The Voyage of Yacht Zulu

Yadua, North Coast of Vanua Levu, Fiji

2011-04-18T18:58:00.000-07:00

August 19, 2010

Cukuvou Harbour—Lat. 16 degrees.48’ S and Long. 178 degres.17E

We make a two-day journey out of it—from Savusavu along the north coast of Vanua Levu to Cukuvou harbour on the west coast of the island of Yadua.

We thread our way through the narrow Nananu passage, looking for sticks that mark the reefs, watching depth, looking at the various water colour. That in itself is a guide. One stop for the night, then continue on for Yadua. We pass Yadua Taba, a small island at the south-west corner, which is a sanctuary for the protected Green Crested Iguana.

Yachts are no longer allowed at Yadua, because some careless sailor stole Green Crested Iguana eggs from the sanctuary. One bad apple is all it takes for the rest to suffer. A warden form the village of Denimanu protects the sanctuary.

Into Cukuvou bay we sail having hooked a beautiful Mahi Mahi, a Big Eye Tuna, and half a tuna—the other half of which we shared with a shark. There is the sweet little red boat, Kalisto: our friends are already at anchor. We hail them to come for a sundowner and fish dinner.

Barely on board, with the sun setting fast, a small fishing boat pulls up to Zulu in the shadows and a tall Fijian and a small boy hop on board from the stern steps without being invited. Smooth landing! An aggressive move. We are surprised and all somewhat inhibited by the size of this man towering above us. We put on timid, but brave smiles. Bula!

“Do you have some cigarettes for me?” he asks with little formality, going straight to the point. Russ looks up at him like a petunia in the shade of a redwood.

“No, we don’t have any cigarettes on board.” Russ has a shot at diplomacy while standing his ground. The rest of us are nervous. We’re not really supposed to be there. But the permits are all in Fijian and we don’t read Fijian. Wink.

“Do you have a knife I can borrow?” he demanded rather than requested. “I forgot my fishing knife at the village.” Yes, sure. You are out fishing and forgot your fishing knife? I could see Russ’ thoughts turning.

“Sure, just a minute.” Russ obliges. Not the right time to argue that you don’t really like lending your knives out to strangers. He goes down to the engine room in search of his Made- in-China knife that can’t even cut butter, but could not find it. So gave up the second best thing, his Made-in- Mexico knife.

Amazing how quickly the shadows lengthen when faced with a demand for a knife. The whites of the dark, tall “fisherman’s” eyes are all we now seem to see as he turns to disembark with the boy. Two silhouettes vanish as quickly as they appeared.

Phew! Welcome to Yadua.

It is time to go below and open some wine and get that fish on the grill. Lighten up. The moon is rising and waxing too.

“Gary off Kalisto thinks it was his sweet, innocent children that saved our tails.” Got to laugh. They now laugh too. And we clink our glasses happy to still be alive.

We enjoy the fresh catch and after salty-dog sailor talk of escaping the cannibals, we say our ‘good-nights’ and look forward to a good night’s rest, safe at last we hope in this picturesque bay. Tomorrow the sun will shine down on us.

A Mahi Mahi is on the hook en route to Yadua Island. Poor fish!

Got it! What a beauty. But sad it has to die for a sailor’s supper.

Morning arrives all too soon. Fresh coffee ground. Pour the hot water over the grounds and add hot milk and sprinkle cinnamon and nutmeg on the top for me--my treat from Russ in my bunk. I sip it slowly enjoying the taste and warmth, and peak through the porthole at the shimmering blue waters.

I don’t think we are going to hike the 3 hours across the island to Denimanu village to present the chief with kava. Who knows, that might have been the chief himself who boarded us last night. Rather doubt that. But we will keep a low profile. Go for a hike with the kiddies off Kalisto.

The white beach fringed with palms call out to us. What? Another fishing boat approaches us. But this time it is three smiling Indo-Fijians. Not so tall. Yay! They have a red snapper in their hands and offer it to us as a gift. They want to see the boat, but Russ says his wife is busy below.

