Wind is whining in the rigging. Our small boat is thumping and splashing through the dark sea under a dark, moonless and starless sky. Flashes of white phosphorescence light up the night each time the bow dives into a wave, leaving a trail of sparkles in our wake. Sometimes there’s a larger patch of glowing sea which lasts longer – maybe some creature of the deep disturbed by our passing? It’s 0700, the end of my night watch, but it’s not yet day time. There’s a knife slit in the cloud cover just above the eastern horizon, dead astern. The first glimmer of morning is lighting up the sky behind it, an orange gash in the darkness as the sun tries to slash its way through. The wind is gusty. Mainly blowing near gale force, hauling the boat along as though we were harnessed to a full herd of wild white horses. But sometimes, every few hours for perhaps half an hour, it dies to just the regular trade wind – about 15 knots – leaving us rolling around in the leftover waves. Without the wind to keep them under control, the waves bounce and jump all over the place for a short while, restlessly spending all their stored up energy. It doesn’t take long for the sea to mellow though. Yesterday the wind stayed strong for most of the day and the seas built up impressively. Rolling mountains of dark blue ocean stretching from horizon to horizon, the tops whipped into white foam by the wind. A huge open space filled with an enormous amount of raw natural energy. The kind of sight you only get way offshore, and being right in the middle on a small boat, charging along under sail, makes it pretty special.
It’s been like this for a few days, and I’ve figured out a perfect combination of sails to deal with the changing conditions. We still have the 3rd reef in the main, which we don’t need to touch at all. The storm jib is hoisted and sheeted in tight. When the wind’s up in the thirties, Rafiki will power along at four or five knots, with the centre of effort low and centred in the boat so she doesn’t pitch and dive into the random waves that sometimes rise cheekily in front. The gusts of 40 knots or so push our speed up to six or seven; still not overpowered, but a bit creaky and noisy down below. The storm jib is working out way better than a partially rolled genoa, which, having the power coming from way up high and forward, makes for a slamming, uncomfortable ride. When the wind drops off and the waves mellow out, we unleash as much extra power as we need just by unfurling the genoa outside the storm jib.
Only minutes later, the orange gash in the sky has lost its colour, while the monochromatic seascape is starting to show hints of gunmetal blue. Maybe. I’m not sure. It might still just be grey. The yellow cans of diesel strapped to the rails on each side of the boat are catching the sun and shining happily. All still full – there’s been plenty of wind so far! There’s a thin line of sunlight shining through the hatch and dancing around on the forward bulkhead where Rose’s dad’s screen print is hanging. Like a barcode scanner trying to find a message in the regular patterns of the print.
Dawn always seems to be so much faster than dusk. The colour show only lasts a few minutes at most. I’ve not managed to figure out why – surely the physics of sun rising and setting are the same, whichever horizon it’s on? Especially at sea where there’s no land to make things complicated. Another one for the list of things to look up when I get back to civilisation.
We’re coming up to 5 days at sea now. The half way mark between Tonga and New Caledonia. The first part of this passage has been a mixed bag of wind, waves and navigating around dangers. The track on the chart wiggles all over the place for the first couple of days, and then turns into a nice straight line when the wind swung to the south. We sailed over 180 degrees west the other day! A full hemisphere away from home, and now the longitude digits on the GPS are counting down while the latitude counts up. We actually crossed the date line somewhere between Niue and Tonga, but we were having a bit of a pickle with weather and instrument failure so we didn’t really celebrate it. Also we didn’t really know where it was – none of my charts have time zones marked, and it wiggles around various countries depending on which day they choose to be in.
We’re settling into life at sea again. Keeping the boat’s speed up without pushing her too hard. Reading. Snoozing. Watching the waves. Getting a bit bored of crackers for lunch every day though. But now, time for breakfast – scrambled eggs and spinach, mmm.
It’s now the fourth day at sea since leaving Tonga, we’re heading towards the southern tip of New Caledonia, about four hundred miles into the 1100 mile passage. Apart from a short spell at the start where the wind was a bit lighter, and from astern, we’ve had three reefs in the main all the time. Until today, rain squalls were pulsing through almost non-stop, with gusty wind and no sight of the sun.
The second morning I thought dawn was never going to come. I had my coffee, munched breakfast, dealt with the squalls, and still it was dark. Low, wet, heavy clouds continued to empty themselves all around us – raining large noisy drops as it only can in the tropics. Throughout the day we had similar conditions. Rain, cloud, lots of wind.
Then last night was a bit of a mission. I took the evening watch as I was already in the cockpit in full wet weather gear, soaked through. We were approaching the Lau ridge; an area of shallow water south of Fiji, with a few reefs and “unmarked shoals”. I really wanted to get through this area before dark, and before any significant waves built up. Shallow water and big waves are not a great combination. Fortunately we had a lot of wind astern for the last couple of hours of daylight, so we powered along at 7 knots trying to get as far as we could before darkness fell. The depth sounder kept showing random shallow numbers which gave me an uneasy feeling. It has always done that from time to time, probably picking up some change in water temperature, or an upwelling of some sort. But in the dark, charging along at 7 knots, with shoal areas and an active volcanic area directly underneath, it was unsettling. By 10pm we were through. Over the ridge and into deeper water. Wind picked up, and I spent the rest of my watch juggling the genoa in and out as the squalls came through, trying to stay dry under the spray hood. I took over the watch again at 7am to the joyous sight of blue sky ahead. The cloud front moving over us to the east made a dramatic sight; a stark contrast between the dark menacing storm of the night and a promise of clear weather ahead.
