From New Caledonia on to New Zealand

I don’t have much to report from New Caledonia, other than giving the rib some time, and visiting with our friends Steffan and Carolyne.  We walked around town a bit, visited a couple of museums, etc, but mostly just hung out.  Just two weeks there, though, and well before the rib was ready to go back to sea, we could see a good weather window opening for departure to New Zealand.  Cyclone season was officially about to start, and though the predicted risk of an early season cyclone was low, and despite the rib, we decided to go.

Well, this was the most benign ocean passage ever.  Of the total of about 200 hours on the passage, we motored about 125 in little or no wind on a gently rolling, rippled sea.  What sailing we had was in pleasant conditions, too.  We passed through a front the day before arrival here, but that only gave us a few minutes of gusty wind and lashing rain, then it was back to motoring.  The final morning was beautiful, with pleasant sailing approaching the Bay of Islands, then motoring into the bay and up to the quarantine dock yesterday afternoon.

The authorities here are delightful.  The first one aboard, from customs, treated us almost like returning family members as we chatted over cups of tea.  When we started to list the beer, wine and spirits on board (a bit more than the concession), she just waved her hand and said, “Oh, just put none.  We don’t want to bother you with all that.”  The biosecurity man came next, and although he was understandably thorough, he was also as friendly and welcoming as could be.  His wife is American, and we talked at length of their upcoming visit to the States.  All the officials we’ve met across the Pacific have been polite and professional, but yacht clearances are just another part of their day.  Here in New Zealand, they really seem glad to see us.  Ahead of us, a newly arriving yacht was asking on the VHF for directions to the quarantine berth.  The local car ferry driver answered, gave the info, and ended with, “Welcome to the Bay.”

I was more excited about this landfall I think than most any other this cruise.  Approaching the coast, seeing more and more familiar landmarks, I felt like I was coming come.  It’ll be another week or so before we head down the coast to Whangarei, though.  Motoring up the river to the Town Basin there will really feel like coming home.

So, this is the conclusion of our second South Pacific cruise.  We don’t expect to go off on another one for at least a couple of years, so I’m going to close the blog with this entry.  I hope you’ve enjoyed it.

Passage from Tanna to Noumea, 10-13 Oct 2014

For the couple of days right after visiting the volcano on Tanna, there were good conditions for sailing to Noumea.  We wanted to visit the neighboring “John Frum” village for their weekly gathering, though, and that wasn’t till Friday.  The John Frum movement is at the outer reaches of absurdity.  Robyn wrote a note about it, but you might want to Google it to learn more.  Anyway, we missed that good weather.

The forecast for Saturday and Sunday was poor, so we settled in to wait at least till Monday.  Saturday morning, however, the weather for that day looked much better than it had been forecasted the day before.  It’s hard to change gears, and scramble for an ocean passage at a moment’s notice, and the forecast looked even better for Monday, so we decided to wait.  Big mistake.  Take it when you get it.  Monday’s weather deteriorated, followed by worse and worse weather.  Thursday had torrential rain and dramatic thunderstorms.  We didn’t get out until Friday, and the weather that day was none too good.

The direct line between Tanna and the pass into the lagoon at New Caledonia runs right through Maré, one of the Loyalty Islands (part of New Caledonia).  We planned to pass around the south end, a shorter distance and a better wind angle for the rest of the way to the pass.  There was a front between Tanna and Maré, though, which had other ideas.  Besides being unpleasant, it forced us well off course.  Starting out, the wind was from the west, forcing us to beat well to the south.  Mintaka doesn’t much like beating to windward, so neither do we.  Each wave we hit pitches us up and slows us noticeably, after which she falls off to leeward to accelerate, only to do it all over again, and again, and again.  Sometime during the night, we passed through the front, after which the wind was from the south, forcing us to beat again, this time to the north.  After another whole day of this, we still couldn’t weather the south (upwind) end of Maré, so we bore off downwind to go around the north end.  That yielded a faster and more comfortable ride, but a longer distance, and set us up for a worse beat even further upwind to the pass.

Before we had gone very far from Tanna, before the front and all, I took a bad fall in the cockpit.  I was retying some bananas hanging on the mizzen gallows to keep them from swinging so wildly when the boat lurched and I lost my balance.  Spinning as I fell, I landed hard against a winch, breaking a rib just below my scapula.  Kind of a bad situation.  Excrutiating, but we still had to sail.  Noumea was a couple of days away, yet.  Robyn took over many of my jobs, but I still had work to do.

Because of the broken rib and unfavorable winds, we decided to stop briefly at Maré.  Unable to launch the dinghy, we stayed only long enough to catch our breath, and to time our arrival at the pass.  The wind was more favorable by that evening when we weighed anchor again, and the ride over to the pass, sixty-five miles away, was fantastic.  Mintaka flew fast and smoothly under clear skies and a gibbous moon.  We sailed in through the pass just as the tide turned to flood, and rode that flood all the forty miles through the lagoon to Noumea.  A great sail, despite the pain.

The exertions since the fracture didn’t do me any good, and by the time we dropped anchor in Noumea, I was in bad shape.  No rest for the wicked, though.  Still unable to launch the dinghy, another yachtie gave us a ride to shore to clear in.  Returning after a bit, we found the harbor authorities about to tow us out of the way of the cruise ship entering the harbor — we were infringing on the fairway because the anchorage was so crowded.  Just in time, we janked the hook and moved.  Still not finding any space within the anchorage boundaries, and with a strong wind blowing, and my back screaming at me, a friendly local dinghied up to us and offered his mooring.  Needless to say, we gratefully accepted.

OK.  Now we’re safely moored, but we still can’t launch the dinghy to get ashore.  And there are no open berths in any of the marinas.  But, it’s nice to have friends, particularly local friends who have a little influence.  Steffan and Carolyne, the friends we came here to visit, have a very large slip for their long and narrow boat.  There was actually enough room within their slip for us, too, without infringing on their neighbor’s space.  They arranged permission for us to tie up to them, nestled closely between their boat and their neighbor, a highly unusual arrangement.  They even rounded up some helpers for us to come in at 0600 this morning, before the daily wind began to rise.  So, happy ending.  We’re safely tied up, and all I have to do is rest and heal over the next few weeks.