So in exchange for the fish, which we need like a hole in the head, he extrapolates some juice and Indian snacks from the larder for them. Then further wards them off by asking if he can see their boat rather. They are happy enough for the trade and oblige.

The long white strip of beach in Cukuvou bay, ringed by palms against a dry, scrubby backdrop on Yadua Island.

The sea cliffs we climbed to see the bay on the other side that is sanctuary to the Green Crested Iguanas.

Morning light through the palms.

Friendly Indo-Fijian fishermen want to see our boat. They exchange a fish for some cold drink and snacks from us.

The Indian fishermen leave. It is time for us to lock the boat and do the disappearing act. We give the snapper to Kalisto and take their sweet heart children—Zeke and Nina—with us on a hike up the sea cliffs to see the view from atop.

What a view! Below in the calm and protected bay are our sailing vessels at anchor: Zulu and Kalisto. The beauty is all ours for the taking. On the other side is the bay that is the sanctuary for the Green Crested Iguanos. We drink in all that surrounds us.

Then down the sea cliffs we go to the dinghy and cross to the beach on the other side. We’ll climb up there for a view of the waters beyond. There is a big tree that seems to mark an easy way up. So we make for it.

Zulu and Kalisto are the only two boats anchored in Cukuvou bay, Yadua Island.

Zeke and Nina, off Kalisto are our hiking buddies.

Nina scales a boulder for yet another one of my snap shots.

Russ and Zeke look across the bay to our boats at anchor.

Let us climb down these sea cliffs and dinghy on to the other side. We’ll climb up to see the view from there. A big tree seems to mark an easy way up.

Zeke and Nina start up a loose sand gravel drop off. It seems Nina might be stuck in a precarious place. So Russ bolts up in front of me to help her. In doing so, he dislodges a bolder the size of a soccer ball.

I am hanging onto a tree branch with one hand waiting to make my way up, when I see the airborne boulder heading straight for me. I thought I put the back of my hand out—out of instinct--to protect the rock from hitting my head. But Nina said the rock hit my hand while I held on to the tree.

Whatever happened, I felt the hit. It was bone splitting. I heard it. I look down at my hand in shock and see it pulsate and swell up in slow motion and the pain stabs at me and the blood pours out from the gash where the rock hit. All a bit dramatic.

How I got down to the beach, I do not know. But I bent over and hung my hand down so the blood dripped onto the yellow sand. Owwww owwww owww. My hand is broken! Yes, I do not suffer in silence.

Zeke could not stand to look. I need help. What to do? In the distance I see a person walking along the beach. He is waving. This beach had been deserted all day. Where did he come from? I went up to him and said I needed help and showed him my hand.

He was gentle-looking and had a white bandana around his forehead with red Japanese characters, and was carrying a Blackberry. His name was Lepani Davetanivalu.

“I am the village nurse.” He said. How on earth did he appear out of the blue? Was he an angel?

“I will cut you a splint from a tree.” He continued.

“No, no, please come to the boat. I have a medical kit on board.” I urged.
Wringing my hand and hopping from one foot to the other like a Kangaroo.

We dropped Nina and Zeke off at Kalisto and I howled on about how I broke my hand to Gary and Vicky, who looked at me with vague incomprehension. On we zoomed to Zulu.

I got the medical kit out: gloves, bandages, antiseptic, Neosporin ointment, pain pills. Lepani went to work—gloves on-- cleaning the wound and directing Russ to cut a splint a certain size.

Russ not having nursing skills or attributes, stuck to getting his Japanese saw out and hung out in the engine room sawing a piece of wood to size post haste. He came up on deck just after the Neosporin was on and the pain pill swallowed.

Lepani then bandaged my hand with splint properly placed and put my sundowner ice in a plastic bag with instruction to keep my hand elevated and on ice.

While he worked on my hand, he wanted to know if we could charge his Blackberry and if we had some music we could download onto his iPod. We could not help with the latter, but Russ plugged his Blackberry in to the boat battery and said he could pick it up in the morning.

With the hand wrapped on ice and the pain pill kicking in, Russ asked how it was that he was on this deserted beach.

