Ceilydh Sets Sail

Structure and Routine

2012-02-05T12:21:00.001+12:00

Our weeksare beginning to develop structure and routine—a schedule, if you like. Apath of activity that takes us from Monday (library), to Wednesday (circus), toFriday (community potluck) and on to Saturday’s farmer’s market and Sunday’syoga. Not much (we’re waiting on visas to add work and school to the mix) butenough to make it clear we’ve made the transition from cruiser to live aboard.

Maia back at circus--Mairen and Siobhan are joining her

Part ofwhat makes me love cruising for years on end is the chance to chuck theschedule and ditch the expectation of being somewhere specific—barring, youknow, getting to a continent in time for cyclone season. And when I’m out thereI don’t miss the schedule. We actively avoid the summer-camp-like ex-patcommunities that try to re-impose order by setting up activities (coffee at 9am,followed by Mexican train and a Walmart run, and then beading at 2pm…) Insteadour days are shaped by necessity (the engine needs attention) and whim (thatreef looks perfect for snorkelling).

Friday potluck

But after afew years, or maybe when we are in one place for more than a month or two, thatchanges. “I need something solid,” Maia told me the other day. “A life I canpredict.”

heading to the Saturday market

Maia hears,“we don’t know” as often as most kids hear, “no”.

“When willI go to school?”

“Where willI spend my birthday?”

“Where arewe going next?”

“We don’tknow—how awesome is that?” We tell her.

But after awhile, ‘we don’t know’ stopped sounding like a magical phrase that opened up aworld of possibility, and began to echo a bit with emptiness. ‘We don’t know’ suddenlywasn’t the catch-phrase of our intrepid family on an adventure but a sign thatwe were drifting a bit. Not lost, just no longer sure where we were headed.

“I justwant to know something for certain,” Maia explained. And as she said it, Irealized I want the same thing. That maybe I’m a 2.5-3 year cruiser. And thatafter a few years I just need to stop, take stock and get my bearings. So we’retaking some time out for certainty; for the sureness of waking in the sameplace; for the solidity of routine.

Today it isyoga. Tomorrow is the library. And soon enough the magic of the unknown will bereplaced by another kind of magic.

Into the Wild

2012-02-03T12:34:00.001+12:00

Old friends Don and Allisonarrived for a visit this week—but rather than taking them sailing we loaded upa car and headed into the hinterlands. The region of Queensland we’re in offers pastoral mountains,great beaches and loads of wildlife. We’re still busy with friends—but here’s afew shots of the creatures we’ve encountered. I'm posting them mainly for my mum, but hopefully the rest of you will enjoy them.

Except for the koala everything else was encountered in the wild.

Gorgeous Galah Cockatoos

Kookaburra

Rainbow Lorikeet

Grey Kangaroo

Echidna crossing

Monitor lizard

flying fox

Gung Haggis Fat Australia Day

2012-01-27T20:07:00.001+12:00

Thecockroach that won the race was accused of being on steroids: An accusationthat didn’t seem to go against any of the event’s rules. Flying is a no-no (andas anyone who lives on a boat can tell you, these buggers can really get someair) but steroids, apparently, are cool.

pipers piping in the roaches

random Aussie teaching us the rules

After twocockroach races, a go at dunking a random Aussie in the dunk tank, and leavinga few dollars at the bar it was time to head back to Totem and continue withour day’s events. For Australians—it was Australia Day. But for our wanderingband of nomads it was Gung Haggis Fat Australia Day—a combination of AustraliaDay, the Chinese Lunar New Year and Robbie Burns Day (Lord Selkirk entertainedRobbie Burns at his mansion back in the day and when Burns was asked to say gracebefore a meal, he composed the Selkirk Grace, which is recited to this day atBurns suppers. This, for us, has always been reason enough to celebrate. Wellthat and Scotch.)

So the kidsdecorated, and Behan and I cooked, and Jamie and Evan kept our glasses filled.And our makeshift holiday of poetry reading, fortune cookies and steroid-pumpedcockroaches began to feel like something meaningful and real. Instead of Haggiswe had Kanga Bangers. And rather than a Tipsy Laird for dessert (trifle) weopted for Pavlova. And we made plans to celebrate again next year—yes, nextyear. Evan has accepted a job and it seems Australia will be home for a while.

Jamie and Emanuelle from Merlin

As we dinghiedhome from Totem--rounding Kangaroo point and then watching the necklace oflights on the Story Bridge give way to the cityscape--I realized this will bethe forth country the three of us have lived in.

I’m notsure when you make the transition from visitor to living in a place—especiallyin a foreign country, where every time you feel like you start to understandit, something weird happens—like cockroach races. But as we made our way up theriver toward our boat, the realization that I live here sort of snuck up on me.

I’m comingto see the idea of home as a mosaic—a montage of inspiration, and people youlove, and celebrations you adopt that goes beyond place. It’s the life youcreate when the sum of its parts are greater than the place you are. Home isalso everything you bring with you and all you’ve ever been—except cockroaches.

Happy GungHaggis Fat AustraliaDay.

Safety at City

2012-01-21T14:25:00.000+13:00

“So you’regiving it up.” The comment came from someone we know and seemed to be heavilyladen with relief.

The topicwas cruising.

I explainedthat no—we’re not quitting, but if the chance came for us to stay in Oz andwork for a while we’d take it.

“But you’llmove ashore and Maia will go to school?”

Notexactly.

I can tellmany people are sceptical about our ability to childproof our chosen lifestyle.Hurricanes, tidal waves, mosquito borne viruses, stinging jellyfish, thirdworld sanitation, uncertain medical care and horror of horrors, home schooling.The list of perils seems endless and, the inference is, it’s irresponsible toexpose an innocent child to them.

I prettysure it’s not really that dangerous to cruise, it’s simply the exotic nature ofthe risks that accentuates them. Hurricanes, for example, are prettypredictable and sailors have a far better chance of avoiding them than aFloridian homeowner does. We protect against jellyfish stings by wearing a rashguard. And by not eating unwashed fruit and veggies, practicing good hygiene and drinking our own water we can avoid a whole rangeof ills.

And then thereare benefits of life aboard. Nothing can beat the education that comes from indepth exposure to different cultures, or match the level of self-confidencethat Maia has developed by working beside us to accomplish various tasks. And I’vetried to explain the connection that Maia has to the natural world; that sheunderstands the role she plays in the greater ecosystem and can also identify awhole bunch of weird creatures.

But eachpoint can be countered. Endless travel through new cultures could leave herunrooted and friendless. Too much time with her parents might make her weird.Too many hours outside will leave her unprepared to navigate the wilds of amall. And she could fall overboard during a storm.

Occasionally,I do try to describe the beauty of it all: Slipping into a foreign country atfirst light; Arriving as ancient seafarers did, the land slowly revealing hersecrets as the boat ghosts unnoticed into a silent harbour. Will children rushdown to the beach and welcome us warmly? Will a stroll through the villagemarket expose us to foods we’ve never seen before? Will hiking the trails inthe hills behind town lead to hidden ruins, friendly locals, or awesome vistas?

Until nowall I’ve been able to do is tell those who ask that this life is the best giftI know to give my daughter. And try not to absorb their doubts and fears.

But then werejoined civilization.

Charlie theCat fell overboard within 48 hours of being back aboard.

We don’tknow what he was doing or how he did it—he just startled Evan by coming throughthe hatch sopping wet late one night. Lucky for him (and us) he made his discoverythat the boat has a moat around it while the current was near slack. If it hadbeen running at it peak (upward of 4 knots), his swim may have been a muchbigger adventure…

Charliefalling in made me think what could happen if Maia fell in.

swinging over the river is a favourite activity

She’s astrong swimmer but living on pile moorings on a fast moving, murky river thathas loads of traffic, and more than a few underwater hazards means we have afew new safety considerations to take into account.

And it’snot just the river. Somehow two and a half years of sailing have turned myurban child into one of those clueless kids who is oblivious to cars. And whenshe does think to look, it’s inevitable that she looks the wrong way. Thenthere are the bike paths, where--like cars on the street--the bikes go thewrong direction and Maia is forever darting in front of them. And cars—do youknow how unsafe those things are to ride in?

It’s now occurredto me that sailing across an ocean might actually have been the safest part ofthis trip. And as we settle into Brisbane,and have to make an active effort to keep our kid from doing herself in, Irealize it’s this civilization that thing comes with the biggest risks…

Gung Hay Fat Choy—Aussie Style

2012-01-20T20:04:00.001+13:00

I’m notsure when it happened, but somewhere along the way the Chinese New Yearsupplanted the regular New Year in terms of significance for Maia. Obviouslywe’re not an Asian family, but life in Vancouverexposed our daughter to bubble tea, Buddhist Temples and lion dances with the samefrequency she experienced the Easter Bunny and Valentines.

By the time she was in school she had learned manydifferent Lunar New Year traditions, and it never occurred to her not to adoptthem as her own. When herfriends were getting new brocade Cheongsam dresses for New Years Maiawanted one too. When the red envelopes were handed out she accepted them withjoy.

And because I live with her, I was the recipient of many detaileddirections on how to properly celebrate. I learned to clean my house before NewYears (to sweep away bad luck), and to plan a big dinner (although we have beenknown to throw in a bit of Robbie Burns poetry with our egg rolls…), and togive out Lai See--red envelopes with chocolate tothe children of friends.

The Year of the Dragon starts on Monday. And while the Yearof the Rabbit went quite nicely for us—it’s intriguing to contemplate headinginto a powerful year that is marked by excitement, exhilaration and intensity,while being unpredictable and having a strong water focus.

To celebrate the start of the two week festival of Spring (well at least it'll be Spring somewhere) we headed to Brisbane’s Chinatown Mall--which really didturn out to be just an outdoor mall with a few Asian restaurants and a coupleof discount shops. We did find a tasty Dim Sum/ Yum Cha and a lion dance though,and stocked up on a few necessities for our upcoming Gung Haggis Fat Choydinner.

So bring on the Dragon.

Under 30 Cruising Club Reunion

2012-01-19T11:39:00.002+13:00

We were right there. I point out to sea for Maia—showingher where our boat sailed down the coast just six weeks ago. Do you remember what a nice spinnaker run thatwas…

Evan lookedat me oddly—waxing nostalgically for a sail that was less than two months agowas odd—even for me.

But we werewalking on the beach with friends from a boat called Mangoe who we hadn’t seenin 15-years. The last time we saw them was… Well that was the thing. None of uscould exactly recall the last time we were together. Maybe La Cruz, maybeBarra, maybe somewhere else. And as we reminisced over our escapades werealized we couldn’t really come up with any shared memories.

“We formedthe under 30 cruising club—I remember that one night, it was on your boat,”Stephanie said. And we had. The handful of us that were under 30 on under 30’boats formed a club—we had to stay up past midnight at least twice a month,couldn’t play dominos and I’m guessing we might have imbibed in alcohol—thus thefuzzy dream-like memories.

But theyare good fuzzy. Stephanie, who is a vet, helped save our cat Travis’slife—twice. And Todd played the guitar—or maybe it was drums. And I rememberbeach bonfires, and potlucks, and bus trips, and dinners—or maybe I just recalllooking at the photos of those activities in the years that followed.

And thenthey sailed to the South Pacific, and we went through the Canal. And letterswere mailed that told about the first three of four babies born in New Zealand (theirs), and one born in Annapolis (ours) and graduallywe lost touch.

Then twoyears ago we found each other again. And we discovered that all though we mightnot recall specifics we recalled the pleasure of knowing each other.

Mangoe has always been part of the story of our firstcruise. And Ceilydh stayed such anice part of their life that there is now a little Ceilyh in their family, whois three, and who Maia adores (the older three were at camp).

Those earlyadventures together may feel more like dreams than something real now, but aswe sat on the beach (now part of the under 50 cruising club—thanks for thatobservation Todd!!) and watched the kids play I realized that maybe it’s okaywhen memories merge and then slip away. There is a knowing that comes from havingshared something special: A sureness that is more tangible and has even moredepth than a dreamy memory.

Hello, Goodbye

2012-01-15T20:33:00.002+13:00

last, for now, dinghy ride home from our boat

Itwas a week of final moments: C4’s as they said goodbye to the boat that carriedthem safely from Turkey,ours as we squeezed in one last outing, one last dinner, one last moment withthis family we’ve grown to love so much.

Noneof it was easy. And as I held my sad daughter tight she explained that all thegoodbyes were just too hard—and I wondered again what kind of life we’ve sether up for--where friendships grow strong, and deep, and integral only toabruptly change as we all move on.

Goodbyesarehard, I whispered into her hair as I held her, searching for words of comfort. Tellingher we’ll meet again, wouldn’t really help fill the gap that is left when youspend everyday, for months on end with someone. Reminding her we have memoriesand photos, can’t replace the voice on the other side of the radio when youcall for someone to play with.

It’sokay to be sad, was all I could tell her. I’m sad too. And I’m really, reallytired of saying goodbye.

Onour first trip I abruptly realized something one day. We had been lucky enoughto meet a couple we just knew would always be our friends. There was that senseof sureness and depth that made it clear there was no other option—but the daycame when we needed to say goodbye. And we didn’t know when, or how, or wherewe’d see each other again. And my heart ached in a way I didn’t want to feel.

Iknew then that when we stopped cruising it wouldn’t be because of money runningout, or my fear running over, it would be because the pain of ‘goodbye’ hadfinally outweighed the excitement of ‘what’s next?’.

We’retired of endings.

Tiredof counting down days until planes fly away.

Tiredof trying to fit every moment in –because that last moment is too close.

Tiredof the heartbreak of goodbye.

Weneeded a hello. And as C4’s plane was touching down in Adelaide and they returned to their old life,we were saying hello to Totem—and tying up their dock lines. Looking at eachother in disbelief.

22months ago we cast Behan, Jamie, Niall, Mairen and Siobhan off from Mexico.We promised to catch up with them and meet here—so we could be neighboursagain.

the last time the girls played together they were 5, 7 and 8--and they haven't missed a beat

nor have the grown-ups...

Thereare friends who you just know will always be your friends. People who months oryears after you say goodbye can sit in your home and pick-up a conversationlike it was yesterday. Friends where it all seems easy—where they know you, andyou know them, and being together feels like you’ve come home.

exploring our new home together

We’redone with goodbyes for a while. We’re ready to build a community—with potlucksand quiet dinners, long walks and new adventures.

“Hellois a beautiful word,” Maia told me.

Thatit is.

Cost of Bringing a Cat to Australia

2012-01-13T01:02:00.003+13:00

The ugly numbers are below. If you bring the cat in by boat you have 2 choices:

(a) keep the boat at anchor or on a mooring always while in Australia. Boat is never allowed to go to a marina. Quarantine officers will regularly check out the boat to see if kitty is aboard AND boat is locked up with hatches closed if you are not aboard.. They don't say how regularly, but maybe 1 visit / week or so. At $180/hr, it wouldn't take long for costs to mount up... And it might be nice to visit a marina or haulout sometime.

(b) put cat in quarantine upon arrival. Only East Coast quarantine station is in Sydney so you might have to make arrangements to get the cat there at hideous extra cost. If you visit some Pacific Islands (I think Cook I and Samoa are on the 'bad' country list,) quarantine time increases to 60 days. If you are like us and left from Mexico, you have to have the cat rabies vaxed and tested in the US, a not inconsiderable hassle. They won't accept Mexican rabies test results. Heck they wouldn't accept Canadian rabies test results. The blood went to a US lab.

So we opted to send Cat back to Canada to live with my parents for 11 months, and did paperwork and testing from there, and flew him to Sydney where he was in solitary for 30 days. I flew from Brisbane to Sydney at an unspeakable hour to get him. Hope you like your cat Maia and Diane!

Fly cat PV to Vancouver	100

Vet Fees, Canada, govt vet	379
Vet Fees, Canada, private vet	339

Air Canada Cargo, Vancouver to Sydney	400

AQIS
Lodgement Fee	85
Assement Fee	240
Quarantine Entry	15
Document Clearance	40
Vet Exam	80
Kennel	870
	2448

Optional Extras
Taxis, to/from Brisbane airport	100
Flight to/from Sydney	213
Cat cargo fee, Sydney to Brisbane	55
Rental car, fuel, meals	100

Grande Total	2916

Wild Life

2012-01-09T21:36:00.001+13:00

It startsbefore we even wake—Kookaburras singing to us in our slumbers. A surreal mix oflaughter and gum trees superimposed on sailing dreams that were brought on byour hulls rocking in the morning ferry wake. Then the cockatoos start screechingand when our rig starts shaking, “let go of the wind instrument! you! freaking!bird!” we know that morning has broken.

We live inthe city: strung between pilings in the fast moving, murky current. Part of afloating community that’s not quite wild and not quite urban but dares not swim,or fall in, because of the sharks.

Well we’re onthe edge of the city—a few hundred meters from high rises and pavement. Elevenmiles upstream from the ocean. But even here we have new and fantasticalcreatures to amuse us. And not just the people. Though the Aussie people…That’s a future post.

The urbanwildlife here is probably not unlike our wildlife at home. In Vancouver we had a family of racoons livingin our porch overhang, coyotes roaming the neighbourhood, and during matingseason sex-stupid skunks wandered willy-nilly until they found love or wereflattened. And we had squirrels. It always made me laugh how often the touristswould photograph the squirrels.

Here we areintrigued when the ibises try to steal lunch from us when we picnic in thepark. And we were awed when the Water Dragons fight the ibises for a bite ofwhatever they managed to steal. And we’re captivated by the Brush Turkeys, andspiders. No, we’re scared of the spiders.

And as thesun sets the Flying Foxes fill the sky overhead. Improbable in their great size-andin their bat-ness. Improbable as they take roost in the trees beside the city.And when we walk—quietly on the paths that line both sides of the river andwind around the bends to the suburbs—the Brushtail Possums startle me withtheir cuteness.

I like theanimals here. I like the way their strange names role off my tongue, conjuringup childhood songs. I like the way they shift from something that was makebelieve and imagined into something real.

First Day

2012-01-02T12:07:00.000+13:00

Several years ago we were woken early by our marinaneighbours who were taking their boat out for a sail on New Years day. When weasked them what exactly about the wet, blustery day made them want to gosailing they explained that the way you ring in the new year is an indicationof how your year will go. And that you should try to do the things you lovebest, and experience the kind of moments you want filling your life, as the yeargets off to a start. “It’s better than a resolution,” they told us “It’s apromise to yourself.”

Brisbane New Year--good friends, good food, laughter...

Since then we always try to put a little thought into theFirst Day. Rarely are we ambitious enough to head out for a sail or do anythingrequiring too much mental or physical acuity (and this year was no exception…)but we do try to hit a few high points.

Rona Street Parklands--one of our neighbourhood parks

Family time—without exception, is important: just a fewhours of being a wee family of three, of giggling, and being amazed by us as ateam. And then we try to strikeout with good friends on an adventure.

Adventures don’t need to be huge, or dangerous, or even involve oceans, and thisyear we simply headed off in search of a park we hadn’t visited yet andmeandered down the sunny paths, admiring the gardens and chatting about nothingmuch while the kids skated circles around us.

It was a gentle start to a new year that I hope will befilled with dear friends, adventures, good health and happy moments together.The rest really is extra.

And you? That dream you’ve been holding onto? Make this yearyou make steps toward living it. Use these first days to make a promise toyourself to live richly and fully.

Make it an amazing year!

A Year in Review

2011-12-31T13:21:00.000+13:00

Last year Evand Maia tried to wake me at midnight to ring in the New Year. Normally I’m awaketo see the change of the year, but I had pneumonia (just didn’t know it yet). SoI barely stirred as I let 2010 slip into 2011.

I wonder ifI would have woken to acknowledge the role of the calendar if I knew what was coming my way. I didn’t yetknow what it would be like to say goodbye to dear friends and family to sail 8000miles across an ocean. I didn’t know what it would be like to cross the equator and make landfallafter 19 days at sea (three spent with only one rudder). I couldn’t yet picturewhat it would be like to enter the pass of a mid ocean atoll, swim with sharks,or visit ancient Polynesian ruins.