John Frum Village, 3 Oct 2014

This entry was written by Robyn.

We thought it would be interesting to go see the weekly ceremonies of the John Frum adherents.  This religion, sometimes called a “cargo cult”, started in 1936 with the brief visit of its mysterious namesake, John Frum.  It exists only on Tanna.  Among its tenets are that John Frum will come back, bringing great quantities of material goods to all the believers.  During WWII, as the GIs stationed here had huge quantities of equipment, and were friendly and generous, John Frum became associated with America.  According to the Lonely Planet guidebook,  “Some supporters made radio aerials out of tin cans and wire to contact Jon Frum. Others built an airfield in the bush and constructed wooden aircraft to entice his cargo planes to land. Still others erected wharves where his ships could berth. Small red crosses were placed all over Tanna and remain a feature in Jon Frum villages, where flags are raised each evening to this god of their collective imagination.”

I didn’t know exactly what to expect, but it seemed like it might be interesting.  Thirteen of us, nine yachties and two land tourists, piled in the back of a truck for an hour’s 4WD ride to the thatched-roof village.  A tattered American flag flew over a concrete community building, but other than some kids playing, not much was going on.  We hung out until dusk, when dozens of people began gathering in an open-sided thatched structure. They sat down on the woven mats which covered the ground and began singing to the accompaniment of  guitars.  Just outside, little boys break-danced to the music, gyrating and hopping around energetically.  Behind them, girls and young women danced sedately, colorful grass skirts swaying.  More of a rhythmic walk, they took eight or ten steps forward with arms swaying, did a quick pivot, then the same distance back, again and again.

Every Friday the singing and dancing goes on all through the night.  Members from four different villages come together, and each village takes its turn playing and singing hymns.  After a few hours it was clear that the rest of the night would be pretty much the same.  The singing was very nice, but by then we were all ready to return to our boats and call it a night.

Upwind to Tanna, 2 Oct 2014

All the while sailing north a month ago to attend the festival on Vanua Lava, I was wondering how difficult the sail would be back south against the Trades.  Between luck and patience, though, we had no great difficulty as far as Port Vila.  We had accompished one of our three goals here in Vanuatu, attending that festival.  We missed out on the second, the volcano on Ambrym, due to weather.  But the third, visiting the volcano on Tanna, remained.  The 130 n.m. from Vila to Tanna is normally straight upwind, unpleasant at best, maybe not even possible for us.  Watching the weather forecast in Port Vila last week, though, it looked like our luck might hold.  There was a prediction of calm and then light air for the several days after a frontal passage due last Sunday, so we prepared for an early Monday departure.

Until mid-afternoon on Monday, the wind was indeed calm, and we enjoyed motoring to the southeast on a gently rolling, barely rippled sea.  From mid-afternoon on, though, the wind was well above the prediction, and we slogged along, motoring, struggling for every mile, using the lee of the islands, mired in a couple of “washing machines” in the dark, eventually reaching Port Resolution here on Tanna at dawn yesterday after forty-nine hours of motoring.  Unpleasant barely describes it, but it was just possible.

But it was worth every minute of it.  We arranged a tour yesterday afternoon to Mt. Yasur, the “world’s most accessible active volcano”.  Nine of us yachties piled into the back of a pickup for the hour-long, kidney-dislodging ride to the volcano car park.  From there, a ten-minute walk up a steep cement trail brought is to the rim, where we could look straight down into Vulcan’s furnace.  Magnificent even before sunset, the display was absolutely spectacular afterwards.  Periodic explosions sent titanic showers of glowing molten rock high into the air, thudding on the inside slopes of the crater like olympean lumps of pudding.

Back on Mintaka later that evening, the loss of sleep over the past two days finally caught up with me.  Mt. Yasur could have blown itself completely into ash last night without waking me.

“It is but machiney, Sahib” — 21 Sep 2014

We left Lamen Bay on Epi just before midnight last Friday for a supposedly light-air sail down to Efate, some sixty miles to the south.  “Light air” turned out to be about fifteen knots.  At least it wasn’t right on the nose, just a one-legged beat to weather.  So, I drove her hard, harder that ever before, full sail, rail down, smashing through the seas at six knots.  Fun for a few hours, but it was getting pretty old by the time we reached the lee of Efate and ran out of wind.

Starting the engine, we found that there was no cooling water flowing out of the exhaust.  Uh-oh!  Not good.  Shut the engine down to investigate.  Can’t find anything wrong.  Checked the sea-strainer for blockage; nothing.  Start the engine again; still no water; shut it down.  Pulled the hose off the nipple where it injects the cooling water into the exhaust gases.  Started the engine briefly to check the flow; good flow; shut down again (the cooling water was going into the engine room at that point).  Put the hose back on; restarted a third time; ran normally!  Go figure.  This is the sort of thing that gives me nightmares.  Without the engine, under the current conditions, it would have been difficult and time-consuming to make it into port.

By the way, the title quote comes from an old mountaineering book where a truck in India, broken down on the way to the Himalayas, is being worked on by an Indian mechanic.  Unable to fix it, he turns to the European passenger, shruggs his shoulders and says, “It is but machinery, Sahib.”

Well Met, Indeed, at Lamen Bay, Epi — 17 Sep 2014

We dropped anchor late yesterday afternoon here in Lamen Bay on the island of Epi.  There were three other yachts here, one American, one British, and one without a flag.  Next morning, we thought we’d row around to meet the neighbors, as we haven’t had much of any for some weeks.  First off, the American boat.  Nice people, and they mentioned that the boat without the flag was also American, from Port Townsend, Washington.  We obviously had to go meet them next.  They looked awfully familiar to us, and we to them, and it took but a few seconds to recognize each other.  We have close mutual friends in Seattle, at whose house we all met once some years ago.