“I just delivered a baby in the village last night. And a group of the family came over with me to Cukuvou bay to fish so that we can have a celebration tomorrow to honor the birth of the baby.”

“We will fish in the bay tonight, sleep on palm mats on the beach, and return to the village in the morning.” He said.

“I will come again in the morning to follow up before we leave. You have a fractured hand. Can I have these gloves? They are good quality and I can use them at the village.”

“Of course you can have the gloves.” I say.

Lepani has been the village nurse—with a lot of responsibility--for the past 5 years. He used to nurse at the hospital in Suva before he was directed to come here. He hopes they have not forgotten about him, because he would like to make a change. In the same sense, he will miss the people so.

“I will just leave in the night.” He said.

I gave him some money—equivalent to US$15, which he said was way too much. But I insisted. Then lay down and went to sleep with the water from the melting ice trickling down my hand. I felt calm, having had some kind stranger emerge out of the blue to care for me.

Lepani Davetanivalu smiles as he gently places my hand in his. He is the nurse or angel who emerged on the otherwise deserted beach to take care of my broken hand.

The next morning Russ went to fetch Lepani from the beach. He brought Vani Lalo, the sister of the women whose baby he delivered, and two of the village boys—Wame Duluvesi and Josua Muakula. They had wondered what he was doing on our boat. So they came along to see for themselves.

He donned new gloves with a glint in his eye, unwrapped the bandage, cleaned the wound, applied more Neosporin, re-bandaged my hand putting the splint in place and ice on the top. He told me to keep it stable for two-to-three days and, thereafter, start exercising my fingers and see a doctor in Suva.

“Can I have these gloves?” he asked again.

I brought out some juice and cookies, which they virtually inhaled. But they thoughtfully kept some to share with a five others ashore.

And then they left, waving goodbye. And soon the beach was again deserted as they made their way out of the bay for the half-hour journey to the village, carrying the fish they had caught to celebrate a new life.

Wame Duluvesi and Josua Muakula on board Zulu . They came to see what Lepani was doing for me.

Vani Lalo is the sister whose baby Lepani delivered. They are on board Zulu to follow up on my broken hand and enjoy some refreshment.

The little group of Yaduan islanders depart Zulu for their village after taking care of me.

That night I slept tight and awoke to what I thought was a bird. But it was the air horn from Kalisto. It was 4:00 AM in the morning and they circled our boat to say farewell. They were leaving by the light of the moon in order to cover the miles necessary for reaching the Yassawa island group beyond.

Now we are all alone. Soon the putt-putt-putt of Kalisto’s single stroke engine can not be heard. All that is left is a deep silence--an emptiness--and the light on the water spills from the moon.

The fresh ice pack is melting, and I can feel the cool water trickling down my arm. Medication masks the throbbing pain. Slowly I lay back down to sleep and tumble into what seems to be the center of a Yadua island dream.

Light on the water spills from the moon in the early hours of the morning. All is quiet and I tumble into what seems to be the center of a Yadua island dream.

The Worst Journey in the World

2011-04-18T18:47:00.000-07:00

Extract from this amazing book Bob Goddess leant us and which I highly recommend

Antarctic 1910-1913
By Apsley Cherry-Garrard

At 24 years of age, he was the youngest member of the expedition to discover the Antarctic.

I quote from Cherry’s book--

“Exploration is the physical expression of the Intellectual Passion.

And I tell you, if you have the desire for knowledge and the power to give it physical expression, go out and explore. If you are a brave man you will do nothing: if you are fearful you may do much, for none but cowards have need to prove their bravery. Some will tell you that you are mad, and nearly all will say, ‘What is the use?’ For we are a nation of shopkeepers, and no shopkeepers will look at research which does not promise him a financial return within a year. And so you will sledge nearly alone, but those with whom you sledge will not be shopkeepers: that is worth a good deal. If you march your Winter Journeys you will have your reward, so long as all you want is a penguin’s egg.”