Leaving the storm behind
Today, it’s a clear blue sky but still a howling wind. The waves are starting to build. The wind is coming from the south west at about 30 knots, pretty much exactly where we want to be going. We’re gently cruising along at about 3 knots, heading due west, climbing over each wave and falling into the trough beyond. Because we’re not moving too fast, mostly we just slide down the back of the waves. Every now and then, one’s a bit steeper and we slam into it with a crash, water spraying everywhere. It’s more comfortable than it sounds, especially now that we’ve furled the genoa and put the storm jib up instead. Apart from the crunch and slam when we hit a wave. Boat holding up well though.
Not much action on the blog for the past couple of weeks – I’ve not been in the mood for writing. It’s been a strange period; coming to the last part of the crossing. All the island groups are now behind us so in some ways the exploration seems over, yet there are still over two thousand sea miles to go before we get to Australia. Ahead of us is a lot of time at sea, heading south, out of the tropics, into windier and colder weather. Mid winter’s day today down here in the southern hemisphere! At 18 degrees south it’s still pretty nice though. For now…
Rose is settling back into our place in Bristol, and I’m out in the boonies on the other side of the world missing her like crazy. There are so many things at home that I want to get back to, yet I don’t relish the thought of returning to crazybusyfrantic Europe. Very mixed feelings. But, sitting on the beach yesterday in the sun, carving bowls from coconuts, soaking up our last day in Tonga, I felt my mood lift. We’d filled the boat with fuel, water and food, and completed customs and immigration paperwork. We’d left Neiafu harbour and anchored in a bay around the corner; taken the physical and mental first steps towards Australia. Rafiki was ready, I was ready. The high winds we’ve been having for the last week are due to ease off over the next few days. Time to go.
So this morning we had our last swim, pulled up the anchor, and set out to sea. Clouds whooshed overhead, washing the boats at anchor in Port Maurelle with a light cool drizzle. Bright sunshine came out between the clouds, throwing vivid rainbows over the bay and lighting up the green hills surrounding us. I’ll take it as a good omen for the passage ahead 🙂
If we get decent weather I’ll catch up with writing about Niue and Tonga over the next few days.
Our first evening after leaving Niue, we grilled the remains of the tuna we’d been given by Lionel on the BBQ. As I munched away, my mouth felt dry, a little prickly. It felt like I was getting a mouth ulcer. Or maybe scurvy… I only managed a couple of pieces before deciding that I wasn’t enjoying it much, so Neptune had the rest. I took a sip of my rum and lime and felt a hot flush come over my face. Woah! That’s quite some rum, I thought. Then I started to get a headache, and felt decidedly strange. I popped below to take a look at myself in the mirror and saw that my whole head and neck had gone hot and red. Hmmn. Something not right here. I asked the others if they were feeling OK – no, they weren’t – Eva had a headache and Dave was starting to get tingles in his fingers and toes. Not a good sign. It had to be the fish. But tuna, a pelagic fish, never has ciguatera, the toxin that reef fish pick up, the reason we’ve not been catching and eating reef fish on the islands. Feeling a little concerned, I thumbed through the “poisoning” section of my offshore fishing book. We were truly on our own, 100 miles downwind of Niue and at least that still to go before Tonga. We were all getting worse. I really hoped it wasn’t going to turn into an epic. None of us usually suffer allergic reactions to seafood, yet that’s exactly what the symptoms were. Hot, red neck and head, restricted breathing, raised pulse, headache…
Diagnosing that we’d got scombrotoxism*, I read “bronchospasms and general respiratory distress, shock and possibly death can result from serious cases… get to a doctor if possible … evacuate the stomach … administer antihistamine”. Erk. By this time, maybe half an hour later, I was starting to feel a lot better, and decided to wait it out. The others didn’t show signs of deterioration, so Dave took the watch and I took a nap. Phew, I thought, nice to be through that. But after an hour or so of sleep, I felt another wave of reaction coming on; headache, dizziness, flushed face and neck. I got up and woozed around for a bit, drank some water, and again after about half an hour symptoms went away. I think that was it – I didn’t get another round, but the others had a tougher night. By morning, we were all normal again.
As we got better, the weather got worse. Through the day, the wind picked up, and the seas got larger. Thankful that the weather had been kind while we were feeling rotten, we prepared for a bumpy night. I turned in while Dave took the first watch in the building gale. I was woken by a shout from the cockpit.
“We’ve lost the instruments! Autopilot not working!”
I came on deck to see Dave wrestling with the wheel as Rafiki charged down the face of some fairly meaty waves, with just the third reef in the main sail and wind whistling in the rigging. Oh great, what a time to have a systems failure. It could at least have been daytime. First, a quick check below the cockpit – all mechanical systems were OK. It had to be an electrical fault … which means it could be anything from a corroded connection (any of hundreds) to a software failure in any one of the components on the network. I spent the next two hours trying to get the thing working again, tracing wires, isolating different parts of the system, climbing in and out of the cockpit locker with a torch in my mouth as the boat lurched and lunged over the waves, careering through the night. There was a blinking red light on top of the autopilot computer, so I dug out the instruction manual and flipped to the troubleshooting section.
Ugh. So I dialled up American support on the satphone, figuring they were the ones likely to be awake. Ten expensive minutes later, I was still on hold. Expecting to be told “replace part X”, and of course not having a spare part X on board, I figured this was a dead end option and hung up. After trying everything else I could think of, I gave up for the night. The whole system was down, not just the autopilot. Wind speed, depth, boat speed, GPS – all blank. I hoped that the problem, whatever it was, hadn’t also damaged all the components. I disconnected the chart plotter from the network and switched it to use it’s internal GPS sensor … so at least we knew where we were and where we were going.