No Volcano, 12 Sep 2014

One of our goals here in Vanuatu was to climb the volcano on the island of Ambrym.  This is about a four-hour hike up about four thousand feet, partly through jungle and partly over an ash plain.  You reach the crater rim on the north side, and, hopefully, the prevailing southeast wind blows the smoke away, letting you look down into Dante’s inferno.  Day-to-day weather is also a factor, of course.  If the mountain is socked in, no views at all.

We arrived at Ambrym last Friday, and found the guide in the village the next day.  Sunday’s weather didn’t look good, but we tentatively arranged a two-day trip for Monday and Tuesday.  The plan was to stay at a hut below the rim Monday night, get a view of the crater at night — this is supposedly the best time — and hike back down on Tuesday.  Monday’s weather turned out rainy too, so we rescheduled for a one-day trip on Tuesday.  This would have been a long day, but we were running short of days before we needed to be back in Port Vila.  Alas, Tuesday also saw the mountain socked in, so we sailed on south to Epi, the next island enroute back to Port Vila.

So, we’re batting five hundred right now.  Our first goal was the festival on Vanua Lava, which we raced north to attend, and which was just great.  We struck out on our second goal.  Our third goal is to visit the volcano on the island of Tanna.

Tanna’s volcano is billed as the most accesible volcano in the world.  You can drive to within a short walk of the crater.  Tourists fly in just to do that.  We, on the other hand, would have to sail upwind some hundred and thirty miles from Port Vila — that’s a fifteen-to-twenty-knot beat in eight-to-ten-foot seas, not fun for more than an afternoon, if that.  Either that or wait in Vila for a lucky break in the Trades.  Don’t know yet how that’ll turn out, but we’re determined to get there.

Hunting Water Prawns in Asanvari -- 8 Sept 2014

We arranged with Barry, the local that guided us to the Bat Cave last Saturday, to take us, along with another yachtie couple, into the bush to show us how he catches freshwater prawns. So, with mask and snorkel, and miniature pole spears, we followed him a short way into the jungle to a small stream.

We waded upstream, hopped from rock to rock, climbed over small waterfalls, stopping at pools along the way to hunt. Donning mask and snorkel, we lay down in the pools looking for prawns. There were many all around, but most were too small to bother with. The spear consisted of a piece of bamboo about a yard long, tipped with splayed points salvaged from the ribs of an old umbrella, and powered by a strip of rubber seized to the opposite end. This is exactly what I've used for many years hunting fish, except much smaller, so I immediately got into the game, bagging several prawns. Barry was the expert here, though, and it was just as much fun watching him. He knew every hole along the way, and came up with prawn after prawn. Several times, he disappeared under the water into some dark hole for a surprising length of time, making me think of Gollum in the Hobbit.

We finished the day with the four yachties on Mintaka for Thai curry with prawns. 

Bat Cave and Laundry Day in Asanvari, Maewo, Vanuatu -- 6 September 2014

We were well past due for washing clothes when we arrived here in Asanvari yesterday. But we had a higher priority today. There is a cave high on the mountain near here called Bat Cave, which, as you can imagine, is home to countless bats. Actually, some birds ("pijin") also nest inside the cave. Anyway, a local man here guides visitors up to see it for a small fee. Some friends of ours who visited it a number of years ago considered it a "don't miss" activity. So, we arranged yesterday to meet the guide, Barry, on shore this morning at eight o'clock.

Barry doesn't speak much English at all, nor French which is also a possibility here, only his local language (one of many here) and Bislama. But we've been working hard these few weeks on Bislama, and we had a great time conversing completely in it. A little stilted, perhaps, but still quite enjoyable.

We knew it would be a long hike up a steep, muddy trail -- I use that word loosely here -- for an hour and a half, or so. It was, indeed, both steep and muddy. We came to these islands with no footwear save flip-flops, so we found some sneakers to buy in Vila just for hikes such as this one. It wasn't long, though, before I was wondering if flip-flops might not be better here. Barry was wearing them, or occasionally going barefoot, and he was not slipping and sliding nearly as much as us. But we persevered for a couple of hours, Barry pausing to show us some plant, or an old village gravesite, or to chat about something ("samting") in Bislama. Actually, he couldn't seem to walk and talk at the same time, and I was beginning to wonder if we'd get there and back in one day. But we did, of course.

Bat Cave was cool. Just inside the entrance, there are some human bones and a partial skull from antiquity. Stepping further inside, bats flying all around us, we scrambled along with flashlights. About the time we lost the light from the entrance, we began to see a glow from another opening. Reaching that second opening, we saw it was a giant hole in the cave roof, extending down into an equally giant hole in the cave floor, descending into an abyss. Barry said that no one has ever gone down this hole, but that it apparently connects with a lower cave accessible from another entrance. The cave was interesting, and was of course the motivation for this hike, but it was the hike itself and the interaction with Barry that I enjoyed the most. He, like so many ni-Vanuatu, has an infectious smile and a warm, open personality. He seems to really enjoy the contact with visitors, showing them something of his island and its ways. As we have so often found, he also responded enthusiastically to our attempts at his language.

Slipping and sliding down the path ("smol rod"), it began to rain, not making traction any better. After a drippy beginning, it gained momentum, setting in to be an all-afternoon tropical downpour. We hadn't brought rain jackets, and were soaked to the skin with warm rain, but that was preferable to being soaked to the skin with warm sweat underneath rain jackets.

So, that leads into laundry day. Considering that fresh water is a valuable commodity on a boat -- we have to either make it, fetch it, or catch it -- and laundry takes a lot of it, we rowed back to Mintaka quickly to set buckets under our rain-catchment hoses. Within minutes, both buckets were full and emptied into our laundry basins. Robyn -- bless her soul -- sat out in the rain scrubbing and rinsing two weeks worth of clothes, sheets and towels. Then, she strung our clothes lines, hanging things up for a further rinse before taking them down again, lest they blow away. No chance of drying them today; that'll have to wait till tomorrow. 