This is how Cherry ended his book—a moving and tragic and beautifully sensitive account of R.F Scott’s British expedition to the Antarctic.
Scott’s goal was more than to be the first to reach the South Pole. It was also to discover—through science-- as much as possible about the area and habitat, and to bring this back to England.

Roald Amundsen--the Norwegian explorer-- had intended to go north, however turned around and left Scott a message saying that he would meet him in the South. For Amundsen this was to be a race. And he succeeded to beat Scott to the Pole by one month. He reached the Pole December 16, 1912. Scott reached the Pole around January 17, 1913.

Amundsen was successful, not only because of extraordinary qualities, but because he took a risk and a chance. He risked that the Bay of Whales would be as good or better a place to start than from Ross Island, in McMurdo Sound (Scott’s start point). And he chanced on a route through the mountains from the Barrier plateau other than the one that Scott and Shackleton had previously established, and he used dogs to pull his loads all the way.

All five men on Scott’s Polar Party died on the return from the Pole: Seaman Edgar Evans—the strongest of them all--died first at the foot of the Beardmore Glacier just below the Lower Glacier Depot. Captain L.E.G. Oates—32 years old--was next. He died two-thirds of the way from Upper Glacier Depot to One Ton Depot, walking out of the tent to his death in a blizzard so the others could be saved. Dr. E.A. Wilson and Lieut H.R. Bowers—39 and 28 years old, respectively--died within a short time of each other in the tent 11 miles from One Ton Depot. Scott—43 years old--died last in the same tent, not long after the others it is assumed.

These are the Long-Lats of the Depots--after leaving the Pole--and location of the Polar Party member’s deaths (One Ton depot is furthest from the Pole):

One Ton (79 Degrees.29’) Wilson, Bowers, and Scott died 11 miles south of One Ton depot, i.e., before reaching the depot.
Upper Barrier or Mount Hooper (80 Degrees.32’) Oates died 2/3rds the way from Upper Barrier to One Ton depot.
Middle Barrier (81 Degrees.35’)
Lower Barrier (82 Degrees.47’)
Shambles Camp (N. of Gateway)
Lower Glacier (S. of Gateway) (Seaman Evans died just south of here on Beardmore Glacier).
Middle Glacier (Cloudmaker)
Upper Glacier (Mt. Darwin)
Three Degree (86 Degrees.56’)
1 ½ Degree (88 Degrees.29’)
Last Depot (89 Degrees.32’)
South Pole

It is presumed they died from the severe cold and virtual starvation. The weather was unusually brutal for the March season—up to -47 degrees Fahr-- and the hard Barrier surface took a toll on the sledge runners they were man hauling; Evans, Oates and Bowers were extremely frost bitten; oil supply at Upper Barrier Depot was short (for unknown reasons) resulting in insufficient fuel for cooking and heating; and although they were on just-about full rations, food requirement at those temperatures was insufficient for the amount of energy they were exerting. It consisted of mainly biscuits, pemmican, butter, cocoa, sugar, and tea: 34.43 ounces daily per man.

Unlike Amundsen, Scott did not use dogs to haul his load all the way: rather he used mules and dogs and then man-hauled sledges on skis. He also had planned for a 4-man polar party having a 4-man tent , cooking supplies for 4, and 4 pairs of skis. But at the last minute he decided to include Seaman Evans, the strongest man in the expedition. This decision added to the suffering and demise of all. One man always had to walk pulling—and this for way over two months.

With three people left in the tent now on March 21, 1913--and too weak to haul the sledge in the cold--Wilson and Bowers were going to walk the 11 miles to One Ton Depot for rations. But a nine-day blizzard kept all three in the tent. They died by March 29.

From Cherry’s diary:

“Bill especially had died very quietly with his hands folded over his chest. Birdie (Bowers) also quietly. Oates’ death was a very fine one.’

