French Polynesia: The Art of Letting Go

For many trips, I’ve traveled with a purpose.

I wanted to learn something.
 Understand something.
 Come home with a story that explained not just where I went — but why it mattered.

French Polynesia was different.

This wasn’t a trip about meaning or growth.
 It wasn’t about checking boxes or chasing experiences.

It was about letting go.

In this episode of Explorations All Over, I share what it felt like to slow down in one of the most beautiful places on earth — floating in crystal-clear water, swimming alongside reef sharks, diving coral reefs, and stepping inside those iconic overwater bungalows you see in photos and wonder if they’re even real.

But I also talk about something else.

How easy it is to miss the moment while trying to capture it.
 How travel doesn’t always have to change you.
 And how sometimes the most meaningful journeys are the ones that ask nothing of you at all.

If you’ve ever felt the need to make every trip “count,” this episode might just give you permission to travel a little differently.

Transcript

French Polynesia: The Art of Letting Go

For so many trips I’ve taken, I traveled with a purpose.

A trip had to mean something.

I wanted insight, a lesson, a story I could bring home and explain — not just where we went, but why it mattered.

And I loved that. I still do.

But somewhere along the way, I realized I had started treating travel like a project.

Hey there, I’m Russ. Welcome to Explorations All Over.

[opening music]

I researched more. Planned more. Tried to experience more.
 I didn’t just want to visit a place — I wanted to understand it, justify it, earn it.

And that sounds admirable.

Until you realize you’re never actually resting inside the experience.
 You’re always slightly working.

So when we planned a trip to French Polynesia, I remember thinking something I hadn’t thought about a destination in a long time:

I didn’t want it to change me.
 I didn’t want to learn anything.

I just wanted to be there.

And that turned out to be exactly what it gave me.

When people hear the words French Polynesia, they usually picture palm trees, impossibly blue water, white sand beaches, and a blazing sun hanging low in the sky.

And yes — all of that exists.

But what surprised me most wasn’t how beautiful it was.

It was how little it asked of me; allowed me to just be…me.

Most of the trips I’ve talked about this season carried some kind of weight — physical, emotional, even spiritual.

French Polynesia didn’t.

It wasn’t trying to teach us anything.
 It wasn’t challenging our assumptions.
 It wasn’t asking us to grow.

It just gave us space to be.

We visited the islands twice — once as part of a transpacific cruise from Sydney to Honolulu, and later on a circumnavigation cruise focused entirely on French Polynesia.

Different trips.  Same feeling.

Time slowed. Expectations eased. And for once, that was the point.  No “to do” list.  Nothing to check off.

I’m going to blend those two experiences together — the highlights, the low lights, and even the moments where the lights never quite came on — because these weren’t stories about perfection.

They were experiences where all I had to do was let go.

Floating.
That’s the sensation that comes back to me most when I think about French Polynesia.

Floating on water so warm you almost forget it’s there.
 Your body buoyant. Weightless.
 Suspended between sky and sea.

Snorkeling is like flying.  Ever have a flying dream?  It’s like that.

Below you, schools of fish of every size and color — bright, darting — and others larger, slower, unbothered.  Rainbows moving in sync under the sun streaked water.
 You drift above them the way a plane glides over clouds and mountains, close enough to see detail, far enough not to disturb.

At times we moved with the current, carried along a gentle path we didn’t choose.
 Just inches above coral — sharp, intricate, alive.

One careless touch and the spell would break.  So you stayed aware, but relaxed.
 Present, but not tense.

The colors stopped feeling real after a while.  Deep blues and dazzling yellows, pinks as delicate as roses.

Water so clear it felt like air.
 In deeper places, a rich sapphire blue.

One day, while floating, out of the corner of my eye I spotted a group of reef sharks.
They passed beneath us not more than five feet away, moving with a sinuous grace.
Slowly. 

Like sand through an hourglass.

Not threatening.

They swam ever closer and my heart raced, but I never felt threatened or scared.
What I felt was amazement and awe.

No panic.  No fear.

I had my GoPro with me.

I was still pretty new to using it, but like everyone else in the water I was trying to capture the perfect underwater video.

And at one point it hit me that I was so focused on getting the shot that I was almost missing what was happening right in front of me.

So I lowered the camera and just watched them disappear into the blue.

Fish were everywhere.

And there I was staring at a tiny screen instead of just being in the moment.

 Closer to shore, a translucent green — shallow enough to invite you in, deep enough to keep its secrets.
 You could see straight down, but judging the depth was impossible.

Beaches glowed white under the sun.
 On volcanic islands, the sand turned black — dark as onyx, shimmering when the light hit just right.

The greens were endless.
 Deep jade. Soft lime. Delicate shades that looked almost too fragile to survive.
 Palm trees and jungle growth swayed along the shoreline and climbed the hills, as if waving, welcoming.

Flowers exploded with color — yellows, pinks, purples, reds — everywhere, unapologetic.
 Birds called from the trees, their feathers just as vivid, unwilling to be overlooked.

It all worked together.
 Sea, sand, trees, sky, sound.
 A quiet symphony, perfectly in balance.

And overhead, the sun — steady, bright — casting a soft glow on everything, as if reminding you that nothing here needed to rush.