Vanua Lava Days Festival, 1 - 4 Sept 2014

We had heard about cultural festivals in Vanuatu, where one can see "custom" dancing, and other traditional arts or events. Most of these festivals were already over for the season by the time we arrived in Vanuatu, however. The only one remaining with enough lead time for us to reach was in Vureas Bay on Vanua Lava. Vanua Lava is in the Banks group, far to the north, but there was just enough time to get there if we hurried. We don't usually hurry like that, but this time we did, stopping only one or two nights in any one place along the way.

The goal of attending this festival soon after entering the country did work well with the prevailing winds, which blow along the island chain from south to north. The resulting strategy then was to shoot north to the festival with the prevailing winds, then use the occasionally different winds to work our way slowly back south to Port Vila and maybe Tanna, even further south, before leaving for New Caledonia in October. So, with very little idea what to expect, we set off to the north.

The first leg, to the southern tip of Malekula, was a great overnight run. We spent two nights there (another blog entry), then a great daysail up to Port Stanley. Only one night there -- a real shame -- then a nice day sail again to Vao Island (also another blog entry). Two nights there, another great day sail, another one night anchorage, and a final great overnight sail. All of this sailing was downwind, and I couldn't help wondering all along if we were going to pay dearly, with a long upwind slog back.

Our first stop on Vanua Lava -- we arrived on a Saturday, and the festival was to begin on Monday -- was in Waterfall Bay, just a few miles to the north of Vureas bay. A twin waterfall plunges scenically, directly into the sea here. There is a no village, but several families live along the shore in the area. One of the two paramount chiefs of the island lives here, Chief Kerely, who welcomed us, and soon became a friend. Snorkeling along the shore here, we also found one of the best displays of coral we've ever seen -- great diversity and extent, along with a fascinating topography. Chief Kerely grew up in the village in Vureas bay, and took the opportunity the next day to ride with us down there for a visit. Besides enjoying his company, having him introduce us to the other paramount chief of the island, Chief Godfrey of Vureas Bay, was a good start there.

Chief Godfrey is seventy-five years old, a small, wiry man with regal presence. Like so many people here, his infectious smile and warm, open welcome made us feel immediately at ease and at home. We came to regard him with great affection in just a few days.

The purpose of this annual festival is twofold, to commemorate the loss of an entire village here by an earthquake, landslide and tsunami on September 1, 1945, and to revive and teach traditional customs. Striking in the night, over seven hundred people, all but a lucky few, were lost in that tragedy. Chief Godfrey was one of those few, carried by his parents uphill into the bush in the dark. We visited the ruins with the Chief, just a short walk down the shore. The earthquake lifted the land there, so it is now a bit inland. During the war, the Americans landed on the beach by the village. Now there is a section of jungle between it and the beach. Incidentally, the Americans are remembered well here. Apparently, they treated the native people well. One man told us he still has a tea kettle that was given to his father back then. Little is left there now, but we did see the ruins of the church and the baptismal font (made from one half of a giant clam, a Tridactna gigas) where the Chief was baptized as a baby.

The cultural part of the festival mostly consisted of traditional dances, each of which told a story, which of course was lost on us. We did enjoy the exotic dances, though, with the dancers dressed in grass skirts, various flowers and feathers, and accompanied by local percussion instruments. One of these instruments is called a tamtam, or slit drum. It consists of either a section of bamboo or a hollowed log. In either case, there is only a single narrow opening, resulting in a resonant chamber. The other instrument is a heavy round wooden disk, perhaps a yard in diameter. It is set over a hole in the ground, also creating a resonant chamber, and is rhythmically pounded by men with heavy poles, vaguely reminiscent of a mortar and pestle. Besides these two, most dancers had seed-pod rattles secured around their ankles.

Most of these dances were performed by men, a few by women, but never mixed. There were quite a few of these traditional dances over the several days, but there were also two "public" dances, where anyone could join in. These both quickly became joyous mobs, prancing, shuffling, circling the drummers. The few yachties in attendance gladly mixed in, even me, who has always maintained, "I don't dance."

Besides the dancing, Chief Godfrey's youngest son took us for a long walk in the jungle to see a Megapode, an almost extinct flightless bird that lays its rather large eggs in warm volcanic soil, and also to see how they catch freshwater prawns. After several kilometers, we came to a native homesite, several thatch-roof structures with woven bamboo walls and rough plank floors. A man and two small boys, dressed in grass skirts, and painted even blacker than natural -- I was quite taken aback -- led us further into the jungle, all the while drumming lightly on a small tamtam, chanting and calling his semi-tame bird. After a while, we hear the bird answer the call, and eventually the bird came close enough for us to get a good look. Next, the man showed us his cleverly woven trap which he had baited with grated coconut and left in a stream the day before. It contained about two dozen prawns, which he gave to us, and which we cooked and ate later that day. Only upon arriving back at his homesite did the man speak any English, or for that matter Bislama (there are a multitude of local languages here; the only one in common is Bislama, a relatively recently invented creole language). Only at that point did I recognize him as Frank, Chief Godfrey's eldest son, whom I had met him the day before, dressed neatly in tee shirt, shorts, socks and sneakers. The change was so dramatic, and so unexpected, that I didn't recognize him. This was no act, though, rather a different part of his identity, one he grew up with, and which was just as comfortable to him as western dress.

The last morning before we left, a group of women from a neighboring island performed "water music". This consisted of the women, wading in waist deep water, slapping the water in such a way as to create a rhythm with several different sounds. Unique music, to be sure, and they have taken it as far as Europe.