The three of us took turns helming through the night, in the pitch black darkness, with only the red glow of the compass and the feel of the boat under our feet to guide us down the waves at the right angle. Tiring work. Morning brought a watery grey light, but the howling wind was still hustling us along at maximum speed. By the time the night had fully turned into day, we’d rounded the top of the Vava’u island group of Tonga, which sheltered us from the south east swell – making a huge difference to comfort and our ability to keep the boat under control. We tacked our way in, between the entrance islands in calm water (but 40+ knot winds), and then motored around to the main town of Neiafu. Conditions in the sheltered water couldn’t have been more different from those just a few miles away out at sea. Off came the wet weather gear and life jackets, replaced by shorts and sunglasses, the tension of the passage burned off by the warm sun. Tired, and relieved to have reached port, we tied up to the wharf to start our check-in procedure.
* The Scombridae family of fish (tuna, wahoo, mackerel) have something called histidine in ’em, “more prevalent in red and oily fish” … and when bacteria munch on this, they produce toxic by-products. It’s the toxin that got us. We thought that as we’d grilled the fish to almost charcoal we’d have killed anything nasty, but toxins are not living and persist through cooking. The book says “reject any meat with the sharp or peppery taste characteristic of these toxins” … next time I sure will!
After Beveridge reef we had a couple of days passage to the island of Niue. “The Rock” they call it – a lump of coral only a few miles across, raised up from the ocean gazillions of years ago. The country just consists of the one island, with only 1500-odd inhabitants. There’s nowhere (safe) to anchor around the island as the water gets really deep really quickly, so there are a number of moorings available by the island’s wharf. No fringing reef, and no shallows nearby, meant we could come in at night without too much stress. As usual, we had light winds – but this time just enough to keep us moving along gently without too much slamming of the sails. We arrived in the early hours of the morning, no moon, really dark. A few minutes of searching with a torch and we picked up a mooring ball. One other boat there, sitting in the black darkness like a ghost ship – no lights on at all.
In the morning we called up the island HQ on the radio and arranged for customs to come down to the wharf to check us in. The island just has one landing point – the wharf, with a crane to lift boats out of the water. So I rigged up a bridle on our dinghy and we motored ashore. Timing our actions between the big sets of waves, Dave and Eva hopped out and scrambled up the ladder, and I hooked onto the crane and was hoisted quickly out of the water, still sat in the dinghy. A new way to enter a new country!
As soon as I stepped ashore I had a feeling that it would be a welcoming place. The yacht club commodore came down to meet us, and I chatted with a few older fisherman sat in their car, in broken English. Customs and immigration was a simple enough process, and then we explored the small town of Alofi for the rest of the day. Only a few buildings spread out along the main road, everything very neat and tidy – apart from the abandoned properties destroyed in the last cyclone. Later in the day I overheard a French singlehander struggling to communicate with the radio HQ, offered to translate, and ended up going out to bring him ashore as he didn’t have a dinghy ready, and then going with him to customs to translate there too. We spent the evening aboard his boat – Ivitu – eating fresh Tuna and Wahoo that he’d caught on his way into Niue, drinking rum and wine, having a good chat.
Next day the French fella, Lionel, joined us for a ride in our rental car across the island to “show day” in one of the villages. Started early with lots of food for sale – a mix of local stuff and things flown in from New Zealand on the twice-weekly flight. Taro root, BBQ chicken, sausages, crab sticks. I stashed a plate away in the car to tuck into later for lunch. In one corner a spread of large vegetables and fruit was laid out on the grass; a competition. Huge bananas, taro, coconuts, and some root vegetable I couldn’t identify. Wandering among the veggies on lengths of string were some monster blue coconut crabs, being shooed away by the judges. Then speeches and dances from troupes of school kids.
Niue show day
Just before it finished at noon we busted out and explored the “sea tracks” around the north coast of the island – being a coral lump there are loads of caves, grottos, nooks and crannies. No bats though, which I found strange. Learnt what I believe to be the French word for bats – “chauve souris” – shaved mice … is that for real? Thinking about it now maybe it should be “cave mice” – but the word for cave is different … hmm I’m going to have to look this up later. The island didn’t appear to have much in the way of animal or bird life – likewise not many insects. Hundreds of miles out in the middle of nowhere and not very fertile; not so surprising I guess.
Sunday – a day of rest in the very Christian community – nothing happening ashore, we stayed aboard Rafiki. Helped a large Aussie catamaran pick up a mooring in the afternoon – “Angels Wings”. Rob and Jo – who I later discovered we’d met very briefly on Bora Bora. Being light and nimble, I was winched up his mast to fix a strop to the head of his genoa to factor for a new, shorter furler that he’d had fitted a week earlier. While the weather was reasonable and the boat was flat, I went up Rafiki’s mast too, to check all was OK, a job I do every month or so. All good. Evening aboard Angels Wings chatting and eating.
Helping Robbie pick up a mooring
During the night the wind swung around to the north and swell wrapped around the island to make a bumpy, uncomfortable time on the moorings. Checked out with customs and immigration first thing in the morning, and then set sail for Tonga about mid day.
I enjoyed our stop on Niue – small and friendly. There’s a noticeable difference from French Polynesia in that we are now reaching the other side of the Pacific – closer to NZ and Australia – where boats are coming in from the west. The islanders speak English, which feels strange as we’re so far from home in every way imaginable. Looking at the globe, we’re pretty much on the opposite side now!