I couldn’timagine the friends I would make, or the tears I’d shed with each goodbye. Ihad no idea how much I would need to challenge myself, my marriage, my family.I didn’t know what it would be like to be becalmed in the middle of a silentsea, or dive deep into its depths with my daughter—and watch her scuba bubblesrise.

I didn’t yetknow the joy of walking those endless stretches of beach, or of making thosehilly climbs—each with a new mystery just around the bend. I didn’t know aboutthe people who would welcome us into their homes and hearts.

I couldn’timagine any of it.

But if Idid, I’d like to think I would have gotten up and sat with Ev and Maia out ondeck—memorizing the stars and speaking in awe of the amazing life we areliving. I’d like to think our tones would be hushed and grateful as we spoke ofwhat was to come.

Every day,every year, should be met with gratitude and awe. But some days, someyears, change you. They show you a world, and your place in it, in a way younever imagined.

I don’tknow what will come my way in 2012--I can't even begin to imagine where I may spend next New Year. But I know tonight—I will look skyward totry and memorize a sky where the constellations are still strange and new, andI will speak in a voice that is hushed with awe of my future.

It’s About the Journey

2011-12-29T11:41:00.000+13:00

Cheryl hada list: detailed notes with bus times and tour times, prices and choices. We wereon a mission—to visit the lookout above the Botanical Gardens (not to beconfused with the Botanic Garden, where we are moored), hike down to the gardento take a tour, and then hit the Planetarium for a show.

In short—tomake the most of our day.

I think theplan unravelled when we found the tadpoles. Thousands of them—some barelyhatched, others hopping along the shore with their tales the tiniest of stubs.Or maybe it was when I saw the bulrushes—a sign from my own childhood that letme know summer had started and the world had slowed to a pace where you couldobserve a dragon fly as long as you liked. Or perhaps it was because we gotlost on the meandering trails—where imaginations, rather than maps were ourguide.

We nevermade it in time for a tour, or a show. We didn’t tick off a single goal really.We simply wandered and observed, and talked and explored.

And then wewent home.

“That was agood day,” Maia told me.

An Upside Down Christmas

2011-12-28T11:07:00.000+13:00

I blame iton the fact we lost a day out of the year somewhere back around Tonga.Christmas always seems to sneak up on me—but somehow between settling in (wenow have a spot in the pile moorings to call home), sorting it out (I have noidea what that weird sounding English meant--but just pay the man…), sayinggoodbye (sniff), saying hello (Behan!!), getting up too early, and staying uptoo late this Christmas arrived and passed with a whoosh.

Blog postswere composed and never written, vistas were enjoyed but not photographed—inshort life was simply lived over here on Ceilydh.

We’ve beendoing our best to enjoy Aussie Christmas traditions. For Christmas Eve wedecided to check out the public BBQ’s that are found in many of the city’sparks. These large electric BBQ’s are free to use and make big gatherings abreeze—as we discovered when 14 of us got together for a final, final goodbye withthe WGD clan.

With thepromise of rain we found a barbie beside a shelter next to a big adventureplayground and spent the afternoon trying hard not to imagine what comes next(living in the moment becomes a true effort when the next moment includes sucha change…). Then we headed home for a quiet Night Before Christmas only todiscover that our normal tradition of following Norad Tracks Santa—doesn’t workas well when you’re at the beginning of his route.

Then it wasChristmas--and time for stockings and presents followed quickly by an Aussielunch of turkey and trimmings, and laughter and warmth.

Our planhad been to head out of Brisbane after Christmasand sail down the Gold Coast with Connect 4—their final outing before turningover the boat to its new owner and flying home to Adelaide, and my chance to see the ocean(it’s shocking how much I miss it). But 5 metre swell and a brewing storm havekept us up the river and on our moorings.

Instead wehave planned local outings—a Boxing Day picnic with Bocce Ball in the park, amovie followed by my first take-out pizza in 2.5 years (gotta love a deliveryguy who’ll deliver to an intersection), there are hikes planned and adventuresto have and then it will be a New Year.

Our AussieYear. What a wonder that should be.

Imagining Her in Fiddler's Green

2011-12-18T13:44:00.000+13:00

The La Cruz anchorage

This is part of a post I wrote almost two years ago--but on learning of the loss of Diana Jessie I decided to republish it.

The sailing community, like any specialized community, is a small one. But the way it circles back on itself, over and over, never ceases to amaze me. We have an old marina neighbour and dear friend who blogs as Boatbaby and a few years ago, through her, we heard about Behan on a boat called Totem. "There are kids on a boat called Totem that’s sailing in Mexico", I told Maia as we made our way down the coast and she was moaning with loneliness. "We may not meet them, exactly. But on their blog they mention lots of other kids are cruising in Mexico. So you will meet cruising kids when we get south", I told her, "You won’t be alone forever."

Then one morning on the net we heard Totem was in La Cruz bay, but had guests aboard. We didn’t want to disrupt their visit, so left searching them out for another day. But later that afternoon we saw someone we recognized roaming the dock—a sailor called Jim Jessie.

Last time we went cruising we were fortunate enough to meet Jim and Diana Jessie. Diana was a writer I admired and her generous help (over Sunday Gin Fizzes and long walks) got me started on my own writing path. I was excited to see them again and I wanted to thank and let her know where her help had led. So I plotted with Evan about how to hunt them down and say hello.

Cocktails on Totem with Jim and Diana Jessie

Then I popped into Behan’s blog, and I learned who Totem’s guests were: Jim and Diana Jessie.

Diana will be dearly missed by many in the cruising community. Her generous help, enthusiasm and strongly held opinions have given many women the confidence to head out and explore the world--not simply as long-suffering mates but as sailors: Joyful, confident, competent sailors. What a remarkable legacy.

The World is Round—we’ll meet again

2011-12-17T17:56:00.001+13:00

Daniellestarted the song to welcome the Sabbath. Watching her I marvelled at how she’sgrown into such an incredibly thoughtful and empathetic young woman in the past year. Then I looked toHarrison—who is always ready with a question and makes me think about all sorts of things Inever expected to ponder. And then to Michael and Barb, who have brought us so much warmth and laughter—and when they said theirblessings for Shabbat dinner, I added silent thanks of my own.

The WGDs have genersously shared their Shabbat dinners with various cruising friends all accross the Pacific--this may have been the first they've done with Christmas decorations...

When youcross an ocean with someone; when you plan all the details and cast off withinan hour of each other; when you can start sentences with things like, “howawesome was it to cross the equator?”, or “when we did that shark dive in theTuamotus…”, or "will there ever be a view to match the one from high up on Nuku Hiva", or “Dude! We’re in Australia!”;that next sentence, the one that starts and ends with, “goodbye” is almostunbearable.

Can I bragabout our wonderful buddy boat? The WGD family is awesome. I’ve never met amore animated, more eager to explore, more fun combination of people. And we gotto sail across an ocean with them.

You meet alot of people cruising. Some kind of drift through your life—sharing ananchorage, a dinner, a few experiences. While others change you—they imprintthemselves indelibly on your heart. And after a while, after enough insidejokes, sublime experiences, and tearful or terrifying moments, it becomesimpossible to imagine continuing on without each other.

But for thepast couple of weeks, I’ve been waking up each day, and WGD hasn’t beenanchored anywhere near us. And while we’ve explored Brisbane a bit and shared a final Shabbatdinner, they were here as land-based visitors. Our trip together has trulyended. And each day that passes is a day closer to the one where they fly home.

Lastyear—when we were steeped in plans, when we we’re comparing provisioning lists,going over charts and guide books, and cajoling each other through cold feet, Ihad no idea we’d grow to love them so much.

But wehave.

And we’llmiss them.

Lost My Happy

2011-12-12T22:22:00.001+13:00

If you knowcruisers, or read a few cruising blogs, you’ll know that at some point, in someplace most of the female-type sailors tend to get a bit down. In my case I sortof saw it coming. I’ve never had such sustained fun as I did the whole wayacross the Pacific: We had already made it through that transition that comeswith the first year of cruising, we were travelling with a fantastic group ofpeople, there was something new to see and do every day, and we had a goal—and forme this equals bliss. But no one stays happy all the time. Especially when abig adventure is shutting down and good friends are dispersing.

I get this.

But when Ihad a motionless home, and a group of friends in roughly the same time zone, Iknew how to deal when my happy went walkabout. I’d call up a friend, sequestermyself with chocolate, and talk long and wide about whatever drama was eatingat my soul. Then I’d move onto the next friend, and the next, until I had boredthem all to tears with my tears, and I’d be good again.

But whenyou are on a lightly charted atoll in the middle of the Pacific, or anisland-continent an ocean away, those failsafe happy-making methods are plumuseless (just because you have friends you can call at 3am doesn’t mean youshould). And no matter how fond you might be of your spouse—most of them arepretty poor stand-ins for chocolate supplying, long-suffering, long-listeningbffs. Husbands try to solve stuff—friends just commiserate and pass the wine.

This allmeans that when your (my) happy goes missing on a sailboat, trying to find itagain can be tricky. Especially because to the rest of the world, life afloat is akin to a fake life--one that doesn't really come with sobs.

I do havesailing friends: Lovely people with whom I’ve weathered storms and enjoyed someof the most intensely beautiful moments of my life beside. But the sort offriend you turn to when you’re tearing up at the thought of another Christmasaway from you mum are the friends who have picked you up before—not the oneswho’ve never seen you stumble.

So here Iam: Floating sadly on the edge of a big city. Wondering how I’ll get my happyback.

The Bend in the River Near the Botanic Garden

2011-12-11T12:49:00.001+13:00

Baby, It’s Hot Outside. Finally.

And thankfully, for today at least, it’s stopped raining.Which is good. For those who are up on last year’s Brisbane Riverflood, we’ve been a little nervous about a repeat. High tide is currently lappingat the edge of the board walk, and the big tidal shifts turn this lazy riverinto a fast moving (and rapidly reversing) one.

But—rain and river aside--we’re getting into the holidayspirit. This is the first Christmas in a few years that we’ve known where we’llbe and what we’ll be doing. And Maia is loving having the ability to planthings and actually have them work out.

This past week we’ve decked our hulls and Maia has startedbaking up a storm with her friends. We have gingerbread cookies and gingerbreadhouses, and sugar cookies and Christmas cake are sure to follow. The one goodthing about the cool rainy temps is that running the oven for hours on end isn’ttoo unbearable—and with nothing but puddles outside, spending an afternoondecorating seems about right.

Last night we were lucky enough to get a break in theweather and headed to The Lord Mayor’s Carols in the Park with Connect 4 andHadar. Mostly we heard the old standards, sung by a range of Auzziepersonalities we’ve never heard of, but they did slip in the odd carol that letus know we truly are down under:

"Dashing through the bush, in a rusty Holden ute,
Kicking up the dust, esky in the boot.
Kelpie by my side, singing Christmas songs,
It's summertime and I am in my singlet, shorts and thongs!"

Slowly we’re finding our way into life here. We’ve got ourlibrary cards and know where to get water for our tanks (although with the rainwe’ve been catching all we need). We’ve dug out our city clothes (the lesstattered and stained stuff) and begun to make our Christmas wish lists. We’vestarted exploring beyond our immediate neighbourhood and are hunting downplaygrounds, farmer’s markets and hardware stores.

Settling in for cyclone season, or so, is almost as complexas casting off. Rejoining society is more difficult than you might think. When youspend two years letting the trappings of a civilized life go, when you convinceyourself that most of it’s pretty meaningless, it seems like a bit of a meantrick to have to come back and do simple things like get a phone, or a librarycard. Especially because most things in life revolve around having an address—andit turns out that telling people we're anchored at ‘the bend in the river beside the Botanic Garden’ isn’t thesame as having an address.

Brisbane City

2011-12-04T21:07:00.001+13:00

FromMooloolaba (can’t believe I missed posting about my fantastic b-day whichincluded a day at the zoo and an amazing dinner on Catachaos…) we sailed into Morton Bayand on to Brisbane River. Anchoring near theriver mouth at sunset we could see the city’s high rises glowing in thedistance.

“It reallyis a city.” I said to Evan.

After notseeing one for a while, cities can become mythical places. They seemunreal. And the next morning while winding our way up the river—watching as thelandscape changed from wilderness, to industry, to suburb, to metropolis—reality, our reality, began to kick in.

I’ve neverfelt as small on my boat as I did as we motored up the river past the citycentre. Even in the middle of the ocean, on the worst days, our boat feltbigger. But here—against the backdrop of modern glass and steel I felt like ourstory shrank and became ordinary. And rather than being a magic ship thatcarried us through wondrous places our boat simply looked grubby and fragile.

good reason to boat in company--you get shots of those memorable moments

We lookedfor a place to anchor; overwhelmed as we bypassed all the options until wereached a low bridge and could go no further. So we consulted with C4, who werein an equal state of dépaysement, despite this being their home country,and we dropped our anchors—here at the edge of the botanical garden, where thegreenery and bird song can almost convince me that my million neighbours are anillusion.

the kids have playgrounds but still go for the trees (and yes to those who know the kids, that is Sasha--Hadar is near by)

one of the parks that is a short walk away

I never made it to shore that first day.

And on the second I failed to leave the confines of thebotanical garden.

By the third day I was ready to put on real shoes andventure into the downtown streets in search of groceries and clothes pins.

And by today I was ready to explore.

Dépaysement fades. And unfamiliar places become comfortable.And Brisbaneseems like it might be a nice place to call home.

moments from my lovely birthday--check Maia's and Connect 4's November blogs for more of the story

How Will She Cope in the Mall?

2011-11-28T22:40:00.001+13:00

People usedto ask us if we thought cruising would make Maia weird.

Well, theydidn’t ask in those exact words. But I could tell by the careful, “how will youeducate her?” and “how will she manage to make friends?” and “will she fit inwhen she gets back?” that the real question was, “how can a child grow-up to benormal without regular visits to the mall?”

This neverused to worry me.

Until wewent to the mall.

The mallvisit actually had nothing to do with Maia other than we brought her along onthe adventure. Yes, when you are visiting a strange town and going to the mallconsists of dinghy driving down waterways in the hopes of travelling through alock to a canal beside the mall where you will attach your boat to a ?? —itcounts as an adventure. Especially because this was no ordinary trip to themall. This was the ‘reintegrating back into society’ trip, which we were doingin company.

the lock seemed like a great idea until we realized we needed a pass card...

When youcross the Pacific in some ways it is a solo effort but in other ways it is likesummer camp. Almost every activity is done en masse. We troop to the shopstogether, eat in a crowd, climb mountains in groups and repair things incompany. So when it’s time for a haircut, shoes, and (God forbid) a tie—it’s aparty. Everyone takes part.

Micheal skipped the new duds but got an Aussie haircut in solidarity--thus the hat

I’m notsure what the shopkeepers thought as we assembled (wives, kids, supportivefriends, curious strangers) by the change rooms and helped Evan and Stevechoose clothes—from knickers on out. The men themselves seemed a little bleakat their purchases and more than a little shocked that two-years in flip flopscould have such a shocking affect on their shoe size.

The kidsthough were truly odd.

They’velearned to interact in the world differently and the mall was a curiosity morethan anything—like archaeological ruins, or an unfamiliar village. It wasn’t aplace to covet things they didn’t need but a place to sit on Santa’s knee (andnot worry if they’d out grown it), and see how all the kiddie rides work, andadmire the books in the book store and make note of ones they hope to find inan exchange somewhere... It was fun, Maia says, but not the sort of place youcan go to over and over.

Not like abeach.

It willtake some time—this being back in society thing. It’ll take time for Evan torecover from his Aussie hair cut and time for his new shoes to stop pinching.It’ll take time for Maia to learn what ‘normal’ looks like and find a way tofit in. It’ll take time for our friends to stop waking to check the anchor andrealize houses can’t drag. It’ll take time for the magic to fade to a memoryand become again a siren song so alluring we can’t help but sail away.

Across the Bar and Back to Reality

2011-11-28T09:46:00.001+13:00

heading toward a squall in the Sandy Strait

We woke at 5:30 am to pull out of the Great Sandy Strait.

Actually we wake by 5:30 am most mornings —the sun comes up about 4:45 am… But today we were up so we could cross the bar at Wide Bay Harbour. We wanted to time it right. The Coast Guard suggested going out at two hours before slack water on an flood tide—and we knew that both Discovery and WGD were damaged on their less-perfectly timed crossing, so we wanted to get it right.

C4 aground in the aptly named Sandy Strait

Cruising through the Sandy Strait was a gentle re-entry into real life. The meandering, mangrove-lined waterway reminded me of the Florida Keys (although Bundaberg is not Key West and Mooloolaba is thankfully not Miami). Or maybe it’s that sense of sailing through a gateway between cruising and being settled. The Florida Keys played the same role for us 14-years ago as we wrapped up a 3.5-year trip.

C4 passing Double Island lighthouse

Our crossing was easy. The water shallowed and the waves steepened, but then we were out and the sandy cliffs of the Australian Coast unfolded on our starboard side. With 65 miles to cover we unfurled the spinnaker and started to fly. We were sailing in company with six other big cats, but gradually, one by one we overtook each of them. Colourful sails dotted the water behind us and our voyage became deeply symbolic—alone and heading toward our future.

the high rises of Mooloolaba just visible on the horizon

If you read blogs and books about sailors who go cruising you will read all sorts of things about planning, building, readying and the joy-angst of leaving. You’ll read about setting into the life and adjusting to the changes wrought by simplifying everything. You’ll read about the wonders seen, the profound knowledge gained and the friends made. And if you read long enough, and carefully enough, you’ll start to catch the whiffs of fear as we close with land and prepare to stumble back to shore. But often that’s where the stories end.

What is interesting about reality?

Mooloolaba has high rises. The first seen in eight months. With its posh homes, and winding canals lined with expensive boats it looks like Newport Beach CA, or, more accurately, parts of Florida. We wound our way past the tree lined-walkways filled with Sunday afternoon fun, expensive docks, and chock-o-block marinas to the back, where the free anchorage is and found a snug spot. Then, once settled, we headed along with C4 to dinner on WGD.

Four families--2-3 years of cruising each and it's time for $$

Warm and well-fed in the cockpit (and free of the gargantuan sand flies we discovered in the Sandy Strait) the laughter was the same as it has been all the way across the Pacific--but the conversation had changed. We didn’t talk about wonders seen, or dreams we still have. We talked of plans—but not exotic ones. We talked about dwindling savings, and taxes, and school for our kids. We talked about jobs that need to be started and boats that need to sell.

We talked of haircuts and shoes.

Pacific Passage Weather Thoughts

2011-11-26T15:53:00.000+13:00

Evan here. I thought I'd pass on some thoughts about weather across the Pacific. Hopefully these hints and ideas will prove useful to future sailors crossing in the following years.

Getting a good grasp of South Pacific weather was really important to us having a successful time. Most weather texts do a poor job of S. Hemisphere weather. Read (& re-read until you are sick of it) Jim Corenman's “South Pacific Weather” 1994 letter – found at the Latitude 38 site.

s/v Soggy Paws website has a good listing of a number of these weather documents.

http://www.svsoggypaws.com/pacwx-understanding.htm

Read and understand how the cycles of highs and lows that track W to E affect the weather in the tropics. For example it wasn't until F. Polynesia that I realized how a big High will reinforce (strengthen) the SE trades. Read anything else you can get on the S Pacific weather systems. I think our understanding of weather systems was probably better than most cruisers and we never saw more than 25 knots of sustained wind on a passage (more in short lived squalls, but you can't predict them and they really don't affect your comfort).

Have a strategy for crossing the ITCZ at right angles to the equator – not at an angle which extends your time in this area of confused seas and thunderstorms. It is important to recognize the further west you go before crossing the equator, the closer to the wind you will have to sail to get to the Marquesas in typical SE trades. Even crossing at around 128 deg. as we did, we still had BIG beam seas that were uncomfortable for several days. Those crossing around 132-4 had winds well forward of the beam when they headed south.