We had gone to this festival not knowing what to expect. What we found there were wonderful people celebrating their heritage, much like an American-Indian powwow. What struck me most was that, even though their customs are radically exotic to me, they are just people, not much different than anywhere else. Actually, they are different. They are polite, shy, and warmly welcoming, far more so than I've ever seen anywhere else, and it is their national character. 

Recent Pictures

                                                        Sunset anchorage at Wallis

                                                                  Fete at Futuna

                                                                     Fete at Futuna

                                                                   Fete at Futuna

                                                                   Fete at Futuna

                                                                Fete at Futuna

                                                                     This is a drum.

                                                        Traditional house on Futuna

                                                              July 14th on Wallis

                                                               July 14th on Wallis

                                                               July 14th on Wallis

                                                          In the Pierre Chenal church

                                                           In the Pierre Chenal church

                                                    Traditional house in Mele, Vanuatu

A Ni-Vanuatu Friend

Robyn has a life-long friend from Minneapolis, who married a Brit and now lives in Britain.  She, in turn, has a niece who is half British and half ni-Vanuatu (that’s what the locals here call themselves).  This niece — Serah is her name — has been attending University in Britain, but is home in Vanuatu right now.  She lives in the little village of Mele, not far from where we are now in Port Vila.  We met her Saturday, and had Sunday lunch with her family yesterday.

How we found her deserves a telling.  There was a charity horse race sponsored by the local Kiwanis club Saturday near Mele.  A local event, it sounded interesting.  We had been having difficulty contacting Serah, but managed to get a message to her uncle that morning that we would be at the horse races.  He said she would come out there looking for us, that we should wait at the gate, and that Serah was tall and light-skinned (half British) with curly dark hair.  Robyn wore a bright orange T-shirt for Serah to seek (that, with a white face in a sea of black ones was distinctive).  So, we went out there Saturday morning and found that one of the gate tenders actually knew Serah, and said he would watch for her.  We went on in, but after the first two races, we were ready to leave.  Serah hadn’t shown up yet, so we got a ride to her village, and asked the first person we saw if they knew Serah.  “Oh, yes.  Go down this street, take the third left, and ask someone for further directions.”  We did.  “Oh, yes.  Go down to where you see the laundry drying on a line, and ask someone for further directions.”  We did.  The next person was tall and light-skinned, with curly dark hair, and lit up when she saw Robyn’s T-shirt.  We had a very nice visit, met some of her many relatives, and had some local food before catching a bus back to Port Vila.  Serah’s mother invited us back for Sunday lunch.

Mele is a small village, where pigs and mangy dogs roam the dirt lanes, and the small houses are a mix of cement, corrugated metal, and thatch.  Many floors are dirt, and are covered with mats, finely woven from pandanus leaves.  Everyone seems to know everyone, and everyone is very friendly.  One young man called out to us, “Thank you for visiting our village.”

We caught a bus up there again Sunday morning, arriving at Serah’s house — I should say her extended family’s group of houses — amid a croud of her relatives preparing various foods for lunch.  Men tending several rather large dutch ovens simmering chicken; four women preparing platters of salad.  Another, a huge bowl of a sort of spicy coleslaw.  Two other women grating coconut meat to squeeze for coconut milk to go in the rice.  Etc, with all of the cooked dishes being done over open fires.

We were a little early, so we went for a stroll, stopped by the church where some big conference was getting underway, and wandered around the village a bit.  Then we just hung around, watching the preparations, meeting some of the family.  Serah wasn’t around yet; turns out she was in the church service.  At one point, Serah’s mother presented Robyn with a handmade dress like all the other women were wearing, and a bit later presented me with a brightly colored shirt, also hand made.  No explanation, though.  Later, we found that this was a family tradition with visitors.  Then we sat down with the family at a very long table for a nice meal of local dishes.  Serah showed up, and we had another nice visit.  Just before leaving back to Port Vila, Serah’s mother presented us with one of their woven mats, a special, ornate one.  We were quite taken aback.  It was a pleasure, as well as a cultural experience, to be included in the family like that.

Futuna

Futuna is rarely visited by yachties, or by other tourists.  This is partly due in the case of yachties to the poor anchorage, and to its out-of-the-way location, but also in general to no great interest in tourism among the people of Futuna, and little of interest to a tourist — just a pretty little tropical island, where people go about their lives quietly.  The population is small, and there is no industry.  Consequent to all of that, there is almost nothing in the way of restaurants or hotels.  The people are quite friendly, though, and seem pleased that we’d come to visit.

The day after we arrived was the 29th of August, anniversary of the day Wallis and Futuna became French Overseas Territories.  The day started with a mass at the main church, a quite colorful, flower-bedecked affair, with spear-carrying ushers in attendance who struck the floor with a spear butt whenever the people were to stand.  I’ve not been to that many Catholic masses, but I found myself wondering if the average western Catholic would have recognized this as their own religion.

The day continued with a flag ceremony, quite a bit less elaborate than for the 14th of July, and a kava ceremony for the VIPs of the island.  A succession of dancing, costumed school groups performed over the morning.  Then, a community feast was served.  “Served” doesn’t quite fit here, though.  Typically polynesian, the food was piled high on a long table.  People sat as space allowed, eating mostly with fingers from the heaped up dishes, then left, making room for others to sit down and eat.  Total chaos.  I am actually intimidated by this sort of thing.  I’m not sure why, but I am.  Were it not for Robyn, I would never have entered the room, let alone sat down.  Robyn and I are good at getting the other into good experiences which we would not otherwise have.

The afternoon then continued with groups of male dancers, deck out in an eclectic mix of leaves, other bits of foliage, and strips of brightly colored mylar.  These men clearly enjoyed this dance tradition, stomping, swinging, jumping in unison to the beat of makeshift drums.

We noticed that there were no local fruits in the grocery store — no coconuts, bananas, papayas, etc.  We asked where we could buy some, and were told to just ask at any house where we saw them growing.  We did so a couple of times, and were always told to just take what we wanted.  One of these times, we were also invited in for lunch.  After seeing the wretched conditions in which the pigs are kept, I wasn’t too keen on the roast pork.  Oh, well.  The roast taro wasn’t so great, either, but the encounter with the local man was great.  His French wasn’t so good — worse than mine — but we managed to communicate well enough.