Every evening, we watched the sun lazily dip below the horizon, setting the sky on fire — soft oranges and fading light — as night slowly took shape and the first stars began to appear.

Time didn’t stand still.
 But it softened.

We fell into a rhythm — meals, outings, small adventures — climbing into boats and being whisked away again.

 Some days took us deeper, down into the water on scuba dives.  Other days stayed closer to shore, exploring island life on two wheels.

One scuba dive took us to a deep coral reef.

Our dive captain waved us down and pointed toward a cave in the rock.
 We weren’t that brave, so we declined.
No pressure.

Another more adventurous couple swam in and came back out a few moments later.

When we were back on the boat with our gear off, the dive captain told us something he hadn’t realized at the time.

While he was waving us toward the cave, his hand had been resting in a small depression in the rock.

Just inches away… was a moray eel.

Honestly, I heaved a sigh of relief.

Not for him.

For me.

It was exhilarating at times. Exhausting at others.

Tahiti is known for some of the best vanilla in the world and we took advantage of an excursion that took us to a family-owned vanilla plantation.

The owner walked us through the vines and explained how every pod is pollinated by hand.

And then she said something that stayed with me.

She complained that artificial vanilla had taken over the global market, and farms like hers were struggling to survive.

It was a reminder that these islands aren’t just scenery — people’s lives and livelihoods are rooted here.

Every day felt similar. Every day felt different.

Mornings began with breakfast and an easy sense of possibility.
 Back on the ship for lunch — a piña colada? Why not.
 Then the afternoon opened up.

Lay by the pool?
 Take a nap?
 Go to the gym?

No.  Definitely not that.

Every night there was always something to do.

Before we head into the evening, a quick pause.

Explorations All Over is listener-supported, which gives me the freedom to tell stories like this — slowly, honestly, without rushing to a point.

If you enjoy traveling this way — not just seeing places, but sitting with them — you can support the show by becoming a subscriber.

You’ll get occasional bonus episodes like my upcoming Far Flung Adventures episode to Turkey, early access, and a little more room to wander.

And if not, I’m just glad you’re here.

One evening, after an incredible beach barbecue, local dancers took to the sand.

The steady thump of drums.
 Hands clapping.
 Gestures passed between them — signs that clearly meant something in their language.

They moved together, bodies aligned in pattern and rhythm.

Then the smell hit first — the sharp tang of burning kerosene.

Seconds later, a group of men emerged from the darkness, flaming torches in their hands.
 You could smell the fire.
 You could feel the heat — intense, alive — leaping from the spinning flames.

And they danced.

A different beat.
 A darker energy.

The night itself seemed to recede as the torches lit the air around us.
 It was mesmerizing.

They showed no fear of the flames — only reverence.

When the performance ended, the audience sat silent for a moment, then erupted — stunned, ecstatic.

 The dancers disappeared back into the darkness, torches extinguished, the scent of kerosene lingering in the warm night air.

As we boarded the skiffs to return to the ship, there was a shared understanding among us.

This was something we had never seen before.  And something we knew we would never forget.

Not every journey needs to challenge you.
 Some don’t need to change you at all.

Some just give you the space to let go.

One afternoon, during a beach break after a long morning of drift snorkeling, I decided to throw caution to the wind and ordered a Long Island Iced Tea.

Two women we’d exchanged hellos with earlier in the cruise asked what I was drinking.  I told them.

Their eyes lit up.

A few minutes later, they returned to the beach — Long Island Iced Teas in hand.

I think I had two.  That was enough.  The sun was blazing and even then I realized my limitations; not a good combination.

The next morning at breakfast, there they were again — both wearing sunglasses, clearly not feeling their best.

They blamed me entirely for how rough they felt.

We became fast friends after that.  Sometimes that’s all it takes.

People often ask what traveling to French Polynesia is really like — beyond the pictures.

The reality is, it takes commitment.
 It’s far.
 It’s not inexpensive.
 And it’s not something you just pop over to for a long weekend.

But once you’re there, the pace changes.

Moving between islands becomes part of the experience.
 If you’re on a cruise, much of that’s taken care of.
 Otherwise, it’s small boats and short flights.

You learn quickly that rushing doesn’t work here.
 You’re on island time.

We found that cruising let us see more than one island without constantly packing and unpacking — and for us, that mattered.

Others might choose a single island and stay put.

There isn’t one right way to do it.
 That’s part of the appeal.

On our second trip, there was one thing I insisted we do.

I wanted to stay in one of those overwater bungalows — the kind you see in photos and advertisements and think, that can’t possibly be real.

We did it.
 It was a splurge.

And it was extraordinary in the simplest way.

Waking up with the water just beneath you.
 The sound of it moving softly below the floor.
 Stepping outside and being surrounded by nothing but sky and sea.

It wasn’t about luxury.

It was about finally stepping inside an image we’d carried with us for a long time — and letting ourselves enjoy it without questioning whether it was worth it.

And somewhere along the way, without really trying, I stopped looking for meaning in the trip.

 I just let the place be what it was.  And it let me be me.

Once again, I’m Russ.  This is Explorations All Over.  Thanks for listening and until next time, I’ll see you soon.