Passage to Hiva Oa, Marquesas Islands, French Polynesia, 12 Apr 2014

We left Mexico the morning of 15 March, and arrived at Hiva Oa the morning of 9 April, 25 days later.  This was not the first time that we have made this passage, nor was it the longest passage we have ever made.  The first time we arrived here, it was our first and longest major passage, and it felt like such an accomplishment.  This time, it felt more like the end of a long cross-country road trip.  I guess we’ve become comfortable out here.

This is the longest passage most cruisers ever do, but it is perhaps the easiest, with the most predictable weather.  There are three main segments.  The first is downwind in the Northeast Trades, a reliably pleasant ride.  Next comes some snotty weather crossing the Doldrums.  The Doldrums is a band of unsettled weather just north of the equator, where one usually finds it hot and humid, mostly overcast, with little wind, squally and rainy — very unpleasant.  Some people try to sail through this band; most are happy to motor through it as quickly as possible.  Last comes another downwind run in the Southeast Trades to a landfall at Hiva Oa in the Marquesas.

Our first time through the Doldrums was simply awful.  We had constant heavy rain showers with strong winds, and dead air in between.  We were constantly reefing and unreefing the sails, closing all the ports with each shower, then sweltering inside until we could open them again when the squall passed.  This went on for four days.  We had bad memories.  This time, with more experience and better weather information, we had a better strategy.  We cruised southwest in the Northeast Trades, watching the weather reports each day for the Doldrums to the south.  When we saw what looked like a light spot in the Doldrums, we zigged south-southeast a bit to cross there, and were rewarded with a very mellow crossing:  hardly a squall, mostly fine weather.  What we didn't plan on was not having much of any wind for several succeeding days — mostly sunny, beautiful weather, but very little wind. At one point, we were flying clouds of sail, and only doing two knots.  You can walk casually faster than that.  Oh well, it was still much nicer than the first time.

Time has a different meaning on a sea voyage.  On land, one marks the passage of the days by work, school, evening and weekend activities, etc.  At sea, there are none of these markers.  There are isolated events like seeing a pod of dolphins, or chatting on the radio with a tuna-boat skipper out of Mexico, but there is nothing to keep them ordered other than a written log, and much undifferentiated time in between.  After the first few days, one gets used to the daily rhythm of watches, meals, sleep, after which it is difficult to even count the passing days.  Towards the end of the passage, though, one begins to “smell the barn”, and begins to calculate the number of days before landfall.  The calculations are always wrong, though; it always takes longer.

But then, at dawn of the twenty-sixth day, when the sky has lightened enough to see the horizon, there it is, land.  As the day gets brighter and you sail further along, what was at first just a hazy smudge becomes more defined.  You begin to see texture, then color, then you’re cruising along a rugged coast to a tiny little harbor, tucked in behind a breakwater.  And there you are, in French Polynesia, in the South Pacific.

The Marquesas comprise a half-dozen major islands, plus a number of minor ones.  Oriented more or less in a line from Fatu Hiva in the southeast to Nuku Hiva to the northwest, and lying entirely within the Southeast Trades, there is definitely an upwind and a downwind direction.  The town of Atuona, on the island of Hiva Oa, is the most upwind port of entry, so everyone goes there first. Unfortunately, the harbor here is small and rolly.  After those three weeks or so at sea, you come in past that breakwater to find yourself having to anchor cheek by jowl in a shoe box.  Here’s how it works.  You wind your way through the crowd, watching that you don’t snag any stern anchor rodes, looking for a spot you can fit.  Then you make a second pass, with both stern and bow anchors ready to run.  You squeeze between two boats (not quite literally, but almost), drop your stern anchor while motoring forward, run out all of your stern rode, then drop your bow anchor.  Paying out forward anchor rode while taking in stern rode, you settle back between your two anchors, hoping you got it right.  We settled in a little closer to another boat than we felt comfortable with, so we deployed a third anchor off to the opposite side to pull us away a little further.

We quickly begin to meet the crews on the other boats, an international and interesting crowd.  We go through the entry formalities with the Gendarme -- very pleasant fellow, even jovial -- but a time-consuming process.  Laundry, phone calls (major hassle here), internet (even worse), fresh food, etc.  Atuona isn't a place to linger, and after almost a week there, we were glad to be off again to begin really cruising.

Next stop, Tahuata  -- next blog entry.