Futuna is a pretty island, but there isn’t actually much to see or do as a tourist.  The only thing of interest in the Lonely Planet guide was the Pierre Chenal church at the other end of the island.  Chenal was a priest here in the early days, was killed by a jealous chief, and is now the patron saint of Oceania.  The church is a little different, with intricately woven tapa cloths lining the walls, and with the crucifix figure clothed in tapa cloths.  The chapel next door contains some of Chenal’s relics — bones, skull, the club that killed him, etc.  I get the feeling, visiting various Catholic churches around the islands, that Catholicism has not replaced the former paganism here so much as absorbed it.

We had wanted to go north from Futuna to visit Tuvalu, but a nasty weather system was parked between Futuna and Tuvalu, and didn’t look like it was going to move any time soon.  We were getting antsy to move on, and when the weather looked OK to go west to Vanuatu, but still bad to the north, we reluctantly decided to forget Tuvalu.  Unlike travel on land, we go where the weather allows us to go.

Passages from Wallis to Futuna to Vanuatu

We pulled in to Port Vila in Vanuatu late in the evening last Monday, the 11th.  We don’t like to enter new ports after dark — we don’t like to enter familiar ones after dark either — but Port Vila is an easy entry, even in the dark, and the full moon gave considerable light, despite the overcast.  It didn’t help, though, that the last of our three autopilots had become unreliable (occasionally generating an uncommanded hard turn, not a good thing in tight places), so I had to hand steer the last few miles.  The entry into the port follows what is called a lighted range.  That consists of two distinct lights, one above and further inland than the other.  If you are on the range, the two lights will appear one directly above the other.  If you are off the range, one light will appear to one side of the other.  This range defines a line with perfect accuracy, which is set up to ensure a safe enry.  It didn’t help, though, that only one of the lights was operating.  Fortunately, we have other means of following such a line.  It didn’t help, too, to find quite a few boats anchored in the small and awkward and dark quarantine anchorage, two quite large, and several of the others unlit (very bad form not to have an anchor light on at night).  Well, we finally found a suitable spot, and got the anchor down, six and a half rough, wet and salty days from Futuna.

I should go back to leaving Wallis, though, where I posted my last blog entry.

Wallis is an atoll with only one significant pass through the fringing reef.  The tidal currents in such a place can run quite strongly, so you have to time your transit of the pass accordingly.  With an unavoidably strong wind against us, we needed a bit of current behind us to help, so we left about an hour before low tide.  Wind against current can set up some impressive waves, which was the case here.  The tongue of water rushing out the pass bore a distinct resemblance to the log flume at Disney World.  Tall but short and steep waves sent us alternately soaring skyward or falling down, down, down.  Didn’t last too long, but it sure was wild.

The wind was at right angles to our course for Futuna, some hundred and thirty miles or so away, and was blowing around twenty-five knots.  This made for a fast but wet ride.  The waves were coming up beam on, with an occasional one peaking at just the right moment to smack hard against the side of the boat (sounds like a gun shot down below when one does that).  Well, the wave energy has to go somewhere, so it shoots straight up, whereupon the wind blows it onto the deck, into the cockpit, and now and then a bit down the hatch.  Didn’t take long to get very wet and salty.  The conditions eased just a bit along the way, but were still up when we arrived at Futuna.

The anchorage at Futuna is just a small notch in the fringing coral reef.  There was just enough protection to make the anchorage tenable, but not by much.  A heavy swell rolled in continuously, making us pitch uncomfortably.  And the wind was now at an angle to the swell, so it allowed us to roll miserably.  We wound up using three anchors, two off the bow to hold us in the notch, and one off the stern to hold us facing the swell to stop the rolling.  With the three anchors holding us in place, conditions were tolerable, but not very comfortable.  I was a little nervous the whole week we were there.

Futuna was nice enough — I’ll describe our time there in the next blog post — but when the weather allowed us to leave, I was quite ready.  The conditions had only dropped back down to what we had coming over from Wallis, though, still blowing 20-25 kts with rough seas.  Once again, it didn’t take long to get very wet and salty.

We had intended our first stop in Vanuatu to be at Tanna island, where there is an easily accessible active volcano.  You can get a ride by truck up to a short walk from the rim of the crater, where you can look down into Dante’s inferno.  The volcano bubbles and spits, and occasionally sends blobs of lava skyward to get the attention of visitors — the recommendation is not to run, but to look up so you can avoid the blobs as they land.  I can’t really say that it’s a safe, or smart thing to do, but countless tourists have gone up there over the years, with only a couple of accidents.

The problem is that the port of entry on Tanna is on the wrong side of the island, and doesn’t have much of an anchorage.  Considering the rough weather we were experiencing, we finally decided to skip Tanna for now, and head directly to Port Vila, the capitol of Vanuatu, where we are now.

We’ve had a couple of good night’s sleep now, washed all the salt off, and are enjoying the town and the company of other cruisers.  I’ll write about Futuna soon, as well as Port Vila.  Stay tuned.

Booted by the King

There is actually a king here in Wallis, although it's an elected position (by the council of chiefs) for a set term of years.  His "palace" is on the waterfront in the main town, facing the anchorage where we have been happily anchored off and on for the past two weeks.  Today, I got a message from the Gendarmerie that we had to move.  No reason, just move down to Gahi Bay, a few miles away.  It turns out that the king didn't want to see yachts in front of his palace any more, so we (and two others) got the boot.

Aground at Wallis

I took this photo a few days ago, looking straight down over the side.  How deep do you think the water is?  Just about five feet.  Our keel is five feet, ten inches deep.  Notice the black mark on the sand.  That's paint from our keel.