“Reported to lie 3 miles north east” says the chart. Which means they aren’t really sure where it is. Zooming in, there’s just a jaggedy mass of green reef symbol which screams “don’t hit me”. So it was with caution that I placed the approach waypoints into the chart plotter, knowing that our arrival was likely to be in the early hours of the morning, before good light. But the wind was light and seas gentle, the moon almost full – perfect conditions for approaching a mid-ocean reef, where there are no landmarks above water; nothing but crashing waves. Beveridge reef is a sunken atoll somewhere between Palmerston and Niue; its remoteness and inaccessibility making it an irresistible stop. But could we find it?
Wind light, again, so we arrived in the area later than expected. An hour or so after dawn I could just about make out breakers on the horizon through the binoculars. A few minutes later, the larger ones were visible with the naked eye. None of my official charts – paper or electronic – had any more detail than the green jaggedy reef symbol … but I’ve seen pictures of boats inside the reef, and have a sketch map from another sailor with GPS positions, so was confident we could find our way in. According to the sketch, the reef has a pass on the western side. Much closer to the reef, I saw the unmistakeable wavelets of a rip current, a tidal race – water pouring out through the pass as the moon pulls the tide off towards New Zealand. It’s always hard to judge the size of these tidal race waves; especially with nothing to provide a sense of scale. It’s easy to see which way the tide is flowing though, and with the water pouring OUT of the reef, we could approach closely and just get swept safely out to sea again if we happened to bump the bottom, or there was any other problem. Driving Rafiki along the foam line that marked the middle of the race (and the deepest water), I soon had us through into the lagoon where the current relaxed and the water got deeper. We saw minimum 6m depth through the pass (plenty), which in the ultra clear water, looked a lot less!
We anchored on the far side of the lagoon, on a band of sand that runs all the way around the reef. These lagoons all seem to have the same shallow sandy shelf, extending inwards from the fringing reef, sometimes only a few metres and sometimes for hundreds of metres. Pure turquoise water only a few feet deep, suddenly dropping off into deeper water in the middle of the lagoon, the ramp so consistent and perfect that it looks man made. You can see the change of colour in the water. I can now judge the depth just by the shade of blue. Almost nothing lives on the sand shelf; just a few isolated coral heads trying to make a stand. There’s nothing hard to bump into, and hardly any tide, so I’m happy taking the boat onto these sandy shelves to anchor with only inches below our keel.
The water is SO clear – I’m assuming because there’s no land and no vegetation. We took the dinghy out to the edge of the reef and snorkeled by the wreck of a small fishing boat. How unlucky – to hit the only reef around for hundreds of miles! Not much to see in the way of fish, but lots of live coral and a shark dressed up in an all-over dark grey suit – one that I’d not seen before. Was he harmless like the black-tips, coming in close just out of curiosity, or was he circling us getting ready for the kill? We all survived, anyway.
Nobody else here. I’d hoped we might meet another boat in this isolated corner of the Pacific, so we could swap stories and have a bit of new conversation, but we had the place to ourselves. Which wasn’t so bad really – the solitude reinforcing the fact that this is completely and totally the middle of nowhere. The only sound; a rumble of surf in the background. The only life; fish, sharks, rays, spiky urchins, squishy black sea cucumbers and a few sea birds perched on the wreck. Colours so vibrant and pure; above and below the surface; not a speck or waft of pollution (other than the rusting hulk of the boat of course).
I spent the afternoon fishing from the dinghy, losing lures, running aground, dropping a rod over the side while I tried to tie us to a rock… generally being Mr Incompetent. I did catch a decent sized spotted grouper, but I put it back as I’d heard they were ciguatoxic. Also caught a little spotted yellow thing which wasn’t big enough to eat. Giving up, I headed back to the boat with a line trailing astern, and hooked a Jack! A “carangue bleu” in French – the same as the one we’d been given for supper in Fakarava. So I figured we should be fine, no ciguatera. Fresh poisson for supper on the grill! But after reading more about the toxin – how one species can be fine in one place but toxic in another, and the severity of acute symptoms, I reluctantly decided it wasn’t worth the risk. Canned fish again, then. Which feels so wrong in a place like this.
I had a full night of calm, deep sleep under the full moon in a gentle breeze. Woke just before dawn to watch an incredible sunrise, tucked up in my sleeping bag on the cockpit seat. Temperatures at night are dropping; and we’re getting dew on deck too. We just nudged over 20 degrees south … only a couple of degrees until we’re out of the tropics!
I’d best get something jotted down about Palmerston atoll before we make our next landfall, where new experiences will push old ones away. Traveling by boat, spending contemplative time at sea in between busier times ashore, is good for letting memories settle. Traveling by road, new sights and experiences come thick and fast, all day every day – which even though it is half the objective of traveling, means that the mind doesn’t have space to re-live things and cement them into the memory banks.
So, after a few days at sea, we made the final approach to Palmerston at dawn on the 28th – Thursday. The swell was huge. Monstrous hills of ocean, generated somewhere deep underneath the planet in some vicious southern ocean storm. By the time they get to our latitude they are mellow, but massive. At sea, that’s fine. But when they hit land, boom! Huge thundering waves crashing onto the reef. I could see the house sized white breakers miles away, and then when we got closer, a roar like a plane was going overhead. I’d had mixed reports about the accuracy of our charts for this island, which lies waaay out in the middle of nowhere, a single atoll poking up from the ocean floor many kilometres below – so I left plenty of sea room around the breakers as we maneuvered our way towards the moorings. There’s no pass into the lagoon big enough for a yacht, so the islanders have a number of moorings anchored just off the reef (three when we were there). And they really are “just” off the reef. Taking the boat within metres of yacht-killing coral always makes me nervous, and today there was a fair swell, and current, and wind. Our first attempt at picking up a mooring ended up with the boat hook being lost over the side, which of course started drifting towards the breakers… a few minutes of cautious driving allowed us to recover it, ready for a second, successful pickup, disturbing a sea turtle from his breakfast of mooring-line algae. Reminds me of the hours we spent in Weymouth harbour on Rancote, practising picking up a mooring under sail (without the turtle). Over and over and over… eventually we used the engine. Now I know various other techniques (like lassoing the mooring ball) which would make it much easier!