Concentrate on the big picture as well as local conditions. Every few days it's a good idea to get a large area, coarse GRIB at say 2x2 deg resolution and covers a week or so.

Weather Resources underway

GRIB files are used by everybody – but they have lots of limitations. Understand the limitations and you will use them better. They are prepared by computers with NO human intervention. Unless you are looking at multiple models, you might miss something that a particular model is not showing. They don't show fronts, and the associated strong winds though they usually get the frontal wind shift. If you see a strong wind shift with nearby low winds beware – that is probably a front with strong winds!

Before you leave cheap and good internet coverage – check out the various fax options from NOAA and find the correct ones for your area. Their schedule covers a lot of areas so I printed it out and used a highlighter on the few ones that I liked. Bookmark the NOAA fax, Fiji weather maps etc. so when you are using expensive internet in F. Polynesia you can go straight to the correct page.

So also use weatherfaxes and online weather maps when you have internet access. The ones I found most useful were the E and Central Pacific 24,48,72 hr surface faxes from NOAA Honolulu, and close to Australia, the 1,2,3,4 day MSLP forecasts from Australia. NOAA GOES IR satellite pics showed the ITCZ pretty well, but you can't really pick a good area to cross; it changes so fast and moves so much daily The NZ Metservice color fax series is useful for those passaging to NZ.

I didn't ever get good reception from NZ faxes but for those passaging to NZ would probably do best to pick these up, even though they only go to 72 hrs prognosis. The Aus met office online also has a 10 day pressure series that is good to see how fast H and L's are travelling across the continent. The systems to watch (mainly) seem to be S of Australia because they hit the Tasman sea and then turn northward a bit.

I really like the NADI fleet code (send “fleet.nadi”) issued by the Fiji met office. It's only a current surface analysis but you can usually pick out the SPCZ on it. It is usually shown as a trough though. You will need an auxiliary program like Physplot to turn this text file into a weather chart. If you are online you can get the Fiji current chart in better detail from the Fiji met office website. Pick the “new chart”s - it's in colour and is clearer than the B&W versions. NADI also offers text email forecasts for Fiji, Tonga, Cooks and Samoa – but we only got the Fiji versions so I can't comment on the accuracy for other areas. The Fiji forecasts were OK but they only cover one area (Fiji) which is ~300 x 300 miles; too big for a single forecast.

Do get faxes for multiple days in a row before and on a passage. You will see how the systems are moving, and how they are likely to affect you. And don't forget, winds circulate CCW around a H in the S. Hemisphere!

Religiously get Bob McDavitt's weekly weathergram (online via his blog or email via saildocs “nz.wgrm”) every Sunday night NZ time. He can spot big picture stuff for the week ahead very accurately.

The F.Polynesia email forecast (send “fr.poly”) is a bit repetitive (showers and squalls every day), and it is in French so you will need a French – English weather terms dictionary to translate it, but if it says 25+ knots pay attention because conditions are usually ugly when the winds get that strong. Hide in a decent anchorage if you can. You need to have the F. Poly sea areas JPEG chart to understand what area “A25” means.

Australia also has a number of marine forecast documents available through saildocs.

Web sites I use for weather:

http://weather.noaa.gov/fax/hawaii.shtml Honolulu weather faxes – forget the wind/wave charts; they are too general and have weather arrows for only 5 degree squares. Pick the surface charts and 24, 48, and 72 hour forecasts. The colour ones are easier to understand

http://www.bom.gov.au/australia/charts/viewer/index.shtml Australia surface analysis – and forecast maps for the future (click the “Play” buttoms at top)

http://www.bom.gov.au/australia/charts/4day_col.shtml The 4 day map for low bandwidth connections

http://www.met.gov.fj/ Fiji met office

http://www.met.gov.fj/sat-map.html Fiji weather maps – you want the “new” surface maps in colour

http://www.meteo.pf/ French Polynesia met office - in French

http://www.metservice.com/national/maps-rain-radar/maps/tasman-sea-nz-colour-series

NZ weather charts for a few days prognosis

Trade Wind Sailing - and thoughts about routes

The trade winds are generally SE, but they can be S or E or beyond, depending on what the recent H or L that has passed is doing to them. So if you are crossing the Pacific from E to W, you want trades that have more E than S in them for the most comfortable rides. For monohull owners, that also means you should think of biasing your boats cargo, fuel and water loads to the port side of the boat to reduce heeling (as much as you can anyway) in the southern hemisphere. For cat owners, we all seemed to agree beam seas are the most uncomfortable (and noisy as the waves slap the stbd inboard hull). It's important to understand on which passage you might want really E biased trades. The Marquesas to the Tuamotoas or Bora Bora to Raratonga for instance are more SW courses, so anything you can get in an ESE or E trade wind is more comfortable.

Cold Fronts

Generally warm fronts don't seem to appear on weather charts, and only cold fronts or occluded fronts are shown. Cold fronts will usually bring a dramatic wind shift to the NE, N, then NW, and finally SW before shifting back into the normal SE quadrant. If it's a vigorous cold front expect nasty conditions in it's vicinity. Naturally W quadrant winds are headwinds, and are to be avoided so avoid cold fronts when you can. If one is going to hit you for certain, head N in advance of the front. Cold fronts get weaker closer to the equator. As the wind clocks into the W you can then bear off back to your rhumb line and not have to beat.

Warm fronts are not as nasty, and generally turn into occluded (mixed warm and cold air masses) in the tropics. Don't ignore them but you probably won't see them as much more than some rain.

Sailing to Australia route choices

The obvious route is Vanuatu – New Caledonia (Noumea) – Brisbane. The less obvious one that I would suggest and recommend is Vanuatu – Chesterfield Reef – Bundaberg. Here's why

Vanuatu to Noumea is very strongly SSW course so in typical SE trades you might end up beating. Ugh.
Noumea to Brisbane is about 700 n.m. and you are more likely to have a cold front hit you on the way because the cold fronts are coming along every 7 days and you are sailing into their direction of movement, increasing the closing rate. It's also a longer passage to try to get a decent window
Vanuatu to Chesterfield is about 500 and Chesterfield to Bundie is about 450 miles; much easier to get a decent window. The sailing angles with the trades are easier too
Chesterfield is absolutely lovely
Chesterfield to Bundie is further north, so cold fronts are weaker if you do hit one. Get to Bundie and then coastal hop to Brisbane, through the beautiful Fraser Island and Great Sandy Strait.

Class dismissed – oh are there any questions?

Dingoes! Didn't eat my baby.

2011-11-25T16:43:00.003+13:00

I dug my toes into the fluffy white sand, pushing them below the sun-hot surface and thought about which direction to go. Turning left would take us along the beach to one end of Fraser Island, while turning right would take us inland through forests of Satinay, Kauri Pine, Brush Box, Tallowood, Blackbutt and Cypress and away from the Great Sandy Strait and its ever-changing sand bars.

Typically ocean views win for us—but we’ve already sailed through these waters, which seem murky after the open ocean. And anyway, I wanted to see a dingo.

Cheryl was gentle with me when she explained that dingoes are shy, wild, and likely asleep during midday heat. But I’m hard to dissuade when I’m on a mission. And I felt quite vindicated when three minutes into our walk we spotted a dingo.

Typical Fraser Island beach

The dingo is Australia’s infamous wild dog. It’s thought to have arrived on the island-continent from Asia thousands of years ago. A close relative of the Asian gray wolf, Canis lupus, the dingo is a more primitive version of the domestic dog. Cross-breeding and extermination efforts have gradually threatened the dingo though, and the wild dogs that live on Fraser Island are considered some of the purest examples of the breed in Australia.

The dingo watched us quietly, and flustered and excited I tried to take its picture (which is not nearly as sharp as I’d like…). Then we plunged deeper into the forest. Strolling along both Cheryl and Steve pointed out trees and bushes to us. A few times Steve inhaled deeply and remarked on how all the mingled scents—eucalyptus, sunshine, and sand were finally making it clear he was home.

Seeing a place with people who love it is always an honour—and as we walked and talked, and Steve breathed in and smiled I couldn’t help but think that this adventure--which started so shaky just last week--might turn out okay after all. And then the kids called (sort of yelled, really), they’d sighted (we're being stalked by) a young dingo and flustered with enthusiasm (eager to protect my young) I took another bad picture.

filthy feet--the sign of a happy walk

Ceilydh in Oz

2011-11-21T13:34:00.000+13:00

“What are your impressions?”

“How's it going? (or in Auzzie speak, 'how're ya going?)”

“Are you settling in?”

“Have you seen kangaroos?”

Of all the questions that landed in my in box this week the kangaroo one is the easiest. Each evening a group of roos converge in the field across from where we're anchored and nibble their way across. I should have pictures—especially of one mama roo and her ridiculously giant joey. With his great head and long ears poking from her distended pouch she looks beyond uncomfortable.

But I've been remiss in taking the camera out. Which means I haven't taken pictures of the roos, or all the amazing bird life, or the sugar cane fields, or the toothless men wearing too-tight t-shirts and 'stubbie' shorts, or the heaps of signs that litter ever surface, and warn you against doing anything and everything, in lengthy, grammatically creative form.

“What are our impressions?” We're told Queensland isn't representative of Oz. That we're in a rural setting (one person said wasteland, but I thought that was harsh) and that it's normal that we can't understand the locals. But because it's remote and unsophisticated—fun here seems to consist of loading large people in small boats and fishing on the river, or heading to the local sports club for raffle night, where if you are lucky you may win meat—it's not as culturally interesting as we might hope. And the restaurants lack ambiance. And good food.

But we're going okay. We're not rushing through re-entry. Our biggest outings are to the grocery store, or the ice cream shop, or the laundry (it seems someone invented this crazy machine that actually washes clothes for you!). Most of our time is spent on chores, or work, or on each other's boats. We're socializing. A lot. Especially because we're acutely aware we'll all be going our own ways soon, and because we have nice food to cook with again. Affordable nice food.

Yes, we were told that Oz is god-awful expensive and maybe once we leave the hinterlands it will be, but so far it's only marginally more dear than Canada, and some things are cheaper. Kangaroo meat for example. And Australian wine. The things we've noticed costing more are books and marinas. But honestly we haven't shopped much. We still feel far too broke to do anything as frivolous as shop for something non-essential.

Our current plan—as much as we have one... is to head out of here with C4 in a day or two and hopefully catch up with WGD and Discovery. Along the way to Brisbane it looks like we'll have a few nice things to keep us busy, but soon enough we'll settle into Brisbane and start the next phase of life in Oz: rebuilding the kitty.

Checking in to Oz

2011-11-15T12:47:00.000+13:00

As luck would have it we checked into Bundaberg on the busiest day they’ve had this season (nine boats arrived) on the day after the biggest drug bust they’ve ever made (Bundi is now famous for rum and coke...). The result was the check-in system, which we’ve heard is normally super efficient, wasn’t. And as the sun was setting and we still hadn’t been checked in, and hadn’t slept much since 1 am—I was definitely getting grumpy.

Technically we should have been one of the first boats checked-in, considering that we were first into the harbour… But it didn’t work that way. The boat we were meant to follow was somehow missed in the check-in line-up and as the day went on and everyone else was processed we stayed put in the crowded and insecure quarantine anchorage.

As we sat the wind rose, the current shifted and our anchor dragged. And of course we bumped a brand-new, very posh boat--leaving a small dent on them, a scratch on us and creating an irate skipper (who eventually calmed down and apologized when he realized we really didn’t do much damage).

When we finally got into the dock the process did go smoothly. Customs and immigration had clearly researched us before they spoke to us (which is weird, we forget that some parts of the world are wired in) and they carefully checked our answers against what they knew of us—noting that one of our forms had some incorrect info on it.

Aquis is thorough but not nearly as ruthless as we were led to believe. Considering we worked hard eating everything (and traded a bunch of stuff away) we didn’t lose as much as we expected. Gone though is our lovely French Poly vanilla, my sprouting seeds (which I expected), all our beans and lentils, my oatmeal (which was pretty dodgy anyway). I was surprised that our flour, rice and powdered milk all got to stay. And our handicrafts were also left with us—though we had to swear that a gourd rattle we have has pebbles in it, not seeds. And we also had to pledge that it would never, ever leave our boat.

I did laugh at a few things the Aquis guys graciously overlooked. Shortly after asking us if we have seen any ants, bees or termites aboard an ant walked across the counter. We all pretended not to see it. They also didn’t look too hard at any of our woven baskets—after a brief shake test (where the results were kind of ignored—those tiny beige bugs do sort of look like dirt) they were all handed back to me.

The irony is Barb on WGD told us she’s seen more bugs on the produce here than we saw in the South Pacific—so there you go.

Our check-in was finally over at 7:30 pm--much too late to head out shopping for replacement food. Thankfully we have friends. Barb made us a great dinner and we spent the evening laughing too hard and perhaps over-imbibing. Connect 4 came round for drinks and commiseration and we all celebrated.

We’re in Australia man!

Landfall Australia

2011-11-14T11:47:00.002+13:00

We woke Maia at midnight to see the lights of Australia twinkling on the horizon. Three hours later our anchor was down and we we're snuggling into bed. Now we're waiting for customs clearance.
Check out the pics of Chesterfield that we added further down.

Closing with Australia

2011-11-13T13:41:00.002+13:00

Connect 4 in 20 knots

We should be able to shout 'land ho' sometime later this evening or early tomorrow. Although, as the wind dies (and we throw every sail we have at the problem), our eta has shifted from 8 pm, to 10 pm, to midnight, to 3 am... No matter--once we are in we still have to wait our turn for clearance and with some eight boats due to arrive tomorrow, who knows when we'll officially be in Oz.
We're still in visual range of three of the four boats we left Chesterfield with--a fact that has made Evan gleeful, given they are all monohulls in the 50+' range. Connect 4 has dropped to about 60 miles behind us and turned on their motor in the wee hours. We're still making over 5 knots so won't be adding our motor for a while.
We're in a strange limbo today. When the sailing was hard and fast, and we needed to concentrate on staying upright and not getting hurtled across the cabin, Australia still seemed far away. But today, as we ghost along in flat seas, and we can calculate that we have less than 100 miles to go of our 7500 mile, seven month, six country journey it feels like we're ready to be done.

Discovery and Karynia I in the home stretch

Maia is struggling to concentrate on school and is dancing around, while Evan is doing a final cleaning and sorting for quarantine. I'm trying to decide what final dishes to cook, and what food we should simply sacrifice. None of us really wants to nap. Kirk from Discovery calls over every hour or so to find out what sail tweaking we are doing to keep our speed up--so I think the last-day jitters are going around.
I've tried to figure out why this landfall is so different than the others. For our friends, who are returning home or ending their cruises, the significance is clear. But for us it's simply another stop over. But I guess it's also the point where we can say we've sailed across the Pacific Ocean. It's like we've graduated or something. Similar to the way arriving in Mexico marked the voyage south.
Today our Ipod is set to a playlist of sailing songs. And despite the beauty of the sail our eyes are glued to the horizon.
"Land ho, I need some wind to make this dream complete."
S 23 50
E 153 38
86 to Bundie
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Australia Bound--Day two

2011-11-12T11:08:00.000+13:00

That last email should have read 430 miles to Bundie. This morning it is 250. We've tied our fastest day ever--which isn't too surprising seems how we've lightened the boat by about 1000 lbs by eating everything.

It's fast, but loud and lumpy out here. The seas remind me of the potato patch off of San Francisco--lumps and bumps from every which way with no rhyme or reason. Everyone is in giddy good spirits though. This morning we took fantasy breakfast orders--Ev wanted eggs Florentine, I wanted a dungeness crab omelet with farm cheese, Maia wanted so many different things she decided that the only solution was to head to a Fairmont hotel for the breakfast buffet. She figured that while we were there for breaky that maybe we could take a suite so she could sleep between crisp sheets and then have a long bubble bath.

We all made due with stale cereal.

We're all compiling our lists of 'things to do when we get to Australia'. Ev needs new shoes. Maia needs a haircut. I want a frothy latte and an hour or two of fast internet. And phone time. I want to talk on a phone. Maia wants to wander through a library or a bookstore and Ev wants to hit a hardware store--not necessarily to buy stuff yet, but just to reassure himself that he can. I want berries--juicy fresh berries. And spinach. And sparkling wine-maybe a sparkling pinot noir. Maia wants flaky croissants and baked goods that taste as good as they look.

We can see Karynia, Lorabeck and Discovery and saw one or the other all night long. Behind us are Connect 4 and a few other boats. Waiting in Bundie are WGD, Catachaos and more. Our thoughts are fully switched to going forward now.

S 22 00
E 155 56
253 to Bundie

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Sailing to Australia this Weekend

2011-11-11T19:06:00.000+13:00

We're underway to Australia.
Last night we convinced Connect 4 to stay for a final dinner. Somehow all of us are pierced with this poignant feeling that this time, this dream is fleeting. And another mid ocean sunset, another good fish dinner, another night of talking too long, laughing too hard, drinking too much and staying up too late seemed to be what this adventure called for.

I'm not sure if it's simply because Chesterfield is so special in and of itself, or because it's our last stop with these good friends before this all changes, but it seemed the right place to leave Travis the Cat's ashes behind too. I feel faintly silly about carrying my cat around for so long. We thought we'd leave him somewhere in Mexico--perhaps on an island near where we adopted him on our first trip. But nothing ever felt right, or maybe I wasn't ready.

But yesterday Ev and I brought him to the beach--on an island that is as close as it gets to heaven for cats. We wept a bit and laughed at ourselves and marvelled at how quickly all that is good can pass. I know though that I love as deeply as I can, and live as richly as I know how and the memories I've made are sustaining ones.

This morning we woke early. Before the sun. Ev and I chatted about the trip--eager for this last voyage--the one we've heard so many frightening stories about to be behind us. When we listened to the net I almost wished we were beside WGD--safely pulling into the customs dock, finished with our journey too.

We three are quite today. The boat is smoking fast--we've been averaging 8 knots under reefed down sails. We're part of a group of six boats all speeding toward our futures.

But behind us, oh behind us are some magical times.

Position
S 20 40
E 147 29
30 to Bundie

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Stalking the Turtle

2011-11-10T17:15:00.001+13:00

There are nine boats in the anchorage now. Over the course of yesterday boat after boat pulled in. If they had kept sailing they would have been hard pressed to reach Australia before the time customs closes on Friday. It sounds like WGD is going to just squeak in under the deadline tomorrow.

We've decided we actually need to leave here and are planning for a Monday arrival. Connect 4 will leave tonight (they're a bit slower than us) and we'll leave tomorrow am. So last night we had our final evening here as a group. All the boats brought something for a potluck on shore and we caught up with old friends (Sudden Stops pulled in) and met a few people we'd only heard on the radio up until now. Mainly though our little core group of three boats soaked in our last moments together.
Around 10pm four of us headed off on turtle patrol--growing silent each time we sighted a shadow in the water or a lump on the beach. At one point we took up station on the sandbar between two islands--giving us a clear few of two spans of beach. A while later we walked further, past fresh nests and meandering turtle tracks. Turtle paths look most like tractor tracts. The flipper marks appear as tire treads and the body (which for all intents is dragged through the sand) leaves a hollow trail in between.