We had anchored the day before in an unusual position.  A broad, shallow sand bank blocked us from anchoring near a particular motu (a small peripheral island in an atoll).  At high tide, the bank was just deep enough for us, but not at low tide.  This bank dropped abruptly into very deep water, so we nosed over the bank at high tide, dropped the hook, and let the wind set us back into deeper water.  These being the Trade Winds (i.e. pretty constant), and having checked the immediate forecast, I felt secure.  What I failed to consider is that rain squalls can stop, or even reverse the wind briefly.  Well, we had some showers during the night, and one of them reversed the wind at just the wrong moment as the tide was ebbing.  I woke up about five a.m. to find us firmly aground and healing over about five degrees.  Bother.  You can't fry eggs with the stove not level.  Oh, well, Robyn had made some banana bread the day before, and coffee doesn't require a level stove.  Not to worry, we had just enough time for a crossword puzzle each before we floated off with the rising tide.

Grilled Chicken in Wallis

We had the most remarkable grilled chicken this evening.  We bought a "Grade A" frozen chicken at the supermarket here in Wallis a couple of days ago.  Don't know the provenance.  After defrosting, it seemed a bit scrawny, but Robyn cut it up and I grilled it.  The pieces were a bit small, so I didn't leave them on the grill very long, much less than ordinarily.  Well, I have on occasion bit into a tough cut of beef, but I have never eaten a chicken that exercised my jaw muscles anything like this one.  We laughed our way through dinner, making jokes at the poor bird's expense, wondering how anyone could have caught a bird fit to compete in the Olympics.  If we buy another such chicken here, I think it'll go in the stew pot, instead of on the grill.

Medical Care in Wallis

We had the occasion to seek medical care shortly after arriving here at Wallis (a small island west of Samoa).  This being a French overseas territory, there is both a dispensary and a hospital, staffed with French doctors.  The care is both good and free, but the waiting is endless.  At the first visit, we waited all morning, then were told to come back in the afternoon -- everything here shuts down from 12:30 till 3:00.  At the second visit, we were told to come at 6:50 a.m., which we did.  There were only three people there ahead of us when we arrived, but we still wound up waiting over four hours, while most of the rest of the later arrivals were seen.    The scheduling process mystified us.  Later, we found out that it runs on pure cronyism.  The secretary's family and friends get in first; we, as white and foreign, go last.  At least we understand now.

Link to Pamplemousse Video

Here's a short video we made about eating pamplemousse.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vjXIbkab8LE

Small World in Apia

So, we were in an internet cafe the other day, and struck up a conversation with a fellow from New Zealand.  Turns out he’s half samoan, and now lives here with his New Zealander wife.  Tony is his name, and very friendly.  He and his wife ran a small resort on the neighboring island of Savai’i until starting a business here in Apia.  Well, later that day, Robyn stopped in at the New Zealand High Commission office looking for some information.  The woman working there was from New Zealand (not surprising).  After dealing with the requested information, they continued chatting briefly, during which the woman mentioned running a small resort on Savai’i.  Of course, Robyn asked her if her husband’s name was Tony.  Sure enough.

West from Manihiki to Samoa, 24 June 2014

We slipped the mooring at Manihiki late morning on the 16th, with a good wind to start the 690 mile run down to Apia, the capitol of Samoa.  The daily runs for the first two days were well above average, over 150 miles each -- great, boisterous sailing.  The third day's mileage dropped a bit to a more typical daily run, 139 miles.  Then the wind gods turned their backs on us, letting us bob along slowly for the remainder of the passage.  This wasn't all bad, though, as we had no deadline, and the sailing was surprisingly good for only doing a knot or two.  Usually, when the wind drops like that, the swell makes the boat roll side to side, which then makes the sails slat noisily (i.e. snap back and forth).  This is hard on the sails, the rigging, and the crew.  This time, though, the minor swell was from such an angle that we didn't roll or slat much at all.  It was actually quite enjoyable to sail slowly along on an almost flat sea, without any hurry at all.  Sailing easily along like that in the moonlight is simply magical.  Life is simple out there. 

Four more days of mostly light-air sailing brought us just to the entrance of Apia Harbor.  At that point, the wind died away to nothing.  We had hoped to sail into the harbor, however slowly, and drop anchor without starting the engine at all on this passage, but the last mile wasn't going to happen any time soon without diesel.  So, we fired her up and motored in.  We thought it was Sunday morning, and by rights it should have been, so we expected to stay aboard at anchor until the next morning when we could clear in.  We were a little surprised at the amount of traffic on shore, though, and when we heard the police band marching to raise the flag -- they don't do that on Sundays -- we knew something was up.  It turns out that Samoa decided a few years ago that they wanted to see the new day before Tonga, so they moved the Date Line east enough to make that happen.  So, we lost a day.  Now we have to think what day it is back home, and not just the hour, before making a phone call.

Recent Photos

Here are a few random photos from the past month.

Nice pair!

Skyline at Ua Pou

74" Short-Bill Spearfish, a marlin variety

New friends Rio, Kula & family, in Tetautua

Ubiquitous Blacktip Shark, a fearsome man-eater, NOT!

Old friend Tumukahu, and his wife, Hakono, in Tetautua

Anchored at Omoka

Old friends Alex & Christine in Omoka

Tetautua Village

New Tats

PENRHYN

Penrhyn, Cook Islands — 9 June 2014 
We didn’t expect to find internet here, but change does occur, even in sleepy backwaters such as Penrhyn.  That’s about all that’s changed, though.  We arrived here last Sunday, the 1st, after a delightful eight-day passage from Ua Pou in the Marquesas.  Delightful, that is, except for early Sunday morning.  Up until then, we had good wind, moderate seas, fine weather with barely a few light showers, no squalls at all — one of our best passages ever.  Early Sunday morning, though, we were overtaken unexpectedly by a massive, violent squall.  We went from poking along in the blackness at three knots with the sails slatting, and me beginning to wonder if we’d arrive that day, to being overpowered by gale force winds, charging along at almost eight knots, pounded by heavy, driving rain, with the full mainsail plastered against the rigging.  One of those times when it’s hard to remember why we’re out here.