We radioed Palmerston Island, and got a friendly response from a guy called Bob who was going to summon Customs and Immigration, and send them out to us. Palmerston is part of the Cook Islands – a new country – so we have to formally clear in. A few hours passed and I thought hey, maybe they are being considerate and, understanding we’d had a long journey getting here, they were letting us rest a bit. Mid afternoon, still nobody. I didn’t want to be pushy, but by late afternoon we were wondering what was going on. I tried the radio every half hour for the rest of the day. No response.
When we first turned up I had a strong feeling of arriving in a new, far off, exotic land. One I’d not yet had, apart from perhaps as we arrived in Nuku Hiva at dusk, after the long passage from Mexico. For some reason, none of the islands so far have given me a feeling of something completely new. The tropical climate, flora and fauna is mostly familiar. The places we’ve visited have been fairly well developed, and I’ve been able to communicate with the locals – whereas an unknown foreign language always makes things seem new and exotic. And everywhere we’ve been so far has had an airport, with tourists … or else at least some other yachts around.
But here, the only way to arrive is by yacht or on the 3-monthly supply ship from Rarotonga. No tourists, no airstrip. It really is the middle of nowhere. We’re the second yacht to visit this year; the last was two months ago. Only 60 inhabitants on the island, all from the same family … but enough has been written about this strange place elsewhere so I’ll skip the history. Still no word back from anyone on land, and no sign of a boat coming to see us. My initial feelings of excitement were soon replaced by a distinct sense of being let down… I was expecting, from other sailors’ accounts, “boats rushing out to meet us and offer to host our crew … the last true Polynesian welcome”. Nope. Nada, not a peep. So we went to bed disappointed – admittedly under a stunning sunset, and I got to sleep outside most of the night without rain.
Next morning we eventually got through on the radio, and a small tin motorboat was soon on its way out to meet us. On board; a couple of smart chaps in lifejackets, the driver, and his son. The boat tied up alongside and the life-jacketed officials clambered on board; “smart” being a relative term; floral shirt, shorts and no shoes evidently being standard office wear here. While the boat was fumigated, we filled out some paperwork in the cockpit, handed over a few dollars, and all was done. Easy. Since the small-boat passages in the reef are dangerous, and the culture is that the local families host visitors, we don’t use our own dinghy. So we piled all our gear into the motor boat and charged towards the reef. The driver threw the small boat around the marker posts, over the waves in only inches of water, along a twisty channel surging with current – and then we were in the lagoon. He took us ashore to his compound, where his family will “host” us for the time we are here.
Walking ashore past the destroyed hulk of the yacht “Riri” that broke its mooring here a couple of years ago is a reminder that consequences of mistakes can be serious. I’d triple-looped the mooring line, and for extra safety left the anchor dangling a few metres above the sea floor; if the mooring went completely there was a chance that the hook would grab the coral before the yacht hit the reef. Pushing those thoughts to the back of my mind, I was introduced to the family. Everyone on the island speaks English – some with more pronounced accents than others. We spent a few hours with Danny and his family, chatting, having a short tour of the island, and him asking me how best to fibreglass one of his broken fishing boats.
The three families here seem to live in perfect comfort- even though it’s so remote. A solar plant was installed a few months ago which gives everyone 24/7 power, and means they don’t have to run their diesel generators unless they want to fire up heavy loads like welding gear. They have telephones and an internet connection. Plenty of fresh water in large cisterns that fill with rain, which seems to be pretty regular. Lots of fish and coconuts. A clinic with trained nurses. A school with enthusiastic teachers. Anything they might be lacking would be from a materialistic western perspective – which of course influences the atoll in the form of TV, radio, internet and via the regular trips that some residents make to the other Cook Islands and New Zealand.
Ever since the early days of researching this voyage, I’ve been well aware that most of the South Pacific has been irreversibly changed by outside influences – the days of Thor Heyrdahl’s “Fatu Hiva” are long gone. Supply ships come to even the most remote islands; lunch was canned meat, mayonnaise and white bread from the freezer. Modern life is here to stay. Especially along the route we’re taking, the shortest line from Mexico to Australia.
Still, as one of the more remote places we’re stopping at, it would have been interesting to stay longer, and spend more time chatting with various people. The island administrator (in the floral shirt) was keen to see more craft activity, and culture preserved. But without a local economy, no cash on the island, a limited market, and not much incentive he’s finding it a challenge.
In some ways I felt that the hospitality was a little forced; it’s supposedly “part of the culture” for islanders to host visiting yachties, and in return accept “gifts” of spares, fuel, old sails, ropes. Maybe I’m being a bit cynical, but it didn’t seem that we were welcomed with open arms and wide smiles – and also 24 hours without acknowledgement. Something about that smelt a bit strange.
Anyway. It was blowing like stink so I’d taken my kite gear ashore and had an awesome session in the afternoon, navigating carefully around the shallow, sharp coral heads, and timing my jumps very precisely to make sure that take-off and landing zones were not going to leave me shredded and skinless if things went pear-shaped. An amazing place to kite – white sand beach, every shade of vibrant blue in the sea, warm wind, clear sky… would have been best with a buddy to kite with though. Next time!