Even though the sand is bright white in the moonlight it's hard to tell the difference between rocks and turtles. At one point the four of us stood silently, watching a dark shape for movement, taking a stealthy step now and again, until it was clear we had snuck up on a rock.
Then when we were ready to turn back Cheryl spotted what we thought was another rock. She snuck up slowly, taking step after step, trying to decide if she was looking at a rock-shaped turtle, or a turtle shaped rock. A few metres from the shape she saw movement and began to back toward us--signalling 'turtle!' with subtle arm movements.
The four of us (Cheryl, Steve, Eric from Discovery and me) found a spot up on the top of the beach and began to watch.
"I think it moved!"
"No, that was a shadow."
Are you sure it's a turtle?"
Time passed and we imagined movement and then decided nothing had changed.
Then we all saw her move her head.
"Should someone go back to the fire and get Evan and the kids?"
Cheryl started the trek back and Steve, Eric and I huddled together and waited for more movement. Nothing happened.
"Are we sure she's alive? It would be terrible to bring the kids to see a dead turtle."
Finally she moved her back fins and seemed to shuffle forward. Then she stopped. We'd heard they find the effort of getting up the beach exhausting and tended to nap a bit as they progressed, but our turtle seemed to be narcoleptic. Evan and the kids arrived and joined out huddle and we watched. One by one the kids fell asleep. Now and again the turtle would move a fin or look around, but as it passed midnight and grew cooler we decided to leave her in peace and call it a night.
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Desert Island Days--Chesterfield Reef

2011-11-09T17:31:00.001+13:00

We've been diving on a reef structure near the anchorage. It's not big, the walls only go to 60' or so and the windward side has some coral damage from a storm. But it's only a 5 minute dinghy ride and there are no currents--so it's perfect for all the novice divers in our group. It's also the most diverse bit of ocean I've ever seen. It has more types of sponges, coral (with colours that run through the rainbow), more species of fish (including four types of anenome 'clown' fish, eels, sharks, puffers, parrots) and more types of giant clams than I've ever seen in one place. And this is just one bommie of hundreds. It's not even the main reef.

As you can guess we haven't left. WGD felt like they needed to get to Oz. But Connect 4, Discovery and us didn't feel ready to leave our uncharted island for a known destination. The kids wanted to camp on shore again, we wanted to dive and we all want to try again to see nesting turtles.
But because we are all at the end of our provisions we've needed to pool our resources and share out what we have. We've been swapping and trading--sugar for flour, butter for popcorn, potatoes for onions, rice for beans, milk for wine, toilet paper for... Well if someone needs toilet paper you just hand it over. Beachside potlucks keep meals from getting too monotonous. And while we've all tucked away just enough food to last for the passage. We've begun to raid our ditch bag for powerbars and eased up on our definition of vegetable.

While it is isolated and ideal here, sadly it's not pristine. The hermit crab that we found housed in a plastic bottle cap wasn't the most dramatic example, that was probably the bird nesting on a Styrofoam container, but it was poignant. We've filled two black garbage bags with washed up plastic bottles, shoes, fishing gear, plastic grates and lawn chair bits and more appears at high tide.
Everyday.

We're almost 500 miles from the nearest inhabited land. We're experiencing the teeming vitality that once was found throughout the Pacific.
But what makes Chesterfield wondrous--also makes it heartbreaking. Even here we've managed to pollute.
I have never felt so enthralled or helpless.
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Uncharted Desert Isle--at Chesterfield Reef

2011-11-07T14:45:00.001+13:00

Walking the beach in the moonlight waiting for the turtles to come ashore and nest (we saw a couple swimming in the shallows) we pondered, "How many people total do you think have ever walked on these islands?"
1000? 3000? Certainly not more than that.
The charts don't even really show islands here--just a reef. And while the French have laid claim to this little strip of mid-ocean real estate since 1877 the only people who come here are the occasional navy patrol, people servicing the weather station and sailors.

baby boobies

We walked the beach till 11 pm or so--but on our islet (on this part of the reef there are five joined by narrow sandbars) the turtles never came ashore. So we headed back to the bonfire and continued to talk, "How have you been changed by your journey? What are you going to take home from this trip?"
Of the four boats here we are the only family who is continuing on. Connect 4 bought their boat in Turkey and their two-year voyage is coming to a close. WGD and Discovery are also selling their boats and heading home. Only Connect 4 is heading back to much the same life they left--but all of us feel profoundly changed.
The changes though are subtle things. Emotions and beliefs that you share quietly, close to midnight, under a blanket of stars and on an island you may never again find on a map: "I'm stronger." "More confident." "Will always see the opportunities and options, not the limitations." "I like myself more." "I'm meant to be on shore." "I'm not yet sure."
We piled into our dinghies soon after. Leaving the kids to camp on shore. In a wonderland of baby birds and sea turtles. Under a moon so bright the white fluff on the smallest chicks glowed through the dark of the trees.
Today we pondered the weather--balancing the pressure of needing to be in Australia against overcast and wind, and against the magic of spending a few more unplanned days on an unchartered island. We've agreed to pass the rainy afternoon playing games. The kids are still onshore--cooking their own meals, building a raft, unbothered by the rain. We don't know when we'll leave. Except it won't be today.
Not long ago the kids called on the radio--we thought they wanted to come home, but they just needed a tip for cooking their damper. When we asked about needing a pick-up we were told, "We're happy here. We think we'll stay."
Last night I couldn't answer my own question, "What will I take from this journey?"
But this morning it became more clear--my whole adult life has been about planning. I've always lived in five year increments, checking off each goal (education, job, marriage, boat, child, career #2, boat #2), holding so tight to control that the unplanned, uncharted moments have always been uncomfortable. But this morning, looking out at an island which is so improbably remote it seems magical, I realize I've learned to embrace the uncharted.
And accept uncertainty.
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Chesterfield Reef--a stop in the middle of nowhere

2011-11-06T12:22:00.001+13:00

If you were to draw a line on a map from Port Villa, Vanuatu (assuming you can find it) to Bundaberg, AU and then zoom in at the halfway point (well, slightly beyond halfway) you might find Chesterfield Reef--an uninhabited atoll that is 500 miles from the nearest land.
Chesterfield has been an UNESCO World Heritage site since July 2008. It's a nesting site for dozens of different types of birds--including red footed boobies, frigates, and a variety of terns as well as for sea turtles. It's also remarkable because as sailors the last thing you expect to find during a 1000 mile passage is a comfortable mid-ocean anchorage.

We pulled in yesterday at noon--after a smoking hot spinnaker run. Discovery and WGD arrived a few hours before us and we all spent the afternoon walking the beaches--being enthralled by birds that had no fear (can't wait to share these pics!) A favourite moment came while watching a juvenile boobie learning to fly. It flapped its wings with an uncoordinated rhythm that nearly knocked it over. We also found massive turtle tracks leading up the beach to deep holes where they had laid their eggs.

As the sun set we all gathered on Ceilydh for sundowners and snacks. Connect 4 pulled in a hour or so past sunset and joined us for the end of the evening. Today we plan to explore some more, dive in the afternoon then potluck on the beach. We hope to stay ashore late enough to sea the turtles arrive to lay eggs--a long-held dream of mine.
For those wishing to follow in our wake you need to request permission to stop at Chesterfield Reef (the atoll is patrolled by the French Navy). Contact affmar@gouv.nc.
The area is poorly charted but we have all had good success with these waypoints and directions that have been passed along:
Entrance to Chesterfield reef: 19 46.7594 S 158 25.3997 E
This was well clear of any reef. The water dropped to 28m at one point but thereafter stayed between 30-40m. If you were a little more to the south you should also be okay as we did not even see any reef from here let alone any islands. We sailed to our next waypoints well clear of any reef: 19 47.9446S 158 24.3276 E Then to 19 50.6577 S 158 25.2825 E. The anchorage is at WPT: 19 52.9980 S 158 27.7850 E The water here is about 10 metres with a sandy bottom. There are some bommies and shoal patches on either side but they are easy to see on a clear day.
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Slow Boat to Oz--Day 5

2011-11-04T12:34:00.000+13:00

"What day is it? Wednesday? Saturday?" Maia asked.
I had to think about it, "We left Monday afternoon so it's Thursday. No, Friday."
This is one of our slowest passages to date. We've been averaging 4.6 knots. Almost 2 knots an hour lower than our typical passage speed. We're not even at the half-way mark yet--and we were worried about getting to Australia on the weekend and having to pay overtime fees...
Right now we're hoping to maintain 5.1 knots so we can get to Chesterfield reef before dusk tomorrow night. We're making 4.3 under spinnaker (6 in the gusts). Despite the slow passage it's wonderful out here. We're really in no hurry to see it end (other than the fact that at some point something nasty is going to blow up in the Coral Sea and we really want to be in Australia before that happens.)
I've commented before about how much I enjoy (some) passages. There is the sailing--which I love until the point that the seas grow monstrous and the wind howls in pain (which tends to leave me shaky and nauseated). There is the endless view of the ocean and sky--which never becomes monotonous or dull. I never knew a sunset could come in so many variations or that the sea could be so many shades of blue. Then there is the best part--our time together.
There is something wonderful (and occasionally awful) about being in a small boat with nowhere else to go. We spend hours curled up together reading, chatting or watching movies together. It's like day after day of Sunday afternoon. Maia does do school (Ev and I divide up the topics we work on her with--he's currently covering Algebra and Science (weather, marine biology), while I'm tackling writing, geography and music. She's also learning to sail right now. This may seem like something she should know (she has taken basic dingy sailing classes) but for the most part the gear on our boat is a bit big for her and we've really not asked her to help with much. Recently she started to ask what she could do and today she learned about how to fly the spinnaker--learning to sail in eight knots of wind is really ideal.
Despite all the hours we are out here there never seems to be enough time--Maia and I have been planning to bake bread and cinnamon buns for days (and hopefully will get to it today) and our ukuleles are terribly neglected. I have stories to finish and emails waiting for answers. Evan has projects to complete.
But somehow despite our good intentions Sunday afternoon laziness takes hold and instead of projects getting finished books get read, and the night time stars are pondered.
The only true constant to our day come with gathering the weather reports and checking in with the nets (and our friends who are also enjoying this slow, slow passage).
Perhaps it's easy to savour this time because it's the last passage for a while. Soon enough we'll be back in real life. But for now the long gentle swell rolls under us like a country road. The wind is soft, and warm, and musical. The sky is light blue with cotton-candy clouds. Our sails are full and are slowly pulling us toward the next part of this adventure.

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Be Calmed -the way to Oz day 4

2011-11-03T11:48:00.001+13:00

Last night we saw the stars reflected in the ocean. Pinpoints of light shimmering like phosphorescence in a glassy sea. The three of us stood and marvelled--we've never seen the open ocean so still.
We expected a light wind passage--but not a no wind one. But for 10-14 hours yesterday there wasn't even a whisper. We motored at low throttle--trying to make progress against the current (and to keep the boat cool) but we haven't enough fuel to motor all the way to Australia. Even motoring all the way to Chesterfield would push things.

But this morning after exiting the Grand Passage at the northern end of New Caledonia we found the breeze again. It's not strong and it's too far forward for us to use our spinnaker--but if we jump from squall to squall we can average 5 knots. The sky up ahead is blue though--so we may lose the little bit extra that comes from the unsettled patches.
Beyond the fact this is a slow passage it's still nice to be out hear. We're chatting twice a day with WGD, Connect 4 and Discovery and everyone is in good spirits as they urge their boats along.
S 18 39
E 163 06
728 to Bundaberg
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Green Flash on the way to Oz-Day 3

2011-11-02T11:24:00.000+13:00

So last week sometime--maybe while we were sighting dugong, or perhaps just before we headed out to dive the Coolidge--Evan commented that when we got to Australia it was time to end-for-end the halyards and sheets. They've been in use for years and are starting to show signs of wear. Swapping them end-for-end would increase their longevity. It was a great idea. And when the genoa halyard broke during Evan's night watch on our first night out I couldn't help but admire how accurate his observation was...

We got the sail under control and lowered into the cockpit and stuffed into a locker--ending what had been a brilliant sail. Then I hooked up the running backstays and we unfurled our little staysail. The little sail didn't do badly in the light winds--and while we weren't making 7+ knots anymore--we were still sailing.

Maia and I hoisted Evan up the mast with the spinnaker halyard in the relatively calm seas the next morning. Calling himself a human pinata he gave Maia a home schooling lesson on motion as the top of the mast swung through a big arc. From the top of the mast he dropped a weighted messenger line down. He listened to it clang its way down and when the noise stopped we assumed it was down. So we lowered Evan--only to discovered the messenger was stuck somewhere in the mast and we were back to square one.

But we were still making 5-6 knots in gorgeous flat conditions. We had a relaxing day--had a nice BBQ for dinner and watched the sun set in a green flash. At around 4am though the wind dropped even further and we fired up the motor.

The weather report is promising more of the same for the next 3-4 days. So we decided that we need to get the genoa back up. So after changing the spinnaker halyard (can't fool us twice) we'll hoist the genoa on it. This means we can't furl and if we need to shorten sail we'll need to drop it. Very old school. But it should give us an extra knot or so of boat speed. Something we dearly want for this passage.

Position
17 46 S
164 26 E
800 miles to Bundaberg

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Australia Bound-day one

2011-11-01T09:47:00.000+13:00

Our 2.5 days in Luganville sped past. Our main goal was to prepare the boat for Oz (giving away our contraband excess food, cleaning, scrubbing the bottom, getting fuel and fresh provisions, catching up on email and checking out of the country but we did manage to squeeze in a fantastic dive on the USS President Coolidge.

We had hoped to get in another dive or two, as well as visit the famed Millenium Cave and maybe try to find the Lysepsep people (folks who are only a metre or so tall and who screen themselves with very long hair). But despite the fact that Santos looks like an island that can keep you busy for weeks--we never got the chance to linger and get bored.

Late last week it looked like we had an excellent weather window kicking in. And by last night it was clear that it was time to go. Considering a less than excellent one is currently pummeling friends on the way to New Zealand with 35 knots, and the promise of more to come, we decided not to risk squandering our window by delaying our departure for even an extra day.
This means we've set sail on Halloween--Maia's deepest fear. It's only a minor consolation to her that four other kid boats (three in Port Vila and one in Noumea) are also starting their passages today. We made up for things a bit--last night we made pull taffy, carved a pumpkin, dressed in costumes then watched a scary movie 'Betelgeuse' and followed it all with a torch light candy hunt.

Our version of Halloween turned out to be a hit--it wasn't quite the same as getting dressed with friends and going door to door--but Maia seemed happy enough with our efforts.

Now we just need to wait for the wind to fill in. We're motoring out the channel and away from the islands in flat calm. Australia is 1000 miles away. Between here and there we hope for smooth seas and just enough wind. If the weather looks like it'll hold (or changes to bad) we plan to stop at Chesterfield Reef and rendevouz with Whatcha Gonna Do (yes, seven months after leaving Mexico on the same day we expect to make landfall in Australia on the same day), Connect Four and Discovery.

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Vanuatu Images

2011-10-30T12:09:00.001+13:00

Next stop Australia. Normally I'd go back through the past few posts and add these images in--but internet is too slow and we're too busy getting ready...

the wrecked boat we found

Maia playing with village kids

underwater dugong

typical village

The Way to Santos

2011-10-28T09:43:00.000+13:00

Vanuatu is mysterious. Port Vila is charming and modern-the prettiest city in the South Pacific. But when you sail out of the harbour you sail back 100 years. Maybe more. Only the ubiquitous slogan t-shirts, worn by children and men, truly indicate the century.

It's challenging here: The weather, the currents, the uncharted reefs, the people. When they paddle up in their canoes everyone is unfailingly friendly-but within a few words it's easy to see that there is more than simple language differences between us. There is a gulf that can't just be explained by the fact we come from a world they can barely imagine. It's more that even though we're here--visiting villages, asking questions, sharing laughs-we still can't quite imagine who they are.

Kalima, Gideon, Kal and Morres paddled up this afternoon in their dugout canoes.
Dugouts--each man makes his own, and his own paddle.
Kal's wife had sent him to ask if we had icing sugar. Their only daughter is turning one and she wants to make a cake. We invited them aboard for snacks and juice (we keep a stash of things for these moments).

Today's visitors came from the tiny village of Uri and spoke excellent English as well as Bislama and their own language. Whenever I ask people what the name of their village language is they can't tell me. They can speak the words and let me hear the cadences, and they tell me the geographic area it's spoken in-in this case the villages around Port Stanley… But the languages themselves don't have names.

With each language comes different customs and traditions-when I asked if their villages did custom dances the four men began to laugh, sputter really, "No. No we don't do that. Our traditions are different." The differences mean that the clan-based groups don't inter-marry. How can you marry someone who believes in one type of magic when you believe in another? Malakula, which is 2023 sq km and is relatively sparsely populated, has 28 language groups-28 different sets of beliefs.

Kal talked about village life-about how the children go to the main village for school when they are five and that how while it is only a few miles away their dugout canoes cannot make the trip daily. So the kids are gone for months at a time. I asked about where they got their fresh water, pointing out the hose that drains from our cockpit awning into a handy jerry jug. Kal told me they get a big bamboo trunk, split it in half, remove the insides and use it as a gutter for their huts, into their jerry jugs. And he told us about the community gardens, which based on tradition are either very near or very far from the village.

They asked about boat design, how to fix things, and about our life-incredulous that we have a heater aboard, fascinated by the idea of travel.

We've done more trading in Vanuatu than we have in other places-an old towel for a stem of bananas, fishing line and small old hooks for fish and tomatoes. We've also been given yams, pumpkin and pawpaw. But we still have food and trade goods we need to get rid of before Australia and so our visitors scored more gifts than simply icing sugar. They asked for magazines and string but were awed by the food and the t-shirts, notebooks and crayons for their kids. They invited us to the village for a feast of laplap tomorrow-eager to reciprocate.
We wish we could stay-but we need to be in Santos tomorrow. Our weather window is approaching and we need to sail on.

Vanuatu will stay a mystery-but really, it's that sense of barely knowing a place that makes me want to travel. There is so much left undiscovered, so much to dream about.

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Maskelyne Islands

2011-10-26T21:33:00.000+13:00

There were fewer dugong this morning. Perhaps the chief and his village really did sing them to us. In any event magic seemed to be on our side this morning when I noticed a familiar appearing canoe across the channel. Ev headed over and though my canoe turned out to be a speed boat he found the small village where the chief and his friends lived.

It turned out the chief had been called to a meeting and we could reschedule our dance, or we could have a partial refund. We took the refund, because despite wanting to think the best of these folks they really didn't act in the most honest way. They seemed suitably saddened though when Evan let them know we'd be telling other cruisers about our sketchy experience.

We decided to try to end our time in the Maskelynes on a good note though and with settled weather here (and a weather window to Oz still several days away) we headed to Lutes.

Lutes is perhaps what people imagine of a South Seas village. The thatched homes ring the beach and as we approached a crowd gathered on the beach. Little girls held bouquets of flowers out to us and we were introduced around. Then we were taken to the chief-who asked what we'd like to do in the pretty village. We told him we wanted to meet a Turtle Singer-I wanted to confirm the experience we had in Gaspard.

Tasso is very old, nearly blind and was happy to tell us about singing for turtles. Children and young men gathered around him, the littlest ones draped over him, as he answered our questions: he doesn't know why they sing for turtles they just always have, the song means thank-you for the turtle we won't be eating pig, catching a turtle marks the transition from boy to man, but now, with conservation laws, they have a limited 3-day hunt and feast each year and the village is allowed 12 turtles, other than that they just sing to the turtles for tourists.

We sat with Tasso for a while after he sang the same song chief Jean had sung for us and the 'magic' he described matched our experience exactly. Then the children led us up and down the village paths until everyone had met us.

Now we're on the boat-dugouts stop by to say hello and children are laughing on shore. Soon the stars will come out and all will be blackness except for the cooking fires in the huts on shore.

Maskelyne Islands - Navigation Notes

First off, the currents in the channels and outside the barrier reefs to the S and E of the island groups are quite strong, even in the open ocean. The currents we saw were in the maximum range of 3 knots with obvious upwellings from bottom structures. No big deal between the islands as you just go faster or slower if the current is against you, but offshore from the reefs, if the current is opposing the prevailing SE wind and swell you can get very steep washing machine effect seas.

Coming from Epi Island to the south, we planned to anchor on the S side of Uliveo Island, behind it's reef - but the seas were so chaotic we couldn't see the clear path. So we bailed, quickly entering new waypoints in the GPS in the rough seas, and headed up the East side of the group to enter the channel between Sakoa I. and the big island of Malakula.

We then proceeded to enter Gaspard Bay, avoiding the shoal patch in the middle. We anchored behind the shoal, in about 45' of water, mud bottom, good holding. No swell, though the strong SE wind still penetrated partly into the bay.