Anyway, the morning dawned fine, and we motored through the pass into the lagoon just after lunch.  Being Sunday — nothing moves here on Sundays — we dropped the hook off the town of Omoka, cleaned up, and just relaxed.  The Trades were blowing pretty hard, and the anchorage is on the lee side of the lagoon, so we felt pretty much like we were still at sea.  The immigration and health officers came out Monday morning to clear us in, after which we motored across the lagoon to the other village, Tetautua, on the windward side, looking for a more tranquil anchorage.

We spent most of the week over there — we’re back on the Omoka side now —  visiting with people we met ten years ago when we first visited Penrhyn, and meeting some new people.   The island council here at Penrhyn has five members, two of which are from Tetautua, and three from Omoka.  We were invited to dinner by both council members while in Tetautua, which dinners were also birthday parties for a child in each family.  Everyone here speaks English, albeit as a second language, so that aspect is easier than in the Marquesas, but conversation still can be a little awkward because English is still their second language.  Even so, the people are warm and friendly, welcoming and very hospitable.  The anchorage at Tetautua is also as good as a gets — fifteen feet deep over a clean sand bottom, calm clear water, a nice breeze.

The people we most wanted to visit, though, live in Omoka, so when the winds died down a bit, we motored back across to the leeward side.  The anchorage here is just the opposite of that at Tetautua — deeper, foul with small coral heads scattered on the bottom (not visible from the surface), and choppy water.  The potential for wrapping ones chain around some coral is pretty high.  Oh well, this is where our friends are.  And the Trades are down right now, so the anchorage is calm.

One of the endearing traits of the people here is their inclusiveness; visitors are automatically invited to community events.  We got back to this side on Friday, and that evening there was a huge, island-wide celebration of someone’s fiftieth birthday (apparently the 1st, the 21st and the 50th evoke huge celebrations).  We were, of course, invited.  It was quite the event — vast quantities of food, guest-of-honor-concept taken to an extreme, endless speeches.

Of the several families that we wanted to visit here on this trip, only one is still here.  The other two are living in Rarotonga.  We’ve been having a great visit with that family, though.  The husband in one of the other families was the health officer here last time.  He’s moved up to be head of all health officers, now, and so lives in “Raro”, but as luck would have it, he came to Penrhyn today on business, so we got to visit at least with him after all.  Tomorrow is my sixtieth
birthday, and our friends here want to have a party — I celebrated my fiftieth here with them, as well.  The Trades are coming back up, so we’ll leave the next day, Wednesday the 11th.

Shrinking Population 
There are many fewer people here than ten years ago.  Young people leave for either the capitol  (i.e. Rarotonga), or New Zealand, or especially Australia.  Cook Islanders are New Zealand citizens, so they have residency rights in both New Zealand and Australia.  Australia has better job opportunities and a warmer climate, so more go there.  Like the Irish in America, there are many more Cook Islanders in Australia than in the Cook Islands.  Walking around the two villages here, I am struck by the number of vacant houses, and by the generally deteriorating look to the place.  Like small towns everywhere, there is a constant loss to the big cities.  Perhaps that’s a good thing here, because, with global warming and the resulting rise in sea level, there won’t be an island here in the not-too-distant future.  In fact, all the atolls, like this one, all around the world, are doomed to disappear beneath the waves all too soon.  The coral just doesn’t grow fast enough to keep up.  That is a sad thing for people like us who have fond memories of these places and people, but it is a great tragedy for them.

[Side note about Ireland and Irish:  A fellow on a boat back in the Marquesas introduced himself to us, then said, in a heavy accent, “I’m from Ireland.”  I replied, “I am, too, several generations back.”]

Sharks
Many of the yachties we’ve met, especially the newer ones, have expressed reluctance to swim in places like this for fear of sharks.  Well, reef sharks are pretty easy to get along with.  A few days ago at Tetautua, one of the people demonstrated this by jumping off the sea wall right into a group of sharks, almost landing on top of one over six feet long.  They just scattered.  Yesterday, some of the locals were cleaning the days fish catch, sitting on benches awash in the water, with sharks milling about next to them, eating the scraps thrown their way.  Nobody gives them a second thought.

Family Relationships 
We are completely lost with the family structures here, the very concept of “family” being somewhat fluid, even amorphous here.  The names don’t help much, either.  Children may, or may not, have the same last name as the parents.  Children of the same parents may not have the same last name.  People typically introduce themselves with just the last name, but that’s not how they’re addressed or referred to by others.  And in such an insular community, there are only a few last names to begin with.  Add to all that the practice of giving two first names to children; use either one you like, it doesn’t matter.  Names aside, the children living with a couple may be their own, maybe a sibling’s, maybe grandchildren, or maybe only distantly related, yet they are referred to as the couple’s children.  One’s own children, even as young as infants, may be living with family as far away as Australia or New Zealand.  This is truly a culture where children are raised by the entire community.

Sixtieth Birthday, 10 June
The Trades came up this morning, and are forecast to increase more tonight.  I was uncomfortable with the coral in the anchorage at Omoka -- with the higher winds tomorrow, we might have had difficulties getting our anchor and chain up -- so we bade adieu to our friends there, foregoing the birthday party tonight, and motored back over to the windward side at Tetautua.  The calm water here is quite welcome for packing up the inflatable dinghy, and generally getting ready for sea.  We will leave at first light tomorrow, bound for Manihiki, the next of the Cook Islands, only 200 miles away.  We have a friend there, too, whose family here in Penrhyn is sending a fifty-pound sack of sugar for him with us.  We'll probably just spend one or two nights there before heading on to Apia, the capitol of Samoa.

After we cleared out with the immigration officer this morning, he presented us with two hands of bananas and a locally woven fan.  Imagine that at LAX.