That night on the boat wasn’t so pleasant. About 7pm the rain started, and the wind swung around to the north, nearly putting the reef dead downwind of us. As long as the wind didn’t shift round further, I was OK staying on the mooring. Had it backed more and put us up against a lee shore, on a mooring that may or may not have been checked in the last year, I would have definitely left, sharpish. As it was I was awake most of the night, keeping an eye on instruments – it was too dark, windy and rainy to tell exactly what was going on any other way. We had a few hours of gale force winds in the early hours and the swell from the north was wrapping around the island making the boat heave and roll horribly. Ugh. As dawn approached things calmed down a bit, the rain stopped and I dozed off in the cockpit. Eva woke me at about 8 with a hot cup of strong coffee – top lass.
Sky ripped to shreds during the night
We decided not to go ashore again; wind was still from the north and we felt we were ready to move on. Like all these places, you either skim through quickly and just get a taste of what they are like, or you stay for ages and really get into the community. We don’t have time for the latter, and the needs of the former are met usually within a day’s visit. It feels superficial – it is – but that’s the way we’re travelling this time. Danny and his gang brought back empty the diesel can I’d given him full the night before, my flip flops that I’d left under his porch, and a hard drive of movies I’d lent his son to copy. Then we were off! Westwards again – next stop either Niue or Beveridge reef, depending on how benevolent the wind and sea gods are feeling this week…
I’d just dozed off, spreadeagled over the forward berth, Rafiki gently rolling along, the soft gurgle of the bow wave singing me a lullaby just on the other side of the thin hull. Fan whirring, breeze on my skin keeping me cool. Looking forward to a good few hours rest before my watch starts at 11…
Brain asleep but ears still wide awake (a sailors ears never rest), I hear the surge of water under the bow suddenly get louder. The boat accelerates, charging off down a wave, heeling over. Where there was silence on deck before, wind is howling in the rigging. I’m awake in a snap. Some instinct tells me that action is needed, NOW, dumping a load of adrenaline into my blood. We’ve been hit by a squall. A windy one. A sail is flogging wildy outside, a loud, vicious cracking and banging. Help is needed on deck, fast. Glancing at the instrument panel as I dash out I see we have 46 knots of wind. By the time I make it up the steps, only seconds later, it’s well into the fifties. Eva is struggling to roll in the jib – it’s crashing around at the front of the boat and even though it’s already half furled, it needs two of us hauling on the line to bring it in. Instinctively I’ve taken control of the helm with my free hand to bring the boat up into the wind to make the job easier. Now I need to decide which direction steer in. Only seconds ago I was asleep, and now I’m standing in the cockpit just in boardies, wind howling, in the dark, unable to see anything through the lashing rain other than a big white flogging sail. The rest of my senses are now fully awake, each shouting their messages at my brain, which is trying to decide what to do with all the inputs. It’s a bit disorientating. I spin the wheel to starboard to ease off the wind a bit, the main fills, and we’re back on our way.
And then suddenly the wind is gone. Back down to ten knots, just like that. Surreal. We’re left befuzzled. It can’t have been more than sixty seconds overall, from fifteen to fifty and then back down again. It’s strangely quiet. Heavy rain dampens the sea, and it’s not yet had time to become alive again. I spend some time untwisting the genoa sheets and checking all is OK, change into dry shorts and then head back to my bunk. Rafiki cruises onwards through the night.
I’m woken again some time after eleven by a quiet voice. “Chris … Chris … time for your watch”. Eva had to finish a line of knitting before finishing her stint on deck, so I got an extra few minutes’ rest. Bonus.
It took me ages to fall asleep after the squall, running through the action again in my mind, so I can’t have had much sleep. Feeling a bit groggy. It’s cool enough tonight to need a tee shirt, so I fumble in the dark for one that doesn’t feel too salt-encrusted and grab my lifejacket on the way up to the cockpit. We exchange the usual chit-chat between watches;
“No change in the wind, a few clouds overtook us, no rain this time, looks like the sky is clearing. All well. Have a good watch!”
“Thanks. Have a good sleep!”
In a few minutes, I have the boat to myself. We’re rolling along directly downwind like we have been for the past few days, but the sky is now clear. We’re chasing a bright half moon, dead ahead of us. The moon is chasing the sun, now way below the horizon. It’ll just be me and the stars in a couple of hours. Sitting on the cockpit seat, looking aft at the mesmerising waves, I’m struggling to stay awake. Can’t afford to sleep. Must look out for squalls. They sneak up in minutes from over the horizon, big dark clouds, with a mystery package underneath. Sometimes benign, sometimes nasty. Gotta be ready for each one. Just in case. Mustn’t fall asleep. Tired eyes…
Time for some tunes. For a sugar rush I stuff down some dried fruit. Still loads of pawpaw and pineapple left over from Mexico. The others won’t touch it it’s so sweet. For me, it’s perfect at the start of a night watch. I wrap my trusty big headphones over my ears, select a dance set from way back in the day, and hit play.
Sugar finds its way into my bloodstream, tunes are injected straight into my brain. Boom! I’m up and dancing under a huge sky of stars. The night is so clear that I can see them all the way down to the inky black waves on the horizon; a full hemisphere of wonder. The motion of the boat under the sky makes colossal creatures of the night gyrate around me, as I gyrate around the cockpit; Scorpion, Lion, Wolf, Bear, Swan, Dragon, Dolphin – and a load I can’t identify. The lurching deck also adds a random drunken motion to my movements … or maybe that’s the leftovers of the evening’s most excellent Gin & Tonic being flushed out of my system? It was a special one, with ice. It takes a week to make a drink’s worth of ice in our wee cooler.
