely-scattered canoes to beat them to the finish line. "DB" comes along behind us, and we all go into town that evening to enjoy the race-end celebrations. Which are fantastic. Dancers from Ua Pou perform traditional dances, including a fire-twirling and -swallowing dance. Local singers entertain the crowd with Marquesan and Tahitian songs, and the Maoris stomp and shout their way through their traditional "haka", and afterwards present the race organizers with a carving of a face that's tattooed differently on each side, to represent how the Maoris and the Marquesans share common ancestry.

It was a beautiful night, and now I'm thinking I'll be heading to Wellington when I get down to NZ, to catch up with a new, old friend.

Nathan also made a new-old friend in Ua Pou. (Phil now calls it "the island of love".) And I got me my dream-girl for "chick crew". Nicki, the 20-something Canadian surfer chick who had been sailing with the "Distant Beat", joined us in Ua Pou and the three of us made the three-day trip to,

Tony Tare, Takaroa's sexiest teenager, blushes his way through his dance team's Bastille Day performance.

Takaroa...

...where my cruising dream began. How incredible to be back. On my own boat.

Nathan saw it first. He always gets to see land first.

We anchored outside the pass for a couple of days, until my friend and champion oyster-seeder, Taumata, could lead us inside through coral heads and pearl farm oyster-growing lines to anchor behind his house -- the pearl farm where my oyster-seeding dreams began.

Being here is almost too big, and also too mundane to write about. It is such a homey thrill to be back among my Takaroan family, and to be sharing it with Nathan and Nicki, who are both quickly adopted into the fam. (Nathan leaves several days after our arrival to return to his fishing job in Alaska. So far, his plan is to return and meet us in Tonga, then continue with me to New Zealand.) Our days are long, we spend them chatting in French, walking to and from town, playing with kids, watching the unavoidable TV -- it's always on, featuring the very worst of American TV (except, thankfully, for "Jerry Springer") dubbed into French --catching up on boat projects, eating way too much (I'm back in the land of "carapou"!), and plotting possible futures.

Being anchored behind Taumata's house keeps us close to the action, within reach of friends, town, and the surf break on the other side of the atoll (which, much to Nicki's dismay, never breaks, the entire month we're there). But, when the wind picks up, as it did every couple of days or so during our stay, wavelets build up across the lagoon and bounce us around. We're fortunate to be tucked behind a small reef that the waves pound themselves out on, but I end up diving the anchor every day and spending many worried mornings watching our movement. But my Bruce (anchor) is my hero, and we don't budge a smidge. One day, we witness 40-knot gusts, as we watch, I'm disgusted with my seamanship, but still don't want to move to the other side of the atoll, where we'll be far from our friends, the surf, the town. Anyway, we don't drag.

Still, I'll be glad to return next year without "Hio". I'll be glad to not have to think about her every time the wind gusts across the lagoon.

I'm pretty sure, at this point, that I'll be back. I still say "IF I come back next year", but my Maman says "WHEN." I have done everything I told them I would, so far , I've come back twice, no less, and this second time, in my own boat, just like I said I would. That must be why she says "WHEN," instead of "IF".

The Temanaha family has opened the door wide for me to return and learn to seed. My Maman has told me that I will live with her (no renting allowed), that she will prepare the oysters that I will be learning to seed with, that Taumata (who everybody says is the best seeder on the island) will teach me, and that whenever I'm ready to come back, we can begin. When I told her that I would write before I come, she replied: "I will not write you. I give you my letter now: just come when you are ready."

How could I not pursue this opportunity?

Of course, the more possible it becomes, the more nervous I get, what if I'm not good at it? What if I don't like it? There's a part of me that's not only afraid of failing myself, but is also afraid of failing la Maman, and Taumata.

Of course, that's how I felt when I stood at the edge of buying "Hio". And look at where I am.

View from the top of the mast, inside the Takaroa lagoon. (Pearl farm - foreground; airstrip and ocean - back.)

Rangiroa

Trapped by high winds and gale warnings, itching to get to Tahiti and look for mail and catch up with all our buddies. We had knit a tight traveling group together in the Marquesas, but have come unraveled, taking our separate paths through the Tuamotus. We're looking forward to stitching ourselves back together.

Rangiroa's saving grace is its surf break, Nicki is finally surfing again, and its familiarity. I've got a lot of sweet memories stashed among the palm trees and coral heads from my visit last year, and I'm enjoying the nostalgia.

Nicki is enjoying (?) her fame as the local surf-break's only chick and only tourist surfer (this week, anyway). As we walk through the streets of the local town, Avatoru, Nicki, with her cool blue modern surfboard under her arm, kids and adults stare and ask: "Are you going to surf?" Then, they advise: "Be careful of the reef!" Cries of "Neek-kee!" punctuate our passing. I feel like her coach, carrying the backpack, watching from shore, chatting with the locals about Nicki and her surfboard. Girlfriend can't get enough, no matter how tired she is the next day, she goes back for more. More ripping waves, more barrels, more handshakes and Tahitian lessons from her fellow surf-boys.

We found out today that Rangi breaks for about 2 weeks in the off-season (which is now). It's "gone off" (been excellent) for the entire week. Nicki's in heaven.

And, still, we're ready to leave for the big city, our friends, our mail.

What's Next?

Soon enough, we'll be in the Societies, bouncing between islands, chasing down friends. And then? The Cooks, maybe. Niue, definitely. And Tonga by October, for sure. Then, New Zealand in November.

Thanks again, guys, for hanging in, and for sending us little love notes. We really treasure our nightly contacts with Ralph, just chatting away with him and N9JTZ/Tony, who joins us from South Bend, Indiana, to help relay if either of us have weak signals. Email missives from friends make a sweet icing for the delicious cake that is our cruising life.

Big love to you all, Capitana "Christelle" and, by proxy, Surfchick Nicki