Important note: our "Tusker Cruising Guide to Vanuatu" electronic guidebook had very strangely mirror imaged the aerial photo and chartlet for Gaspard Bay along the N/S axis. The chart is also on its side so north is on the left. I couldn't figure it out when looking at the bay until I looked at the compass rose. So the shoal in the middle of the bay, which is somewhat offset to one side, was on the other side of bay compared to the aerial map/chart! It was also overcast which made it hard to see the shoal very well.

Our next destination was the village of Lutes, on the SW corner of Uliveo. The Tusker GPS waypoints and aerial photos were very helpful as you pass through two tight reef spots just before the village. The anchorage is a mud bottom, about 50' deep. We sat sideways to the small amount of refracted swell that comes through but it wasn't bothersome. If there was a big (say >2m SE) swell running it might get more uncomfortable. In a S swell it might not be pleasant at all.

Try to travel at low tide - it's much easier to see all the reefs. Really be cautious in overcast conditions. The island's fringing reefs stick out a long way sometimes. Staying mid channel between the islands as you follow all the Tusker GPS waypoints will be the safest way to travel during overcast. During good light we could easily see the reefs and cut corners on the GPS routes.

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Vanuatu Magic

2011-10-26T10:10:00.000+13:00

Evan heard it first-the unmistakable huff of a marine mammal. We headed outside and discovered we were surrounded by dugongs. Floating like big brown seals just under the surface they would raise a nostril to the surface and breathe. Every so often one would dive and we'd watch the shape as it turned to shadow then disappeared.

"We sang them to you," chief Jean Soso of Tonomial village told us later in the morning when we found ourselves in his canoe. "It's part of our magic. We sing the fish to the reefs and the turtles to our canoes." Chief Jean thought that as visitors we might like to see the dugong so he told us the villagers had sang them to us last night.

Apparently there is a village here. So many of the Vanuatu villages are tucked into the bush that often the only way you know they're there is when you see smoke. Or when a canoe shows up and offers you a kastum dance.

Jean, Sam and David were on their way to fish when they stopped by very early this morning to suggest we might like to see a dance in their village. We explained we were headed to Lutes village to learn about turtle singing. Jean then explained that turtle singing was his villages' tradition and we should learn with him--and it would be cheaper. And while it may have been a line we were happy with the idea of not having to make another attempt get to Lutes.

So we climbed into their canoe and Jean explained that turtle singing is an old magic-he was taught by his grandfather, who was taught by his. And because it is magic there are strict rules to be followed-in the days when they hunted turtles wives could not talk to their departing husbands and once they were on the water all was silent. The canoeists would paddle to a start point where there would light fires and begin to slap the water and sing.

The song sounded very much like 'turt, turt…tortuga" with some added rhythmic whistling and complicated sounding words. Sam poled us through the shadows while Jean held the palm frond fire and David steered. The three sang in unison and in harmony-calling the turtles.

When the last fire burned out David exploded out of the boat and into the water-if they were still catching turtles this is how it would be done Jean told us. David explained us he was a champion-catching 35 turtles. David told us how hard the turtles would fight-that it would take four or five men to hold one big turtle. Then they would drum out the story of the capture on the side of the canoe-so that the village knew how the hunt had gone. Back when they caught turtles, before their numbers diminished and they began protecting them.

"But where are the turtles?" Maia asked as she scanned the water. Jean said they would come to us tonight-that the magic is delayed and they wanted the turtles to know it isn't a trick. They don't want the turtles to come to the canoes where they could be caught and held by people who might abuse the magic he said, "It was sad hunting turtles. They couldn't talk." Now, he says they are like the dugongs, they call them just to practice their magic. Just to see them.

It's all magic here, Jean told us later as he visited on our boat and shared banana bread with jam, "We use magic to heal illness, to change the weather, to find a wife..." He offered to teach us more magic-to calm the wind and get us safely to Australia. He'd teach us when we came to the village for the Kastum Dance in the afternoon.

So we paid for the turtle calling and paid in advance for the dance-then the chief, his canoe, and our money disappeared.
Like magic.
We've not been ripped off before and while the loss wasn't huge, it was annoying. It was foolish of us to give money in advance-especially when we didn't even know where the village was. We'll head to Lutes this morning to report the scheme-the area has been trying to bring tourists and this just gives it a bad name.

If you come to the area enjoy the dugongs in Gaspard Bay-but carry on to the Maskelynes with your money.

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Windy With Turtles and a Chance of Dugongs

2011-10-24T19:08:00.000+13:00

We've been hunkered down in Epi for the past day waiting for squally weather to pass. The sail here was excellent--the kind of downwind ride (past live volcanoes and grass-hut villages) that cruising sailors dream of. When we arrived we strolled through the village, greeting and being greeted by the locals, then we set up an excellent dinner at the local guest house, Paradise Bungalows. Over dinner (and under the eerie glow of Ambrym's volcanos) we learned that the dugongs we hoped to see had moved their prime residence across the bay--to Lamen Island which is on the downwind side of some fierce winds so we decided we'd have to make do with turtles. Lots of turtles. Huge turtles--the biggest being in the 1 m range.

Turtles seem to be everywhere in Lamen bay and every time one of us looked out from the boat we'd see a few. Initially we'd all traipse out on deck and watch the ungainly looking creatures drift around on the surface--stretching their necks to gulp air in the choppy seas before diving. After a while they just got a brief glance. Who can imagine getting tired of giant sea turtles?

Being hunkered down is making me a bit anxious because we've slowed our progress. The first of the boats we've been traveling with are beginning to close on Australia and another group (including Connect 4) plan to leave tomorrow. I've been waking up--filled with doubt, thinking maybe we should be getting ready to leave rather than eking the last days out of the season on our own. At our current rate we'll be watching for weather for our own departure sometime around the 29th. Which also means we may well be at sea for the most-important-holiday of the year. Which I've also been waking at 3am to worry about.

For a stress-free life (and seriously, how much more low key can it get: remote village, sea turtles, fascinating local people) the fact I'm feeling guilty about missing trick-or-treating and worrying about whether we are a week or so behind the main crowd seems a bit silly. But I find that every so often out here my stress kind of builds to a peak--most of it is about the uncertainty. Is this life fair to Maia? (The harm caused by missing trick-or-treating aside--she seems remarkably happy out here). Are our choices (especially when we diverge from the pack) the right ones? (Happily when we listened to the morning net this morning we discovered there are several boats on the same schedule we are (not to mention a few more that are further behind.) Have we seen the right things? Gone to the right places? Should we have stuck with our buddy boats and just gone to Tanna?

This is an uncertain life. The only way to know we've done it right is in hindsight. But I guess that is true of any life.

The sail today started nicely and built to raucous. The currents at the southern end of Malakula have been whipped up by the days of reinforced trades. We abandoned our first attempt to get through the reef and into the Maskeleyne Islands when white-knuckle terror (and the fact it was impossible to distinguish between reef and washing machine seas) made us turn off. There is no room for error out here.

Pounding into seas--which came from everywhere and rose to sharp breaking points--away from the island we wanted, looking for another entrance through the reef made me wish I was a) in a peaceful harbour having a drink b) at home reading a book about adventure in the bath or c) with another boat, so I could at least call on the radio and commiserate.

Actually it mostly made me wish I were the sort of person who didn't become afraid. I wished my clenched fists and dry mouth knew what my head does--that there is no real danger, just discomfort. No, I wish I was the sort who thought this stuff was exciting, who relished these moments on the edge: Who thought skirting a reef in steep seas, strong currents, gusty winds and fading light was heaps of fun.

The third reef break was manageable. And now we're tucked into a deep, calm bay. We're not in the village we were trying for--a kastum, small namba village that still lives the way it did when Cook came across these islands. We're a few kilometers away in an unpopulated bay. But as we anchored a dugong surfaced near the boat. And in retrospect--the afternoon was okay really.

Tomorrow we'll try for the village--where we plan to go on a dugout canoe tour. Perhaps, like the dugong we'll relish it more when it's harder earned.

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Peril at Cook Reef

2011-10-21T18:44:00.000+12:00

We're at anchor at the base of 4 inactive volcanoes. They rise steeply and greenly from the coral strewn water and when the wind rushes between them the roar and howl echoes around their cliffs. In the stronger gusts the whole boat thrums while we rock in the wind waves. Yet it seems peaceful here. Which makes you realize that when you come *this* close to tossing your boat up on a reef, anything less than tragedy is tranquil.

The reinforced trades are still blowing and are predicted to stay. This made us realize we could either use up our days in the relative tameness of Port Havannah or we could hurtle ourselves into the maelstrom (where conditions are even more windwardly and windy than yesterday) and see what I've been dreaming about.

I hate going to windward. And windward in huge seas and 25+ knots is decidedly unfun. But we headed out-each of us cowering in our corners and we endured a better, faster passage than we expected. Who knew our staysail would work so well? Not us.
Because we don't go upwind.

As we closed on Emae, we realized that the poor charts and cruising guides for this area had us approaching the island from too far down wind and far too close to the leeward side of Cook Reef-an ancient volcano that went through its atoll stage and is now simply great for diving and killing boats. We also discovered the area has some ripping evil currents which were rapidly hurtling us reef-ward. (For those of you not following sailor-talk-we were going through a channel between Emae and Cook Reef-the wind was coming from Emae and blowing us toward the reef.)

This seemed to be a good moment to add a little engine to the situation but when Evan went to fire it up the ignition switch shattered.

I don't know what spare parts you carry-but this isn't one we have in our tool box. It's not even one we've heard of breaking before. So as Ev coped with the engine-I kept easing us upwind-trying to gage if the next big sea would push us too close to the reef and watching to see if we could clear the edge of it and get into safe water.

Tacking was out-in these winds and these seas we tack like a catamaran-a slow, indecisive process that would also be hampered by the fact we weren't using a mainsail. Falling off and turning back was a marginal option. Using our outboard (our in-harbour manoeuvring engine) was the last ditch plan-but in the big seas it would be repeatedly dunked and pulled out of the water.

I was trying to decide whether or not to pull up the leeward daggerboard (it looked like we could mostly clear the reef) when Evan sorted out the engine issue and was able to jump it with some assistance. We revved it to redline and turned away from the frothing seas and toward the volcanoes.

Where we anchored. The wind moans and the seas are lively. And it's one of the most peaceful anchorages I've ever been in.

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The Road Less Travelled

2011-10-21T07:38:00.000+12:00

"Right or left?" We asked Maia when we hit the second intersection along a dirt track.
"Left," she told us, "it looks less used."

Yesterday we dropped our anchor in Matapu Bay in Efate's Port Havannah. We had planned to leave this quite anchorage this morning and head north--sailing past volcanoes and reefs. But the promise of 25 knots and steep seas on the beam kept us anchored.

Anyway-we had a mystery to solve. During WWII the US warships assembled here before the battle of the Coral Sea. They took on water from something called the 'American Pool' which according to our cruising notes is located somewhere on shore, and inland from it are the ruins of a US base.

Our first dingy stop was an old coral pier with a wrecked cruising boat nearby--but inland of the pier was only dense jungle. Our next stop was a beach beside a deep creek-the American Pool? From there we followed a rough track up over the main road and further into the jungle-where big cement foundations seemed to indicate the base's location.

With the mystery, and a bit of history, seemingly sorted out we kept wandering up the track, occasionally stopping and choosing whether to go left or right when we hit an intersection. As we walked through waist high grass the jungle thickened blocking out the light, the birds grew noisy, and Banyon trees bigger than buildings punctuated the green, here and there the landscape opened up and small garden plots let us know why the track existed.

We contemplated turning back at the last intersection (this is really an excessive description for the point where two dirt trails meet…) but the sound of chickens kept us delving deeper. And finally after passing several goats and a cow we met two women, Martha and Rebecca who were collecting coconuts for their pigs. We tried out our fledgling Bislama on them and they led us further into Canaan, their village of a church and five thatched houses. We were shown around, introduced to all the pigs, and met everyone in the village. Then each lady gave us something from her garden-Maia earmarked the pumpkin for a certain upcoming holiday. Then Elsie (Rebecca's daughter) and a couple of the kids walked us down another road-showing us the creek where they bathe and get their water, the mountains and an extinct volcano in the distance, and the various types of plants they grow before leading us back to our boat.

Along the way Maia and the kids giggled and played and Elsie told me a little about her life: simple and quiet and better than being in Vila, where you need money to get by. Her main language is Monono and when her little daughter turns five she'll head to the main Monono village and live with her grandparents so she can learn her own language.

There are a dozen more anchorages like this in Port Havannah. But this is the only one we'll see before we hurry north toward Santos. Because in a country of 83 islands (and some 120 languages) there are there are enough stops in Vanuatu to keep us busy for months.

Vanuatu is the country least cruised in the South Pacific. Boats arrive here either eager to get home (if they're Australian)-or out of time (if they're everyone else). But we've decided that despite the lateness of the season we're going to head off to the islands least travelled for a few days more.

Because today it made all the difference.

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A new sail

2011-10-18T20:48:00.001+12:00

The flapping was the clue. A dark overnight passage from the island of Tahiti to Ra'iatea was the precipitating event. As we rounded the reef past Moorea, the wind rose in strength faster than we realized. And the flapping was the sound of our aged mainsail with a 12' tear in it, from one side to the other. We were fortunate that we found a decent sail repair loft in Ra'iatea, near the Moorings base. But after we got the patched up sail back, and looked up along the trailing edge (the leech to you sailors out there), we found evidence that this sail was really on its last legs. It was 25 years old after all, and it had carried us thousands of miles – and we really planned to replace it in Australia. Honest.

The new sail - note we don't have a "#1 reef". We just go right to #2, or #3 if it's really hairy.

Clearly it was time for a new sail, and hopefully before the sometimes windy passage to Australia. We had met Dave Benjamin of Island Planet Sails a year previous in La Cruz, Mexico. He was running his mail order sail business from his boat, often sitting with his laptop for hours in the cruiser's lounge. We met a few people who had ordered sails from Dave and were very happy with them. So I emailed him a 1 page list of requirements for a new sail and he got back to me immediately. I have to say I was rather shocked when a lot of my “wish list” items were standard with his sails. For example:

- I wanted s.s. slides at the headboard and reef points. Dave says 'I had assumed all s.s. - they never wear out in the sun like nylon'

- I wanted a particular style of seam stitching. Dave: that's our standard, but we use Goretex thread. Sailmakers NEVER want to use Goretex thread because (a) it's a bit more costly (b) it's slippery so it's harder to sew with (c) and it doesn't rot in the sun, so the sail doesn't need to go back to the sailmaker for repairs!

- I forgot to ask for the little triangular reinforcements at the ends of the seams. They were included anyways. Lots of sailmakers don't bother

- Tapered battens – no extra charge

- better full batten hardware – original quote didn't go up

- Shipping to Fiji – included in the price. And I didn't realize it and was going to be happy to pay the quoted price for the sail and whatever extra the shipping was going to cost me. (Dave you can ignore that bit dude)

I could go on and on but you get the idea. I've never worked with a sailmaker who was so happy to discuss why we want to do this and would you like that. I think we each had about 20 emails back and forth over details before it was all settled. I'm a picky sail buyer.

The final price: with better full batten hardware than he had originally quoted us, with shipping to Fiji included, and all those little extras that mean the sail will last longer – was less than his first price. You have to love that sort of service. There are a few little details to fix that weren't quite right but Dave is already there for us, and we will sort those out when we get to Oz when we are closer to a sail loft again.

Our last passage from Fiji to Vanuatu we finally got to hoist it and sail with it. Before we had been motoring around Fiji's islands in little or no wind. With a very slight adjustment to the upper batten tension the sail sets very nicely and is of course more powerful than the old one. I found myself reefing about 2 knots of wind sooner, because the boat was just that much more powered up. So great job Dave, and thank you very much. (No, Dave didn't give me a special price for this blog post. But do check out www.islandplanetsails.com for your next sail purchase)

p.s. To other sailors crossing the Pacific. Make sure your sails are in good shape before the crossing. Proper sailmakers are non-existent, and sail repair lofts are not that great (found them in Tahiti, Ra'iatea, Vavau group Tonga, and maybe in Denarau, Fiji). Shipping the sail and clearing through customs in Fiji was almost painless. Cost me about $60 including the ride back from the airport with the customs officer to make sure it got put on the boat.

Vanuatu Impressions

2011-10-18T20:21:00.004+12:00

the story of the yam-in sand

It is hard not to be intrigued by a country where men wrap their penises in a ribbon. Seriously—if I knew nothing else about Vanuatu—that alone might have been enough to get me here.

But I did know a bit more—I knew that because of the hundreds of languages spoken across the scattering of islands that the common language here is Bislama—a form of Pidgin that is way more fun to learn than French. And I knew there were volcanoes and waterfalls and amazing diving. And I knew about the dugongs and the megapodes—birds that lay their eggs in hot volcanic sand and then leave the eggs and chicks to fend for themselves.

But even knowing all of this I still had no idea what to expect. I had no idea that Port Villa is easily the prettiest, and most surprisingly, most modern feeling city in the South Pacific. I had no idea that the people, who seem really shy and reserved after Fiji, would be so sweet. I had no idea I would once again fall head over heals for a country (they grow coffee here!!)—and we’ve barely started.

Port Vila is an easy city to hang out in—there’s lots to do and learn (we spent the morning at the excellent cultural centre), great shopping (yesterday we spent the day exploring the two markets (omg—raspberries!!), the grocery stores and the duty free shops), and a gorgeous landscape.

The highlight of our stay here was our visit to Mele Cascades—pretty much the loveliest waterfalls I’ve ever seen. You start your visit by hiking through gardens—then the trail winds up through the cascades themselves. At the top you are rewarded by dozens of swimming holes—each linked to the next by a short series of falls.

Maia making her way into a cave behind the falls

Maia called it the best water park ever.

Evan and I found the massage falls—which, when you sit under them provide a thundering shoulder rub.

the 'trail'

Our plan is to head out tomorrow for the outer islands. Thanks to a lovely connection we made with a local couple (who served us a truly memorable dinner) we have introductions to several villages which we’ll stop in at as we make our way up to Santos.

dinner with Brenda and Bill

If the rest of Vanuatu even comes close to our first few days—it’ll be amazing.

I'll let you know what the wrappers are like...

Landfall Vanuatu

2011-10-16T10:53:00.001+12:00

I love making landfall. No matter how bad a voyage might be (and this last one wasn't bad, just blah…) landfall is magic. Pulling into a harbour at first light is dream-like. Before the shore makes itself distinct, and the resort hotels start to pop out of the mist, I get this sense of being the first explorer. If we're early enough the only other people on the water are native fishermen-casting nets from dugouts, or women fishing in the shallows.

It's only when the sun rises higher that we jump forward a century and realize we are not the first. But somehow, by then, it doesn't matter.

But now we are quarantined and confined to the boat until tomorrow. This doesn't happen to people who fly in to these countries. It's a throw-back to another era-one that I think we belong to-despite the jet skis and helicopters in the harbour. Not sure if we can risk sneaking ashore today but it is the rugby semis (it is always called THE rugby btw...) and the All Blacks are playing OZ--last time we saw the was in Aitutaki and since then I've had a refresher and can almost follow the game. And we have an intro to meet local people. And it's awfully pretty here.
So many reasons to go ashore...
Despite the hotels.

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Vanuatu--here we come

2011-10-15T08:38:00.000+12:00

When we made landfall in the Marquesas it felt like we had come so far--but one quick look at the chart showed us that as far as the Pacific went--we were just beginning. Now there is just over 1000 miles left to get to Australia. A number that a year ago would have seemed rather huge--but from the perspective of today... Not so big.