Flickers of phosphorescence flash down the sides of the boat, ignited by the bow wave. Like tiny little fireflies rushing into the darkness. Every now and then a shooting star whooshes overhead, ending millions of years of interstellar travel with a beautiful blaze of light in the Pacific sky. Everything seems magically in time with the music as I wobble and wiggle insignificantly but enthusiastically.
The half moon grows as it nears the horizon, an orange segment on its back, sinking towards the sea. The reflection on the water almost as bright and colourful as a sunset. The backs of waves all the way to the west catch the last flickers of colour – a cold golden – and then the moon is gone, leaving behind the limited, beautiful, monochromatic palette of a tropical night at sea. It’s become a little darker, but not much – now the milky way splashes over the top of the sky, the southern cross at one end and some bright planet at the other. The light at the top of the mast – our own little star – is scratching haphazard patterns in the blackness as the boat plunges and rolls underneath… the ocean using the boat as a pen to write secret messages in the sky above. Or is it just playing “join the dots” with the stars? I jiggle and jive, soaking it all in.
Rafiki joins in with the tunes. Sails go slack and then boom as they fill with wind, like a drum. Each wave brings a squeak and a creak and a whoosh and a fizz – but I can’t hear most of it. Ihe volume is on max, I’m transported to a magic place by the music and motion. Feet planted motionless on the deck – can’t wake the sleeping crew members in the cabin below – I’m still throwing full-body shapes, the boat moving my legs for me. It calls for a lot of improvisation, moving in a way you can’t do ashore … I’m not going to win any points for style but there’s nobody here to watch! Every now and then the boat makes a big roll and I take a break from waving my hands in the air like I just don’t care to grab something solid, so I don’t end up in a heap on the floor. The movement of my muscles and joints feels so good after days of relative inactivity aboard.
The watch goes too fast, it’s past 3am, and soon Dave is moving around below, preparing for his stint. I was hoping he’d stay asleep and I could keep going for a while. But I need the rest so reluctantly say goodbye to my cosmic dance floor, hand over the watch and head below.
“No change in the wind, no clouds, no rain, the moon went down, not much else to report. All well. Have a good watch!”
Yesterday morning the easterly trade winds arrived and blew the squally, variable weather away – yippee! Under a sky full of the little white fluffy clouds that are the sign of trade winds in the tropics, Rafiki blasted off downwind with a reef in the main out to starboard, and a three-quarter jib on the pole out to port. As the sun made its way across the sky, the 20 knot wind blowing us westward gradually added its own mix of waves to the southerly swell. By evening we were riding on an ocean of heaving water – large, but gently undulating blue, blue waves, not unkind – effortlessly lifting 7 tons of boat each time a wave passed underneath us. So different from that chaos of water we had a couple of days ago.
These waves come either from directly astern; the easterly wind waves, or from the port quarter; the southerly swell. Sometimes there’s a mix of the two wave trains, amplifying each other to make a larger peak or a deeper trough. A wave comes from behind. The stern lifts gently, we start to speed up as the boat slides down towards the bottom, the bow wave surges and gurgles, leaving a carpet of hissing bubbles rushing down each side of the boat. The wave passes ahead, we slow down as we slip down it’s back. A southerly wave comes along. The stern lifts again, but this time, pushed from the left hand side, it slides to the right as it lifts. We accelerate at an angle down the wave. The boat rolls over to starboard, tucking into the down-slope of the wave. The jib, out to port, is now almost side-on to the wind and ready to fall slack, but the autopilot has already anticipated this and the wheel automatically turns a few degrees to bring the stern around and the boat on course again. As the wave passes under us, the boat rolls back upright and slows down. There’s nothing to stop the roll so we keep going, over to the left, in the trough between the waves, ready for the next one.
When the waves are consistent, it’s a wonderful, rhythmic, peaceful yet powerful motion. 20 knots of breeze pushing hard from behind keeps the sails full, boat speed in the high sixes, and the steering responsive. A fast rushing charge down the front of the wave, a deceleration as the wave overtakes. The boat’s motion is significant; perhaps rolling 20 degrees to each side, non stop hour after hour, but it’s not violent or unpredictable. This is what tropical downwind sailing is about. The regular surge and hiss of water as each wave passes under us, making its way to the horizon … white clouds scudding across the sky above … Rafiki alone on the ocean, surrounded only by the white tips of the waves blown off by the wind.
Every now and then we get one of the mixed-up waves; a bit of east and a bit of south. The boat slides, skews and dips in a way that sets off a much stronger roll. Anything not stowed properly below falls with a crash. Usually it’s a carelessly placed mug or plate, sliding across the galley counter into the sink. At least it will be safe there. Lying on the cockpit seats, we dart out a hand or foot to steady ourselves until the boat sorts itself out. It’s almost always two rolls to each side, and then calm again. Sometimes the wind catches us at the bottom of the wave, pushing the boat further over and setting us surfing as the autopilot gets us back on track. What an incredible piece of kit- the autopilot learns from previous motion, a 9-axis gyroscope built into the computer detecting roll, pitch, yaw, rise, fall, turn, acceleration and deceleration, feeding all this into the drive unit to keep us going on an almost perfect straight course across the sea. It’s driven us pretty much all the way from Mexico.
Today, much the same. Roll left, roll right, chill out for a bit, bigger wave, bigger roll. And over again. Except today we don’t have the fluffy tropical clouds. The day started out with a clear sky which I thought meant another day of solid trade winds. A good 20 knot breeze pushed us through the morning to a passage record of 134 miles noon-to-noon, but now we have a succession of tall, billowing cumulonimbus clouds marching overhead, with variable winds. Clear blue skies are punctuated by periods of grey and a little drizzle under each beast. Every cloud that passes over kills the wind – but the waves and rolling keep going – and without wind to keep the sails full they slat and slam horribly with each roll. First the jib out to port, and then the main on starboard, going slack as the mast falls towards the water and then filling again with a slam as the boat comes upright. I feel for the poor things. And me. I just can’t rest when it’s like this. Thinking “there must be a way to improve things. Perhaps a couple of degrees course change? Or maybe sheet in or out a little?” … but often there’s nothing to do. It’s been a lot worse – and I’ve figured out that a reef in the main and a partially rolled genoa take a look of the slamming force away. When the wind fills in again after the rain, all is well again.