In my memories the Pacific (already! memories!) is a story in three parts. There are the passages themselves: which, depending on the situation, are long dull hours of sleepiness and relaxation punctuated by funny family moments and interrupted by the effort it takes to function in an always-moving universe. There are moments of fear--but those fade. The memories that stick are not the effort, or the terror, but the peace. Then there is the part of the trip spent in the company of friends--cruisers and guests--all of us visitors to a strange land. Together we get to interpret and make sense of it all, but often it seems easier to stay in our world at the fringes. The part that most of us imagine and is hardest to experience are the moments where we leave the fringes and become (for a moment) part of the places we visit.

All of it though is part of the same journey.

17 50 South
170 37 East
140 miles to Port Vila

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Underway to Vanuatu

2011-10-13T09:08:00.000+12:00

We pulled out of Fiji yesterday around midday and cleared the final reef an hour or so before sunset. Overnight the wind rose from really light to perfect. We're making 7 knots in gentle one meter seas just aft of the beam, 15 knots of wind and lightly overcast skies. Blissful. And it's forecast to remain this way for the entire 500+ mile voyage.

Passages always seem like a time for introspection and taking stock. And this passage—the one that puts us within striking range of the finish line--seems especially meaningful. Over the next few months we'll be moored in Australia—trying to decide what and where next. Earning money. Getting re-united with Charlie the cat. Catching up on a world that seems to whirl-by without you when you busy doing other things. There is so much to think about and so much to plan.

But there is also a remarkable island nation between us and then. And I don't want to short change myself by jumping too many steps ahead. So I'll be pulling out the guidebooks and the travel stories and reading up on big and little nambas and I'll push Australia away for just a little longer.

Position:
17 51 South
175 51 E
443 miles to Port Vila

* If you're interested in my day job I have a profile of a Tahitian Ukulele maker in October's Islands magazine.

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Thanks

2011-10-11T10:13:00.000+12:00

There was a moment last week, when Lewa slipped a salusalu around my neck then led us to the lovo feast, that I looked around and suddenly saw myself as a character in one of those cruising books I first started reading as a teenager. Those books always had a photo section, and somewhere amongst the pictures there was always a fuzzy, black and white image of the smiling author at a South Seas feast. I never realized it, but somewhere inside me I’ve been hoping for that feast all along.

Even cruising can get mundane—there is the day-to-day stuff that everyone, everywhere has to do, then there’s this boatload of other stresses that never crops up in most people’s lives (seriously—when was the last time you had to fend off your neighbour’s house when it dragged into you during a sudden wind shift? Like we had to last night…). But then something happens that reminds me that despite the fact this is sometimes hard (really hard…)—it’s all worth it.

We’ve just celebrated Thanksgiving. Actually, it was thanks to Maia that we celebrated Thanksgiving. Somehow, despite the fact it’s one of my favourite holidays I’ve managed to forget it until the very last minute for two out of the past three years. I think when you don’t have seasonal cues and the buzz of excitement building around you—it’s easy to mess up the timing on these things.

But thanks to a terrible weather system (which means we didn’t leave for Vanuatu as planned, but did manage to fill our tanks with rainwater…) we found ourselves near grocery stores. Within a few hours we had dinner guests arranged, decorations up and a menu planned. With those out of the way we were able to focus on the other part of Thanksgiving—the things we are grateful for.

The list is endless really: We are blessed with a supporting cast of family, and new and old friends who offer us help when needed, ears and hugs as required, chocolate when they can, and who seem to keep showing up on our boat even as we sail further away. And we have each other—I think I started cruising as a way to fulfill my own dreams, but as we’ve worked together and learned more about what makes each of us tick, I’ve discovered the true adventure is when we work to discover our shared goals.

And I’m grateful that Ev and I have employers who don’t seem to find our odd lifestyle and ever changing time zones a barrier to employment. And I’m thankful that Maia is thriving both as a nomad and as a boat schooler. And I’m grateful for a fast, comfortable boat that is easy to repair. And so much more…

But this Thanksgiving my thoughts keep coming back to that lovo feast—and to the welcoming warmth we discovered in Gunu Village. And I realize that this year—as I sail across an ocean and to places I’ve been fantasizing about since I was small child—I’m grateful to those who went first, and to all those authors and sailors who inspired me to dream.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Goodbye Gunu

2011-10-08T08:40:00.001+12:00

“Mum, you won’t believe how many kids dad has in the dinghy.”

Maia and I were putting the final touches on tidying the boat and putting out freshly made muffins and the last of our juice and fruit for our approaching guests. Evan had just dropped off another filled-to-overflowing dinghy load at Connect 4 and now our load of guests was approaching.

Dressed for play—and everyone much the same size and with the same haircuts--I found myself unsure just which children we had aboard. Maia seemed to know who everyone was though and happily took on the role of hostess—touring them through the boat and then offering up a morning snack.

We got them back to the beach in time to head to school and then we settled in for a visit with Lewa and her sister Vesi (who Maia loves). Lewa confirmed our understanding—the fundraiser for the school is so the kids can all attend for free. Typically parents have to pay for tuition, supplies and the uniforms. But in Gunu village the villagers decided to raise money together so that any child can attend elementary school and the kids from the other villages are even given a hot lunch.

Connect 4 getting guests--Gunu Village in the background

She explained it didn’t stay that simple in secondary school. In Secondary school the kids take exams—if they do well, then they can go to boarding school on the mainland. But it’s expensive and it means for each 14 week term they don’t see their families (the boat to and from Latoka is very expensive). Both Lewa and her brother Kelevi (pronounced Caleb) had the grades to go, but Kelevi missed his family too much to stay on the mainland.

Post Secondary school is an even more complex dream—but Lewa is approaching the end of her IT course. And when the school announces her program is back in session (the Post Secondary School buildings are so overused that programs have to take turns using the facilities) she’ll head back to Latoka. Her dream is to get a good job so that she can get as many children from her family through school as possible.

It seems like a huge burden for the ever-smiling 21-year-old and it made us wish we could have done more than just offer good wishes and a few things for the elementary school as we prepared to say goodbye.

On our final walk through the village I was amazed by what a big place in my heart had been given over to it in such a very few days. We said goodbye at the school—dropping off pictures we had printed and some blackboard chalk for Anna—the long-suffering teacher. And Maia was surrounded with hugging children.

Then we stopped in at Lewa’s house and tried not to cry as I put Tahitian pearls around her and Vesi’s necks. I knew everything else we gave them went to others who needed them more and I wanted these lovely girls to have something a bit special—just for themselves.

And then we said goodbye at Bill and Lucy’s house. They scoured their home for more to give us and we tried to steer them away from gifts and to goodbyes. But it seems in the Fijian culture the two are entwined.

And we sailed on.

Village Life

2011-10-07T09:35:00.003+12:00

Lucy giving Evan a necklace

Each time we go ashore in Gunu village we are given a gift: shells, jewellery, a woven basket, flowers, a meal. We hadn’t expected this. In other more well-trodden villages in Fiji there is a friendly spirit but also a hunger for our dollars—the women pull out handicrafts that are often clearly made by some other set of hands, claim them as their own, and then seem to resent our lack of interest in the trinkets.

In Gunu I am overwhelmed as Bill and Lucy empty things out of a hand-made basket and press the basket into our hands. When we visit Lewa and her family the bags of shells they give us are some of their best—shells that would have fetched much needed money from the tourist boat.

wearing our gifts of flowers

No matter what we bring to shore—and we’ve brought bags of clothes, fabric, food, and school supplies—our offerings can not touch this gentle generosity. They are giving what they have. We give spares—things we bought for the purpose of trading, or things we no longer use. It’s hard to imagine giving the last of what you have, as our hosts seem so willing to do.

Peceli uncovering the lovo

A lovo is a special meal in Fiji that is used for weddings, birthdays, fundraisers and other special gatherings. Our lovo will be one of the highlights of this trip. When we arrived and saw the men digging at the earthen oven and the women and children gathered around we realized this was not a simple meal—but a feast. They pulled bundles of chicken and cassava, white yam and stuffed pumpkin from the steaming pit. Then Lewa and her sister Vesi put salusalus (leis) around our necks and visited with us as still more village women set up the feast area.

Seated at our feast--Maia and Chelse are probably grateful they're not picky eaters

The villagers followed us into a sparsely furnished house and we were seated on the mat around a long, laden tablecloth. Explaining the food--the fish caught by that uncle, the breadfruit cooked by that aunt, the pulusami made by that sister--the women who made the meal scolded us into filling our plates. As we ate we complimented the amazing cooks, talked and joked, and ate some more. Then we realized from the growing crowd that this was a true feast—we pulled back from our seats of honour and the men and children took our places for their meal. And then at last the women.

Lewa and the ladies who cooked

We settled around the room drinking tea (perhaps from the tea bags I brought) while Maia, Chelsea and Nick ran wild outside with the friends they had made over the past few days. Evan and I were sitting near Nelson, the Methodist minister. From him we learned there are four religions in this village of 360—a fact that became amusing when Maia and Chelsea returned with Awake magazines from the competition. Nelson rolled his eyes a bit, then laughed. But we know from Bill and Lucy (who were once chased out of the village for their beliefs) that small village politics are not always simple.

Some of the children asked if they could see the boat so it was decided that in the morning before school we’d pick them up at the beach and bring them to the boats for a visit.

And then we said our goodnights.

Straddling Worlds

2011-10-06T06:00:00.005+12:00

When you take eight visitors and add them to a grade three class of excitable kids, chaos is the best term to describe the outcome. But it was a joyful chaos; one that came complete with smiles and hugs, and loads of giggles.

The school at Gunu village is probably typical for isoalted areas in Fiji. With a handful of teachers, a small library and few resources it has an ambitious plan: to educate the children of these remote villages for free so they can successfully straddle the growing gap between village life and a rapidly changing world.

Even our visit is a sign of this change—not that long ago (think the era of Brook Shields and the Blue Lagoon—which was filmed on a nearby island) the very occasional visitor to this village needed government permission and needed to carry adequate supplies of food so they didn’t overwhelm the villagers. These days they get several yachts each year and a small tourist boat stops in three times a month for a traditional village visit—complete with a lovo prepared by the men (using the tourist boat’s own food), entertainment and a handicraft market. They even have cell coverage, which works when it’s not raining.

That said this is still a subsistence-based traditional village. From the moment we land the dinghy we are hosted. We are walked to where ever we wish to go and are honoured guests where ever we stop. It’s truly a strange to be treated this way as we discovered when we showed up at school and threw the entire building into chaos. The children surrounded us and peppered us with questions.

Lewa's home

Because English is taught in the schools we were able to share a big pile of books—many were ones Maia used in school last year and several that she grew out of this year. On our walk back through the village we discovered that if you stop and visit when a Fijian family is getting ready to eat or drink you become family—and are expected to eat and drink with them: Which is how we found ourselves having lunch with the chief and his family. Actually, we ate and they watched.

Lunch at the chief's home: Bill and Lucy and their four daughters are amazing hosts

Tonight we return to shore for our lovo. Our gracious host is a lovely young woman named Lewa—she lives in a simple hut with her mother Vinny, father Peceli and four siblings. They don’t have running water, electricity or even windows and doors. But she’s taking a post secondary course in Nadi—in IT. And the next time she’s able to get online we’ll become facebook friends.

Hanging with Cannibals

2011-10-05T09:50:00.002+12:00

Maia with our kava for sevusevu

We’re sailing through the Yasawas—a dazzling group of 20 or so islands that stretch away from the civilization of Fiji’s two big islands and offer up great diving, villages without electricity (or roads, or cars, or stores, or banks), a few old backpacker resorts, and a few newer high-end resorts (I guess word got out…)

Actually we’re threading our way through the poorly charted reef-strewn waters of the Yasawas--admiring welcoming looking coves (that would be awesome if there was a way in) and imagining what it must have been like for Captain Bligh when he sailed through these waters with 18 men in a 7 metre open boat after the mutiny in 1789. He must have looked hopefully at those same lush coves--where there was sure to be water and fresh food—then despaired when two war canoes filled with cannibals gave him the chase of his life.

Bligh almost ended up in a cooking pot, although it’s hard to imagine it now. Fiji is easily the friendliest place we’ve been and yesterday when we anchored off of Gunu Village we were treated to even more Fijian hospitality.

Rajieli, Chelsea, Maia and Marica

Gunu is one of eight villages on Naviti Island. There are about 300 people in the village and there is an elementary school for about 100 kids (the school serves three villages.)

We quickly learned the school is the heart and pride of the village. And after giving a (very quick) sevusevu where we asked for permission to visit and were made part of the village we were led to the school by Marica and Rajieli—two adorable girls who are in the 3^rd and 5^th grade. Along the way we were greeted, and thanked, by everyone—our visit and our interest confirmed their quiet pride: this was a good village.

On the path to the school we stopped a few times and learned how the house mats were woven and shown what a home was like. Then the girls toured us through their classrooms where we saw cobbled together desks, very few books or resources, but enthusiastic signs of learning. They invited us back for school the next day. On our return to the boat we stopped in again to see the progress of the mat—then the family asked us if they could prepare us a lovo (a meal cooked in an earthen oven). They explained there was a school fundraiser coming up and anything we donated for the meal would help the school.

So we’ve decided our exploring is done and our final days in the Yasawas and Fiji will be here in ‘our’ village. We’ll do what we can for ‘our’ school and we’ll have dinner with ‘our’ family.

Maia and the lovely Lewa

There’s a lesson here isn’t there? Not the one that Bligh learned, that you must flee to survive. But more the idea that unless cannibals are actively chasing you, pretty much everywhere we travel comes with the potential joy and responsibility of becoming our home.

If only for a day.

Pay it Forward

2011-10-05T08:10:00.004+12:00

In my dream goats are surrounding our boat. The bleating made me wonder if they would disturb our neighbours so, coming awake only gradually, I popped my head out our hatch to see what they wanted.

Awake now, and squinting into the rising sun, I discover we’re in a tranquil bay—looking across reef strewn shallows toward an uninhabited island. But then the goats went off again and I realized it was inhabited—that the offspring of goats first brought by the explorers were running wild on the island, munching their way through the native plants and waking their sleepy visitors early in the morning.

A visitor with a headache.

Not long after dropping our anchor off of Nanuya Balavu and Drawqu islands we decided to swim ashore and check out Manta Ray Bay—a small eco-resort on Nanuya. After visiting, and deciding it would be the perfect place to have dinner (and get a break from cooking) we headed down the beach across the frothy sand and onto slick volcanic stone—where I slipped and cracked my head.

The rest is a blur of feeling sleepy, and not being permitted to sleep, and the annoyance that comes when someone roughly pokes you awake to shine a light in your eyes and take your blood pressure every time you drift into a peaceful dream. Happily Steve on Connect 4 has had medical training and between him and Evan they decided we didn’t need to test our medical evacuation insurance. And within a couple of days I was feeling like myself.

helping Karinya recover their anchor

So often we’re reminded that while we are on our own out here—it really is the network of other cruisers, friends and family at home, and supportive locals that makes this lifestyle work. Cruising is an endless game of Pay it Forward. A game that means when our inverter died in the midst of shaping our new dagger board (it has since resurrected itself) we had offers of help and a generator on our deck within hours. When Karinya lost their anchor overboard (a link broke in the chain!) within minutes Evan was there with scuba gear. And when Connect 4’s dinghy engine threatens to die—we’re there alongside to be sure they get in.

It also works in the fun stuff. Having a compressor means the whole Connect 4 family has been diving with us—the kids having their first ever chance to try and Cheryl getting down for her second and third times. It also means we share our skills—I’ve paid my wonderful sushi making lesson (courtesy of Meri on Hotspur) forward a couple of times. While my new jewellery making skills and several recipes in my recipe box that came from our buddy boating group are making their own appearances.

The goats, it seems, are satisfied with having woken me and are moving on. My headache is easing with the thought of the day ahead: snorkelling, finally having that meal at Manta Ray resort, and spending time with friends.

This is a good way to live. Goats, head bangs and all.

*we continue to have slow internet but will try for pictures soon

Fireworks on the Beach

2011-10-02T14:14:00.002+12:00

"The water is blue again!" Maia called from the bow, "Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?"
There wasn't much wind, but we raised our new main anyway, just to gaze at the crisp white fabric. Then I pointed out two reefs I saw, and Evan admired the little islands. We all grinned at each other. Somehow after doing this for two years we're still giddy with joy when we get underway.

our lovely new Island Planet sail

Threading our way through reefs we passed the islet where Tom Hanks was Castaway. Then we went a little further-arriving at isolated and pristine Vanua Levu-a stunningly gorgeous anchorage made up of three small rocky islets with stretches of empty beach and that's surrounded by reefs. On the way in we strayed from the channel and grazed the edge of one reef, and although the coral was 30' below I could make out the detail on the fan coral.

When Steve from Connect 4 had called us earlier to make plans where to meet he let us know this might be a great place to have a bonfire on the beach-if we could get through the reef that surrounds the island. As we set our anchor and went for a swim-they looked for a beach landing-working their way down the sort of white sand beach that occupies winter daydreams until they found a calm place we could get our dinghys ashore.
Our surf landing was textbook and soon the snacks were out, the wine was open and the bonfire roaring. The kids wandered deep into the island-playing Robinson Crusoe or, given the family connection, Alexander Selkirk. When it was dark it was time for fireworks.
We lit them with sparklers and backed off as they boomed and whistled into the sky, adding more stars to an already starry night. And adding a hint of celebration to a day that was steeped in gratitude.
Can you believe it? We're in Fiji, man.
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Traveling Not Holidaying

2011-09-30T08:55:00.001+12:00

Maia and I were comfortably seated on the bus (the short bus not the long bus which goes through e.v.e.r.y. village between here and there, plus a few) headed to Nadi (pronounced Nandi) when a couple of disoriented and bickering tourists got on (“I told you I wanted a holiday, not to travel!”). They were trying to get back into town for souvenirs and weren’t sure how much to pay, where to get off, or even which way to walk when they got there. “I’m so glad we’re travelers, not tourists,” Maia whispered to me as the driver tried to make sense of their flurry of requests.

People that we encounter often think we’re on a holiday, “Wow! A two year long holiday”. And despite our efforts to explain—we work, we home school Maia, we’re on a budget the doesn’t include most tourist stuff, and our hotel room most definitely doesn’t come with maid service, or even hot water for that matter—the notion still holds.

We must be on holiday because we’re obviously not at home.

Maia and I were talking about the difference between tourists and travelers after getting off the bus, pointing the unhappy tourists in the right direction, and heading to the market to shop. Her initial thesis was travelers belong, tourists don’t. But I worked on refining that. Okay, tourists shop for souvenirs, she theorized, while we shop for milk.

Actually we search for milk. And cheese. And butter.

And because we’re travelers and not tourists we know why we’re likely searching in vain. A tourist might just think they were looking in the wrong store, or something, when they hunt for the (apparently missing) dairy section. But after being here for a bit we know that Fiji has a serious dairy shortfall. Of the 147 million litres of milk that are required each year, Fiji’s dairy herds produce around 11 million litres and the country imports a further 63 million litres –which clearly leaves a deficit.

The Government says it is taking steps to improve pasture and fodder, and improve infrastructure with the construction of more farm dairies and milk collection centres. But the fact that the dairy industry has rigid price controls (to keep milk affordable) means that every now and again dairy shows up in the stores, and a few days later the boxed milk (there is apparently no fresh to be had), two types of cheese (you can get ‘tasty’ or ‘pizza’ varieties) and butter are sold out. Not to be seen again for weeks.

So Maia and I wandered from store to store. In lieu of milk we bought new dish towels (ours were looking terrible), some great fabric (which is availabel and very affordable), and we were rather excited to see that a new crop of NZ potatoes had arrived (and were on sale!). Maia also got herself some fireworks (Diwali is in a month).

In the last store we visited we ran back into the tourists (who were in a much better mood after a successful souvenir shop) and discovered there was milk on the shelf (10 boxes!). We gathered up six took them to the checkout—where we discovered we could only buy two boxes (four if I sent Maia through the checkout on her own.) So we bought what we could and wished the tourists goodbye.

“Enjoy the rest of your holiday!” they told us.

Eat It or Australia Will Take It

2011-09-28T08:27:00.000+12:00

We’re starting our second week at anchor in Denarua, Fiji. For such a long period of time out of a relatively short country visit you might assume Denarau is cool (hmmm, only if the Hard Rock Café and shopping is your thing…) or we have friends here (well we did—WGD arrived, then flew out this AM to spend the Jewish New Year in NZ and Connect 4 was here but headed off in search of a fire walker). Which leaves projects. Although Nadi (pronounced Nandi) is a very cool city.

Our gorgeous new Island Planet sail is on (but not yet tested) the fancy new spectra rigging is installed (and awesome) and our new dagger board (one broke back in Tahiti and was cheaper to repair in Fiji that Oz) is nearly finished. And we’ve also been using the time (and decent internet) to catch up on the news (eek!) earn money and get ready to go to Australia.

Along with most of the boats we know, we're joining the Bundaberg Port2Port rally. For $200 we get:

Met on arrival by BCYC ambassador

2 Tickets to Welcome/End of Passage Dinners.

2 P2P Tee shirts

And a BCYC/P2P Burgee

Actually despite the fact Bundaberg is supposed to be lovely the real draw is the fact they refund our arrival fees ($330) and provide weather routing for the passage. They also provide really detailed information about what we need to do to the boat before clearing into Australia.

Preparing for the Pacific is a balancing act when it comes to provisioning. You want to buy enough in advance so that you are not caught out having to buy an $8 package of spaghetti or $16 box of Cheerios. But you don’t want to overbuy—otherwise when you get to Australia you’ll be saying goodbye to your hard won provisions.

So far it looks like we did it just about right. But we are having to make a point of eating a few things and we did run out of others.

What we over bought:

Canned meat. I used Behan’s (Totem) spreadsheet from last year then cut way down. I think we had a dozen beef, a dozen chicken, a dozen chilorio and two dozen tuna. We still have about 1/3 of each. We just didn’t eat it. It wasn’t that there was a ton of fresh stuff to be had it’s just that our family easily reverts to vegetarian meals. And because we were traveling with vegetarians (and a family that keeps kosher) it didn’t go into potluck meals either. We did find the beef and chicken worked well in soups and stews though. We also overbought pate in French Poly—it wasn’t as fun to eat when we left behind the land of baguettes. We need to eat it now though—Australia will take it.

Canned Veggies. I still don’t know where I went wrong here. We typically go through tons of diced and pureed tomatoes but I think the cases I bought are procreating in the bilge—because the size of the pile never changes. The other stuff I bought—corn, mixed veggies and mushrooms were used in moments of desperation and are just about gone. These are supposedly okay to bring in though.

Brownie mixes. Yup, seriously. Who knew that eight would be too many? We still have four. And because they have dried eggs in the mix we need to eat them.

Iced Tea mix. We drank water and got used to it. And it doesn’t mix with alcohol. Loads left and not even the Aussies want it.

Refried beans. Once we left Mexico they left our plate. Not sure why. For 14 months they were a food group—then poof. Apparently they need to go, but then again maybe not.

The funny thing is there is some stuff that we should have stocked up on in French Poly:

All dairy. (This does need to go before we hit Oz—unless it’s from NZ like the milk and butter). UHT milk is really hard to get in Fiji (we haven’t had any fresh milk since one time in Tahiti) and cheese and butter are expensive. We should have bought more NZ tinned butter, UHT milk and hard cheese.

Pasta. The jury is out on whether we’d lose this or not (it will be inspected). But we hardly have any left. So it doesn’t matter.

Breakfast cereal. We don’t eat a ton but at $16 fj a box we’re currently not eating any.

AQIS may also confiscate all fresh, frozen and dried fruit, vegies and meat. Fish is okay—except some tinned tuna from some places. They could also take our rice, popcorn, garlic, dried beans, eggs, flour, honey, tea, coffee, herbs and other stuff. Basically I think we’ll just eat it all.

We’ll also be preparing by dousing the boat with insecticides. The advice is to put all woven, wooden, shell and paper goods in large plastic bags, spray in a generous amount of aerosol insecticide and seal the bags until after your arrival. This kills any insects that the items may carry. Quarantine won’t confiscate them if they are bug free.

The Last of the Circumnavigators?

2011-09-23T10:24:00.000+12:00

Pirate activity 2011

There is one conversation that has been coming up again and again lately with cruising sailors—pirates. And how the heck are we going to get home...

If you’ve missed the news, piracy in the Indian Ocean and Gulf of Aden (GoA) has increased dramatically this year (attacks are up some 90% from 2010 to 2011). As the pirates have hijacked larger vessels they have been able to range further a field with these mother ships. And they now operate in a region consisting of 2.6 million square miles of sea—an area that includes much of the Northern Indian Ocean.

It used to be cruising yachts joined convoys to get through the GoA—thinking there was safety in numbers. But sailors who used to run these convoys say that as commercial vessels have added sophisticated security systems, including armed guards, their capture rate has decreased dramatically—making slow moving, undefended yachts a more attractive option (the current estimated capture rate of yachts is 1 in 20). And with large mother ships near by—the possibility of attacking several boats in a convoy at once is now a real risk.

the expanding range of pirates

For the past couple of years the safer alternative has been rounding the Cape of Good Hope. But considering the increasing range of pirate mother ships which have attacked vessels as far south as Mauritius and Madagascar, the only remaining safe route is far offshore, avoiding the Seychelles, Mauritius and Madagascar—islands that break up the long journey and let small boats choose safe weather windows. The problem is this offshore route is notoriously stormy—not to mention a huge detour of several thousand miles when you’re trying for the Med.

So the options are narrowing for those who are circumnavigating (or simply trying to get home to Europe as many French families are). We can ship our boats for USD 30,000+, or remain in the South Pacific or SE Asia indefinitely in the hopes the situation will eventually resolve.

But for now it seems the pirates have won—and 115 years after Joshua Slocum first set off on a solo-circumnavigation (inspiring so many of us) it seems that the era of sailing around the world, just for the heck of it, is coming to a close.

Fiji without Baggage

2011-09-21T10:50:00.000+12:00

Last week when we were cleaning our boat up in anticipation of our next set of guests (Jen, Peder, Anja and Cara) I felt pretty good about making enough sleeping space for four extra people—but when it came to their luggage I was a bit worried. “I guess we could stack it on Maia’s desk or your work bench,” I told Evan “But you’ld really have to clean your workbench off…”

When they arrived, I was impressed: four people, three backpacks. For a month in Fiji and Australia. And one of the bags had to be for us—they were bringing spectra rigging, a hard drive, power tools and Maia’s b-day gifts…

Then Jen explained the airline had lost their luggage. All of it. Jen was stressed—especially about our stuff. I, interestingly enough, was not. I wasn’t even concerned. As I double-checked my frame of mind (there was dark chocolate in that luggage) I realized that barring the odd day of excessive over-reaction (like, umm, last week when the boat was really messy and there was no place for luggage) I’m taking a lot of stuff in stride these days. Even stuff like the airline losing our very difficult to replace rigging, which we absolutely need before heading to Vanuatu.

Having guests without luggage meant we needed to change plans. Something we’re getting really good at and that I’ve learned isn’t worth fussing over (well, mostly learned). So rather than pulling out of Lautoka shortly after they arrived—we took them in to shop. Taking a jetlagged family of four shopping in a congested (and very foreign seeming) city is not as easy as you might think. Stores don’t have the combination of things you might expect in them—and we needed to go to several, just to find the basics.

kava while sailing

Eventually we sort of had them outfitted and we were underway back to Musket Cove. Once we were out on the water Fiji began to work her magic. The islands came into view, the water turned turquoise and the reef showed up in the distance. Maia did an oral report for school for all of us—teaching our friends about Fijian customs and running a kava ceremony. Then we all went for a snorkel. As the stars rose and brightened, and the kids went limp from exhaustion, we called it a night.

Maia's b-day party--complete with cake and kids

The next few days were a whirlwind of beach walks, pool time, play dates and Maia’s long awaited birthday party, the one that she simply trusted would someday occur--complete with games, cake and a bunch of kids (although the presents from home were with the lost luggage).

As the kids played hide and seek (adapting the game to fit the terrain—the best hiding place was up a palm tree…) I thought about all the lessons I’ve learned while cruising: Adapting to new food and new cultures; making do with what we have; letting go of expectations; figuring out how to fix just about anything; learning to count on family, friends and the occasional stranger for help and support. And I understood that in many ways travelling without baggage really is the ideal.

Most people we know seem to see the Pacific crossing as a great opportunity to engage in some sort of self-improvement and personal growth. Personally, I had a bit of a list: I wanted to confront my fears, learn to live in the moment, fully engage with my family, lose weight, get fit… You know—little stuff. The lessons I got though were different ones and every time I thought I had it figured out, it all slipped away—defying my expectations. Reminding me that being in complete control of your life is pretty much an illusion.

The luggage showed up—and with it everything we need to make the last leg of our trip (our new sail also arrived—more on that soon). And our dear friends—who we realized were not only our first guests on Ceilydh (helping us deliver her home after we bought her in 2004) but that Anja and Cara were Maia’s first sleepover guests when we first moved aboard)—flew on to the next leg of their adventure.

We’re now working hard to prepare the boat for the next six weeks of travel and I’m trying to prepare myself—to make sure I enjoy all of it without expectation and stress. Hopefully I’ll leave my baggage in Fiji.

Musket Cove Regatta Week

2011-09-16T14:33:00.000+12:00

We were slow getting underway this am. I was still camped out in my jammies drinking coffee when I saw Andrew from Hawkeye motoring toward us to pick up some pictures we promised. He surprised us with a bottle of wine for the shots of his boat in the Round Malolo race. The wine was a nice touch—especially because Ev accidentally smashed our portion of the prize from the race: a bottle of rum. (The prize for placing as the second cat was $100 fuel voucher, rum and a case of water).

Regatta Week is over. And for an event we hadn’t known about prior to meeting Mamalu—we can’t rave about it enough. It’s a must with the Auzzie/Kiwi crowd but somehow news of the event really hasn’t reached the rest of the cruising community. Which is odd because:

a) It’s free.

b) There are a lot of very generous prizes to be had.

c) They feed and fill us with booze on a couple of occasions.

d) There are some great races and a good variety of beach activities.

We missed the first few days of the week-long event but were quickly pulled into activities as soon as we arrived. Our first afternoon was the beach sports day. We spent the afternoon running three-legged races, tossing coconuts and playing volleyball (we were adopted by the Fiji team because we split up by nationality and there were no other Canadians). That night it was a fancy dress party with an R&R theme—so everyone came as something that started with “R”. Evan was road kill, Maia was a rainbow, and, in deference to our friends on Connect 4 who have been onsite for two different reef groundings, I was a reef with a sailboat on my shoulder. Maia’s costume got her a prize—a choice between a frothy resort drink and a pizza voucher.

The next day we raced and I fell in deep lust, and am still heartbroken so won’t talk about it.

Yesterday was the final day. There were hobie cat races and a dinghy decorating contest. We decorated the dinghy with a palm-frond Christmas tree and fake fire-place with stockings. After doing a terrible job of singing Christmas Carols for the judge we were awarded second place and received a very generous prize of a $40 voucher for the resort store, a pizza voucher and a bottle of wine.

Then it was on to the pig roast—which honestly had been the selling factor that got me to the regatta. I really wanted to go to a South Pacific pig roast… And while the pig was great, the entire night was a blast.

After a cocktail party and the beating of the retreat by Fiji’s ‘royal’ police force (apparently the country is still in denial over being kicked out of the Commonwealth—the Queen is still on all the money and it seems the hope is that coup thing will eventually be forgotten and they’ll get reinstated) we were seated banquet style.

Initially we were disappointed that this meant we wouldn’t get to sit with Connect 4 and that we’d be forced to (horrors) mingle. But our table turned out to be excellent fun. Andrew was there and we realized that it was his boat that I had a great series of shots of. There were also a couple of nice young crew girls at our table and Ev was rather pleased with himself when two of them claimed him as their dance partner for a good part of the night.

It almost made up for the fact that our late start at regatta week meant we had missed the wet t-shirt contest…

Lustful Impure Thoughts

2011-09-14T20:51:00.001+12:00

I’m not sure if it’s possible to cheat on a boat. But if it is, I have: in thought and deed.

I’m in love.

I covet my neighbour’s boat.

To be clear—it wasn’t my idea to sail outside my own hulls. We hadn’t been anchored at Musket Cove for more than an hour when a total stranger dinghied up to our boat and asked if we planned to race in the round Malolo Island race. Bruce (it turns out 50% of Kiwi sailors are called Bruce btw…) said he was looking for crew and if we were interested in mixing things up a bit…

We have a jury-rigged shroud and our old main is about to dissolve (new rig and sail arrive this weekend!!) so we said we probably wouldn’t sail and which boat was his? He pointed at a very hot looking cat anchored near us. “The F41?” Evan asked in a rather squeaky voice, “Yes, we’ll crew.”

I’ve had the occasional boat crush—but typically I lust over something specific—a hull layout, a really roomy stateroom, doors… But when we climbed aboard the F41 this morning I realized why Evan squeaked: This is the boat of my fantasies. Darkly sultry dreams I never even knew I had. I have never been aboard a boat that is more perfectly what I want—it’s everything I love about our boat combined with a whole bunch of details I’ve yearned for. And this was even before we raised the sails.

After we raised the sails it was hopeless—I’m not sure if it was the first time I rotated the mast, or when the boat started to thrum as we hit the sweet spot, or when we started chewing up the fleet and spitting them out. But as we passed big, lusty, fast boats and just effortlessly kept accelerating through gusty winds and good-sized seas I decided I had to have one—an F41 of my own.

the kind of view that leaves me weak-kneed and breathless

So as Evan and Maia head to the awards ceremony with Bruce and Diana to claim our prizes I’m trying to sort out how to get this boat. If we sell everything we have and work maybe ten, fifteen years it should be doable…

Oh my cheating heart.

From Silence to City

2011-09-14T08:00:00.001+12:00

When I last blogged (it seems like so long ago!) we were still at anchor in a peaceful cove. A few local fishermen had yet to stop by and visit and offer us some of their day’s catch—because to them we were part of the village: a village we had no idea was there and couldn’t see. But no matter—we offered them baseball hats and school supplies for the village kids and chatted about weather and fishing and enjoyed their company.

And sailed on: Which is our theme here as we seem to rush through the ports.

A month isn’t going to be long enough for Fiji. Especially with projects to complete and plans for Australia needing sorting. If I did this again I’d go from Tonga to NZ and then return to spend an entire second season in Fiji and Vanuatu. Especially now with so many formally Med-bound boats beginning to back up in SE Asia--there really is no reason to get there quickly.

From Vatia Lailai we sailed on to Lautoka, an industrial sugar mill town where I realized we were just about the only white faces. It was my noticing, more than the fact itself that surprised me—when we were walking down the street we saw a couple of shiny-pink tourists. They stood out so completely against the backdrop of Fijians that I realized we must be equally obvious looking.

I tend to forget.

Lautoka is affordable—and with Maia seeming to double in size on a near monthly basis it looked like a good place to outfit her in clothes that fit again. She and I set off with a shopping list (being a good cat sailor I had her pull out everything she had grown out of to donate—then we could replace those items only—rather than her doing what I do and just accumulate more clothes…) and a budget.

Lautoka has both a local clothing industry—with nice locally made things for a good prices, as well as several shops where last years’ (or the year before) brand name clothes are sold off at a bargain. We rarely paid more than $10 f ($6) for an item of clothing and most were in the $5 range. By the time we had finished shopping Maia was fully outfitted in up to date tween fashions and I had a pretty new dress.

The other shopper’s paradise in Latoka is the market. It’s good we started with the smaller versions in previous ports—because this large cavernous building could overwhelm otherwise. We stocked up on the normal fruits and veggies, but having ditched Evan for our girl’s shopping day, we also decided to pop into the handicraft market (claiming it was research for our upcoming visit from the NessetsJ) I’m a little addicted to tapas and the Fijian ones are gorgeous and affordable. So we stocked up.

Lautoka isn’t beautiful. It’s noisy and busy and the fact it had streetlights! multi-story buildings! so may shops! made us realize that other than Papette it’s been five months since we were last in a city, or even a biggish town. But Lautoka is incredibly friendly and as the kind of person who tends to gravitate toward non-tourist centres (I’m also not that keen on ex-pat towns—they always strike me as a cross between summer camp and a dysfunctional family reunion…) it is the kind of city I love: easy to navigate, everything we need and lots of cheerful energy.

Our stay was brief though—we wanted to get to Musket Cove for the regatta and to reunite Maia with her friends (and us with our friends) on Mamalu and Connect 4.

So we sailed on.

Tranquil with a Chance of Waterspouts

2011-09-10T05:11:00.001+12:00

We may as well have been glued to the bottom. Between sunrise (when the hills glow pink and gold) and sunset (was that a green flash? Our second in Fiji.) we spent the days aboard, enjoying the most peaceful anchorage we've been in, in the whole of the South Pacific.
There was this nagging feeling that there is more to Fiji than an anchorage of our own, with a stretch of sandy beach and nice diving a short dinghy ride away. But between books that needed reading, naps that needed indulging in and chores that had been put off too long-the need to leave just didn't seem that pressing.
And then there was the weather-not bad exactly, but changeable: shifting from clear blue sky, to a gusting torrential downpour within the span of a chapter, or a nap. And because the trip to Lautoka (our next port of clearance) is carried out inside a reef, which is strewn with all manner of hazards, it helps to have sunny weather.
Yesterday though after a swim to clean the prop (hey, we don't need clothes, we're the only ones here…) it was time to leave Nananu-I-Thake. The sky was clear, the sun was high enough to see the reefs and the wind was calm. We had news that friends were just a few anchorages away and a goal to get to the other side of the island in time to meet more visitors (who are not only bringing our new spectra shrouds [our rigger figures the high-tech solution is the way to go] they're also bringing a new hard drive-because our main one just died. Sigh.)
I love traveling inside a reef-when I can see where we are going.

can you see the reef? no? me either...

But as the day progressed thunderheads started to build. The wind picked up and the vaguely charted reefs disappeared from view. "Maybe," I suggested, "if I steer toward where the outer reef is supposed to be we'll pick it back up and be able to avoid all those rocks and things." So I steered at the reef; squinting into the water; watching the depth sounder and trying to pick-up the most subtle changes in colour.
When I found the line of brown reef I began to concentrate on the clouds--watching with interest as they changed shape and formed downward aiming points. It wasn't until one of those points dropped all the way down to the water that I caught on, and I called Evan and Maia to see the waterspouts.
Maia did some research and discovered that contrary to popular belief waterspouts cannot be destroyed by shooting canon balls into them. They also don't tend to harm boats--especially when they are small and you're already upwind of them. So rather than causing worry-we got a science lesson.
Just before another squall hit we pulled into another peaceful, empty anchorage at Vatia Lailai. When the squall passed the sky was scrubbed blue, then gold and pink. Rather than a green flash we got a rainbow radiating upward from where the sun had set.
We had planned to continue on today-but there is a reef for diving on just outside our anchorage, and a long sandy beach to explore. And we caught enough water that we can catch up on laundry. And it's peaceful here. So peaceful.
*pictures will be added when we have a more functional hard drive and faster internet
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Four Colours of Vegetables!

2011-09-05T09:07:00.000+12:00

I haven't begrudged a single $4 carrot on this trip.

Well, the $14 lettuce that I bought in Makemo (but hey, it was a three pack of romaine hearts) did cause a moment of marital strife. But for the most part we knew what we were getting into, and when we left Mexico our lockers were filled to bursting with all manner of tinned, dried and heavily processed food-like stuff.

That $4 carrot (and in its defense it was sort of biggish...)? Well, it wasn't really a necessity, at least not according to the lore of old-school sailors who live off of potted meats, mushy tinned peas and rum (and clearly even they stocked up before reaching the South Pacific...).