There’s a beautiful white tropic bird that seems to be chasing the back of the squalls. Maybe the fresh water brings some kind of food-creature to the surface? Each time the rain passes by, she comes around for another look at us. She’s pure white, apart from large black eyes, a long, slightly open curved red beak, two black paddle feet tucked underneath, and a long pencil-thin red tail. Quite a big bird. I’ve not seen this kind before. I whistle and try to attract her to the boat for some crumbs left over from crackers at lunch, but she’s more interested in diving for the fishing lines we have trailing behind. Luckily for her she misses, and flies onwards, somewhere… no land near here!
So the day goes on. Rolling, rolling, rolling. Tweaking the course a few degrees back and forth – each rain cloud alters the wind direction as it passes. My batten pocket fix a couple of days ago didn’t work. Next time the sail’s down I’ll spend more time on it. I’ve repaired two mainsail luff slides in the last couple of days; this slamming is rapidly bringing about the end of their careers. But we’re making good progress. 680 nautical miles to Niue. We’re passing over the top of the Cook Islands at the moment – Aitutaki is only 150 miles to the south – just over a day’s sail away. So tempting…. next time.
I’m sitting at the chart table, another night at sea has begun. It’s just past 1900, Eva is on first watch; 4 hours until 2300, then I have the midnight hours until 0300, and Dave gets the dawnie. Each day the schedule rotates, so we get to mix it up. We left Bora Bora yesterday around mid day, destination Niue. The passage started with a little breeze as we sailed away from the island, but by late afternoon we were wallowing in the swell without any wind… had to run the engine nearly non stop until mid day today. This morning we found ourselves in one of the strangest seas I’ve experienced; bucking about in short, steep 10-15 foot waves with a 6 second period combined with a load of swells and waves from other directions. Rafiki was getting thrown around all over the place … and still no wind, which meant no steadying force to damp her motions. It was as though we were sailing through the aftermath of a strong wind that had changed direction, creating cross seas, but no evidence of wind on the horizon or the forecasts. Bizarre, and very uncomfortable. Noticing a broken batten at the top of the mainsail, we dropped it so that I could sew in a few stitches to shorten the pocket and re-insert the longer section of the broken batten. Just as I finished the job, my normally tough stomach was just starting to hint that I’d spent enough time being thrown about, clinging with one hand to a shroud, the other juggling pliers, needle and dental floss (which makes great sail thread).
Fortunately it only lasted a few hours and now the sea has gone back to what we’re used to – a gentle rolling swell from the south – and we have 10 to 15 knots of wind on the beam. Much more comfortable. Everyone managed to put away a tasty “Skipper’s Speciality” dinner of stir-fry veggies and tofu. We’re just passing south of the island of Maupihaa, one of the outliers of French Polynesia that rarely gets visited by yachts, most just passing by like we are. It’s about 4 miles away in the darkness, but nothing is visible on the low, sparsely inhabited atoll. Even if the charts (which have been spot-on since Mexico) are off by a couple of miles, we’re well clear. Looking ahead down our route on the plotter, I’m assessing our options for the next couple of months; times, distances, anchorages, likely weather. We’re now about half way to Australia! As the seagull flies, it’s 3640 miles back to Puerto Vallarta, and 3040 on to Coff’s Harbour on the east coast, about half way between Brisbane and Sydney. Looking at the log book, we’ve actually sailed 4265 miles from PV, and it’s going to be about the same on to Oz.
In all these miles we’ve only sailed through one country – French Polynesia. But what a country! Starting with the mountainous Marquesas Islands, lush vegetated volcanic rock surrounded by deep, dark seas … then on to the flat coral atolls of the Tuamotu archipelago – incredible colours and sea life in remote lagoons … then the hustle and bustle of Tahiti and the Society Islands. The Societies are a mix of the two other island groups; central volcanic peaks like the Marquesas, surrounded by fringing coral reefs and turquoise blue lagoons like the Tuamotus. As though someone was experimenting with different geographies in different areas of the Pacific. This island group is the one that most people visit; easy access from Tahiti and a load of resorts and lodges. I was apprehensive that it would feel spoilt and crowded, but we’ve had an amazing time. Because we’re early season and most of the other boats crossing the Pacific are still way behind, we’ve had plenty of anchorages to ourselves. And of course being out on a boat in the lagoon isolates us from the tourist life ashore and in the resorts. A few nights ago Rose and I spent the evening sitting on the side deck, legs dangling over the side, watching the sun set over Bora Bora – wonderful memories that will stay with me for ever.
Now, though, time to focus on the miles ahead. Settle the mind and body into offshore passage-making mode. Rest when tired, look after the boat and crew, keep an eye on the weather, and munch through a few more books. I’m just coming to the end of Shackleton’s “South” – what an epic story. I’m blown away by the hardships those men went through. Yesterday I charged through Nick Ward’s “Left For Dead” – his story of the 1979 Fastnet race storm. Again, inspirational – the human body and mind is capable of incredible things.
Right, it’s getting late, I should be sleeping. Hopefully tonight will see us into some decent trade winds and we can make good speed to the west…
Road and Ocean 