But before we left Vancouver I spent two years penning a natural living column and came to the conclusion that what we eat is sort of important. My guru, Michael Pollan (eat food, not to much, mostly vegetables), would be rendered speechless (appetiteless?) by a diet that consists of white bread, white rice, white fish, spam, taro, cassava, breadfruit, coconut, banana and the occasional sweet potato. And so we made the decision to supplement the local menu and our heavily processed stores with fresh fruits and veggies—at any cost. After all—we've dragged a growing child into the hinterlands and away from our organic farmer’s market, the least we can do is make sure she ingests something green now and again.

The cost, it turned out, was mostly palatable. What was lacking was variety.

Actually what was lacking was having a clue what to do with the few local veggies that were available—because, you see, we had no idea what half the stuff was. And even less idea how to make them edible. And seriously, this is an important detail. Taro leaves for example (which we recently discovered are really delicious and we should have been eating from day one) can make you sick if you don't cook them enough. And who knows what that large, lumpy, reddish root(?) with spines would have tasted like if we got it wrong.

Fiji has made up for four months of high-priced (and often wilted) produce. We still don't always know what things are. But now, rather than getting the name of a new veggie in a language we only have a basic grasp of, we get the name in English and almost always we get cooking directions and a recipe or two. In a few cases I've received cooking lessons and a taste of the finished dish.

$1 Fijian worth of a yam thing...

And stuff is cheap. I spent $20 Fijian (around $12) and got 7 coconuts, a pile of eggplant, 6 bok choy, taro leaves for a lifetime, a huge yam thing, cooking bananas, green beans, tomatoes, cilantro, carrots, 8 cucumbers, a squash-like pumpkin, ginger, pineapple and a shiny, spiny thing.

And tonight—dinner included fresh veggies in four colours. Four!!

What we’ve been eating:

Dalo (also known as taro): A dry starchy rootcrop which is boiled and often served cold and sliced like bread with dinner.

Dalo leaves: The young leaves (look for ones with green stems) taste like spinach when cooked—unlike the green leafy stuff that the locals call spinach… It has to be well cooked though. Our two favourite dishes are rourou and palusami.

Tavikoa (tapioka or cassava): Also a rootcrop with a bland taste that's lot starchier than dalo. You get given huge piles of this stuff—it does grate up nicely and works well in desserts.

Miti: Thick coconut cream combined with onions, chillies, lemon juice, salt and pepper. We have a coconut grater and have learned to make our own cream. Maia can make enough cream for dinner from one coconut in about 20 minutes.

Yams: We’ve been getting yams and sweet potatoes that look like the ones from home (orange, red and white) as well as giant real yams which are very gooey to work with but really tasty.

Rourou

1 litre water

15 mls baking soda

20 young taro leaves (washed stems removed and chopped up)

Coconut oil

1 chopped onion

5 cloves garlic

2 cups coconut cream

Salt and pepper to taste

Add taro leaves to boiling water with soda and cook for 10 minutes with the lid on.

Drain and set aside.

Heat the oil and fry the onion for one minute add garlic and chilies if you like.

Add the taro back in and sauté 5 minutes

Add the cream and bring to a boil (the leaves should be nearly dissolved)

Serve on rice

Palusami

Stuffed Leaves:

Wash and stack 3-4 leaves for each bundle. Cook 2 diced onions in oil until tender. Add meat (the locals use corned beef or fish but we’re trying to use up our tinned beef and chicken), garlic, lemon and a cup or two of coconut cream. Put the mixture on your leaves and fold into a bundle then wrap with tinfoil. Bake 45 minutes at 350 degrees.

Casserole:

Line the bottom of a pan with 1/3 your taro leaves. Cook up your mixture. Pour ½ the mixture over the leaves, and top with the next 1/3 and repeat. Cover pan tightly with foil and bake at 350 degrees for 30 to 60 minutes.

Treasure

2011-09-04T07:04:00.000+12:00

I’ve always thought birthdays should be just a little bit magical. Not in the excessive overly consumptive way that we’ve become used to in North America—but in a simpler, more profound way. One that leaves you feeling encircled by a special type of love: the kind that lets you know there is a group of people who are really happy you came along and who really enjoy who you are.

Maia doesn’t turn ten for a couple more days—but our dear friends, Mark and Val needed to head back to California before the day itself. So we decided to declare her birthday week underway and yesterday was the day that we let Maia know how much joy she’s brought to our lives.

Mark and Val are the kind of friends that make life rich and wondrous. We met them in Turtle Bay, Mexico in January of 1996 and from a spontaneous dinner invitation, which led to a long night of imbibing, a friendship grew. We’ve seen each other through boat building and baby birthing, the loss of parents, and changes in homes and careers. We’ve also been on dozens of trips together—and seen amazing and beautiful things (and drank a bunch).

But for Maia, who’s memories don’t stretch all the way back to the miss-spent years, M + V are like the super fun auntie and uncle who always offer the coolest ideas and the best stuff to do (Val is a zoo curator—which means Maia has had more than a few really cool animal encounters) and having them here for her birthday made her incredibly happy.

I, however, am not like a super fun aunt and uncle. And although I think birthdays should be awesome, I actually didn’t plan anything for Maia’s. In fact when I checked for supplies I realized that not only did I not have enough flour to make a cake, or candles to put on it, but I discovered my icing sugar had bugs in it and we are miles, and miles, from anywhere. I also realized we didn’t have any spaghetti noodles left, which is what she asked for, for her birthday dinner.

With my ‘mother of the year’ award clearly out the window I decided the best way to redeem the day would be to find a nice dive site where our little novice diver could swim with some fishes. So Mark and I headed off in the dinghy looking for a site with a) cool stuff and b) that was close enough that five people and gear could get there without being swamped by a stiff breeze and chop.

As we explored a reef we noticed a cave in the cliff-face and after exploring the cave we hatched a plan. With the dinghy loaded with us and our gear we headed out. While underway Maia was shocked and enthralled to see a bottle bob by. Insisting we fish it out she discovered the bottle contained a message: a ragged chart and a cryptic note about a hidden treasure. She followed the chart--navigating us through dangerous shoals, and over ancient fish traps, past three coves to a cave in the cliff face. Scrambling from the dinghy she headed into the cave where she found a treasure—her birthday gifts.

Then she dove to 30 feet, then went skurfing on her surf board, and hung out and giggled the day away.

Her dinner—pasta (not spaghetti but close enough) followed by cake (well, brownies from a mix but decorated with a diver in bug-free icing--a sifter is a beautiful thing--and two candles)—was lovely. And the movie that followed (of course I couldn’t find the one she requested—but an old James Bond was fine…) rounded out her day.

My little girl is loved—deeply loved—for who she is. And as she celebrates turning ten, I’m quietly celebrating another event: the moment I became a mother.

I might not always do it right—but somehow it’s still magical.

Giving Sevusevu and Drinking Kava With Hot Rugby Players

2011-09-01T17:16:00.000+12:00

Sailing in Fiji is an adventure. The reefs are not as well charted, or marked, as we might like and the guide books are either old or out of date, or focused on just a tiny portion of this vast country. When S/V Quest recently went up on the reef near Savu Savu—everyone remarked that the fact the lighthouse light had burnt out some time ago must have been a factor. A factor that everyone in town was aware of but that hadn't made it out into general maritime knowledge.

But in the sunshine and in a trade wind breeze winding through Fiji's coral reefs is a lovely way to spend the day—we see dolphins and turtles, the fishermen smile and wave and the water is blue and inviting. And at the end of the day—and usually not that long of one—there is a quiet anchorage to pull into.

Yesterday it was the anchorage off of Nabouwala village.

“Do you think this is a sevusevu village?” Was the question we had when we arrived and gazed at the sprawling village on shore. Giving sevusevu is the traditional custom of requesting permission to enter a village, or anchor in its waters. It has died out in some villages and has been replaced with an anchoring fee, while in others the tradition is strictly adhered to. Not giving sevusevu, basically not showing respect, can lead to bad things: Like being bitten by a shark—according to the gruesomely specific example we were given.

Not wanting to get intimate with the sharp end of a shark we decided to error on the side on good manners and decked ourselves out in appropriate duds (sulas and bula shirts for the boys, long skirts and covered shoulders for the women) and gathered up our big bouquet of kava root and headed ashore. Then we walked down the village pier, feeling faintly silly as we asked how to find the turaga-ni-koro—or chief.

When you ask a Fijian for directions it seems you obligate them to get you to where you are going. And in what felt like a game of 'pass the parcel' we were walked down dusty roads, past tin shacks, subsistence gardens, and impromptu games of rugby and were passed from one person to the next, each increasing up in rank until Waisea, the headman, claimed us as his responsibility and walked us up a steep hill to an ancient marae-like site where the chief's mataqali lived (extended family). He finally told us that yes, we were in a traditional village and the chief—an elderly woman of 97 would receive our sevusevu. But first he needed to don his own sula and give notice to the chief’s family so they could prepare her for our visit.

Waisea tutored us on the protocol of giving sevusevu, but as he tried to teach Evan the long string of Fijian he needed say to make our offering it was decided that Waisea should probably say it for us. So we called the traditional greeting outside the chief's bure (instead of knocking) and slipped off our shoes and entered when we heard the response.

Andisolmbe is one of the few female chiefs in Fiji and she's thought to be the oldest. Her territory includes not only the village itself but several off-lying islands. Despite her age she seemed delighted by our visit and she smiled happily through the long ceremony—where our story was repeated around the circle--and we clapped on cue and tried to say the right things in the right moments. Despite making a few errors here and there, our kava was accepted and we were welcomed into the village. We were now brothers and sisters and Maia was a daughter.

After taking a few photos of our new family we were invited to return in the evening for tea with the chief's family and the kava with Waisea. Invitations that trumped our plan to spend the evening bar-b-queing and playing board games aboard...

Our first—more formal visit—was with Lute and Wati, the chief's nephew and wife. They gave us a lemon tea and a pancake-like pastry and as we ate they peppered us with questions—asking our ages, how much the boat cost, how people spend the evenings in Canada, what snow feels like…

Then Waisea took us to another bure (home) for a bowl of grog (kava). I'd heard a lot about Kava—that it tastes like dishwater, or a slightly peppery mud puddle. To me though it tasted like yerba mate—but perhaps the fact the room was filled with rather attractive rugby players who were busy explaining the benefits of kava (all natural, not side effects, only a little hangover which can quickly be solved by a swim and more kava—all said with charming smiles) distracted me and made the kava seem more likable.

We drank four bowls each—which seemed to worry our friendly new brothers. They checked after each bowl that we were still doing well (I noticed my tongue was numb and each story seemed to get funnier) but we told them we didn't seem to be feeling much effect. But eventually, as Maia snuggled against me and her eyes began to close, we decided it was time to head back to the boat.

We were presented with gifts of kava to take home--part of the sevusevu that a visiting rugby team had presented to our host during our visit—and a plate of food. And then we wished our family a goodnight.

And sailed off.

Namena Island

2011-09-01T08:13:00.000+12:00

Diving daughter

Namena Island (Namenalala I in Michael Calder's guide) is a marine preserve and private island. For the annual fee of $25 FJ/ person you are allowed to dive/snorkel and swim here. Because it's a private island and resort there is an additional $50 fee for landing here. We are big believers in marine reserves, and somebody has to pay the park wardens who keep the fisherman away. Our understanding is that the fees also compensate the Fijian villagers who lost their fishing rights in the area. While the fee is a bit high for a one night visit, the snorkeling and diving was quite good. (OK we paid for 3 tags for our 5 persons aboard).
We anchored on the NW end of the island, in mostly sand/some coral heads 35'. There is 1 mooring buoy that was also available for bigger sailboats and a smaller buoy closer to the island reef that the park guard said was too small for sailboats. The reef 2 miles to windward didn't do a great job of knocking the seas down, but it was windy so most of the chop came from wind waves within the lagoon. The wind was from the E but in a SE it would be more protected. There is room for about 4 boats or so.

Our waypoint (WGS84) for the North Save a Tack passage was 17d 03.6' 179d 06.4'. The pass is not like a Tuamotos pass - it's easily a mile wide so you don't see the reef to the north of the pass, just the south reef. Neither beacon was visible. It was an easy entrance with no appreciable current. There is a visible 4 fathom patch in the pass which might break in rough seas, but I wouldn't had this way in strong winds either.
From here we will head through South Save a Tack Passage to Nandi Passage to Nambouwalu village to the west.
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Turning Ten and SCUBA

2011-08-30T07:37:00.000+12:00

Maia has been a cruising kid for just over two years now (well, at least of the years she can recall...). In that time she's sailed over 10,000 miles, visited seven countries, learned a smattering of several languages, started the ukelele, made friends with kids from hundreds of different towns and many different back grounds. She's hiked through varied terrains and shopped in stores where she could barely identify things. She's swum with five types of sharks, stingrays, manta rays, sea lions and dolphins. She's been in storms and watched sunrises that made her gasp in awe.

And she's grown-up.

In a few days she'll be ten. And compared to the seven year-old who only wanted to learn to drive the dinghy and maybe paddle her kayak as far as the boat next door--she's a very different person. She's wise and calm, hard working and helpful. And for her tenth birthday she wanted to learn to dive.

During the past few months she worked through the PADI manual (I think she memorized it...) and learned all she could about diving. Then our friends Mark and Val brought her a Maia-sized rig and yesterday she did her first dive.

Bula! From Fiji

2011-08-26T10:26:00.000+12:00

I already have learned more Figian than I learned Marquesan, Tahitian or Tongan. The reason is you can not pass a person or enter a store without someone greeting you and striking up conversation. And though everyone speaks English to a degree--everyone seems to take pleasure in teaching a few words of Fijian.


everyone in their party dresses...

It hasn't taken long to discover why Fiji has been a favourite stop with so many of our friends. This is easily the friendliest place we've ever been--and not only is there a diversity of veggies to be had, we're back to near-Mexico prices. Good-bye $4 carrots.

Our arrival timing turned out perfect. After we pulled in and got our moring the wind rose and rose. Rather than fighting through it we wandered the streets and admired tapas and tomatoes, baskets and bokchoy. The next day our friends arrived and while it stormed we wandered through town and then caught up with them.

While we've waited for the wind to drop we've visited waterfalls and sugarcane fields and eaten a Fijian feast. They guys got their sulas and today we'll buy our gifts of Kava so we can visit outer villages. We're in Fiji man!!

**The only thing marring our lovely time is a sailboat called Quest was lost on the reef outside Savu Savu last eveing. We don't know the boat but listening to their mayday unfold was sobering and heartbreaking.

On a Wing and a Prayer--into Fiji

2011-08-23T10:28:00.000+12:00

There are three of us closing on Savu Savu this morning (with 25 knots from astern) and between us we are down a rudder, an engine, a lower shroud, a wind generator and a solar panel.
Mamalu, who we've been with since Aitutaki, is in one piece. But Java (with Evan and Donna aboard) who we've known since our early Mexico days has taken the big hit. His cat lost a rudder, and an engine and then the wind generator toppled and took out a solar panel.
Which leaves the lower shroud, and us.
We were making great way under a full main and spinnaker when I heard a big crack and smelled a struck-match smell. Before the shroud landed on deck I knew what it was and we were out on deck--changing tacks, dropping the main, pulling in the spinnaker. We lost the same shroud we did 18 months ago--but this time (maybe because we we're completely rerigged or because the wind was lighter) the mast didn't start pumping and we never feared losing the rest of the rig.

It took Evan about 15 minutes to juryrig a spectra shroud--the practice from our last loss paid off. Within an half hour we were back underway under a full genoa and no main. Fortunately the wind has stayed from behind and we've kept the strain off the lower shrouds. We're curious and concerned that we've lost another shroud (the rod sheered through at the mast fitting)--especially because we switched to rod rigging to deal with the high fatigue loads these short shrouds experience.

This morning the three boats are a few miles apart and are in constant radio contact. Java is having trouble steering and is worried about rounding the point into the channel--a tricky maneuver in our current conditions. We're confident our mast will hold but Mamalu is standing by to assist either of us, should we need it.

Meanwhile we heard our friends on Connect 4 are in terrible weather on their way to Tonga. They've just blown out their main sail and their eta is several days off--with several more days of bad weather ahead. It seems unfair--they were due to get underway several days before they did but they delayed their departure to assist when Ri-Ri went up on the reef at Palmerston. It's not clear what happened (Connect 4 was the only other boat there) but sometime during the night Ri-Ri broke off their mooring or anchor and was lost on the reef--Henry and ? were okay and Connect 4 and the villagers did all they could to salvage their things, but the boat was lost.

Each safe landfall is a gift.
S 16 59
East 179 30
We've gone so far west, we are now in the east.

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Are We There Yet? Passage to Fiji

2011-08-21T08:15:00.000+12:00

We're underway to Fiji. The wind is light and slightly ahead of the beam and we're making 5.5 knots. The thing is we want to be making closer to 7 knots in the hope of outrunning a system that is due to hit and build during our last night and final day out. We want to get in early in the morning before things get really ugly--so the faster we go now, the less exposure we get at the end... So we're experimenting: putting up the staysail only offered up .5 knots, so now Ev is rigging the spinnaker. Flying a big kite will make us much faster, but it'll be tricky to carry when we're pointing this high upwind. It will need constant trimming and I'm on watch.

It might strike you that I write about being at sea as much as I write about the places we see. This is because we spend a lot of time sailing. During the past 4+ months since we left Mexico we're spent more than 40 days and nights at sea. We really are 'sailing' across the South Pacific. We spend more time sailing than we do in any one place. And when we are parked in a place much of our time is spent watching the weather--trying to plan how to get from A to B between systems. And during this section of the passage we've been strategising two or three stops ahead; contemplating highs and lows, systems and sheerlines and their speed and direction of movement with the same intense focus some people apply to sports and that I usually reserve for politics...

The rhythm of passages is coming more naturally now. I fall asleep as soon as I get off watch and spend my on watch hours reading, doing chores, listening to podcasts or contemplating the vastness of the ocean. It really is big. Having only short breaks between long passages seems to make the passages more enjoyable. I'm not sure I've ever recaptured the intense awe of our Pacific Crossing, but I've been enjoying the days and nights at sea the way I enjoy a leisurely Sunday afternoon. When it's pleasant that is, when it sucks, it sucks. And I want off the boat.

Weather willing we'll be in Fiji on Monday.

position
S 18 20
W 175 31
Distance to Savu Savu 325 miles

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Tonga Time

2011-08-19T15:16:00.000+12:00

Tonga is lovely—we can see why people enjoy cruising here and why the charter fleet is so busy. The Vava'u Group—where we are is made up of dozens of islands which are protected by reefs. You can spend an entire visit moving from anchorage to anchorage (most are only a few miles apart) and never venture into the open ocean.

It's all rather tame.

Tame is nice though and we've been shifting anchorages as the whim hits—pulling up beside tiny white sand beaches, lush jungles and rugged reefs. We've visited caves, dinghied within meters of a mama whale and her calf (humpbacks come to Tonga from Antarctica during the winter to mate and give birth) and snorkelled in clear water. Evan even rescued a couple of fatigued fishermen who were separated from their boat while snorkelling for sea cucumbers.

Most of what we've seen, and where we've dropped the hook, has been planned by Maia. Like most cruising kids she schools year round. While we aren't using a formal curriculum we are keeping track of what is covered in her grade (she thought it was rather cool that while some kids study the early navigators in books, she's actually anchored in the same harbours they anchored in and has been greeted by the decedents of the people who greeted those early explores).

For the most part Maia's education comes from delving into the culture, history and environment of the country we're visiting. She's discovered that there are 171 islands in Tonga and that 91% of the 100,000 inhabitants are Christian. But she also learned that there is a rich mythology here—and Tongans believe that the islands were fished out of the sea by Maui, one of their demigods.

The coolest part of her learning is how relevant she finds it—frequently one of us (or a cruising friend) will ponder a detail about the place we're visiting and Maia will have encountered the answer in her studies and be able to fill everyone in.

Today's lesson is going to be beachcombing—followed by a swim and maybe some ukulele as the sun goes down.

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Moments in Tonga

2011-08-19T11:11:00.000+12:00

Maia at the beach

Mama whale and babe