I continue from Cherry’s chapter on The Search Journey and having found them:

“That scene can never leave my memory. We with the dogs had seen Wright turn away from the course by himself and the mule party swerve right-handed ahead of us. He had seen what he thought was a cairn, and then something looking black by its side. A vague kind of wonder gradually gave way to a real alarm. We came up to them all halted. Wright came across to us. ‘It is the tent.’ I do not know how he knew. Just a waste of snow: to our right the remains of one of last year’s cairns, a mere mound: and then three feet of bamboo sticking quite alone out of the snow and then another mound, of snow, perhaps a trifle more pointed. We walked up to it. I do not think we quite realized—not for very long—but someone reached up to a projection of snow, and brushed it away. The green flap of the ventilator of the tent appeared, and we knew that the door was below.

Two of us entered, through the funnel of the outer tent, and through the bamboos on which was stretched the lining of the inner tent. There was some snow—not much—between the two linings. But inside we could see nothing—the snow had drifted out the light. There was nothing to do but to dig the tent out. Soon we could see the outlines. There were three men here.

Bowers and Wilson were sleeping in their bags. Scott had thrown back the flaps of his bag at the end. His left hand was stretched over Wilson, his lifelong friend. Beneath the head of his bag, between the bag and the floor-cloth, was the green wallet in which he carried his diary. The brown books of diary were inside: and on the floor-cloth were some letters.

Everything was tidy. The tent had been pitched as well as ever, with the door facing down the sastrugi, the bamboos with a good spread, the tent itself taut and ship-shape. There was snow inside the inner lining. There were some loose pannikins from the cooker, the ordinary tent gear, the personal belongings and a few more letters and records—personal and scientific. Near Scott was a lamp formed from a tin and some lamp wick off a finnesko. It had been used to burn the little methylated spirit which remained. I think that Scott had used it to help him to write up to the end. I feel sure that he had died last—and once I had thought that he would not go so far as some of the others. We never realized how strong that man was, mentally and physically, until now.

We sorted out the gear, records, papers, diaries, spare clothing, letters, chronometers, finnesko, socks, a flag. There was even a book which I had lent Bill for the journey—and he had brought it back. Somehow we learnt that Amundsen had been to the Pole, and that they too had been to the Pole, and both items of news seemed to be of no importance whatever. There was a letter there from Amundsen to King Haakon. There were the personal chatty little notes we had left for them on the Beardmore—how much more important to us than all the royal letters in the world.

We dug down the bamboo which had brought us to this place. It led to the sledge, many feet down, and had been rigged there as a mast. And on the sledge were some more odds and ends—a piece of paper from the biscuit box: Bowers’s meteorological log: and the geological specimens, thirty pounds of them, all of the first importance. Drifted over also were the harnesses, ski and ski-sticks.

Hour after hours, so it seemed to me, Atkinson sat in our tent and read. The finder was to read the diary and then it was to be brought home—these were Scott’s instructions written on the cover. But Atkinson said he was only going to read sufficient to know what had happened—and after that they were brought home unopened and unread. When he had the outline we all gathered together and he read to us the Message to the Public, and the account of Oates’s death, which Scott had expressly wished to be known.

We never moved them. We took the bamboos of the tent away, and the tent itself covered them. An over them we built the cairn.

I do not know how long we were there, but when all was finished, and the chapter of Corinthians had been read, it was midnight of same day. The sun was dipping low above the Pole, the Barrier was almost in shadow. And the sky was blazing—sheets and sheets of iridescent clouds. The cairn and Cross stood dark against a glory of burnished gold.” Page 497.

I close this posting with--

Cherry’s selection of quotes at the beginning of Chapter Four LAND and Chapter Nine THE POLAR JOURNEY, respectively.

LAND

Beyond this flood a frozen continent
Lies dark and wilde, beat with perpetual storms
Of whirlwind and dire hail, which on firm land
Thaws not, but gathers heap, and ruin seems
Of ancient pile, all else deep snow and ice….
MILTON, Paradise Lost, II

THE POLAR JOURNEY

Come my friends,
Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

TENNYSON, Ulysses

NOTES:

TENNYSON’S LINE--To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield—was inscribed on a more permanent cross set on a hill before members of Scott’s last Antarctic Expedition left for New Zealand on the ship, the Terra Nova.

OIL SHORTAGE--The reason for a shortage of oil at the depot before where Scott died, is perhaps a result of paraffin creeping or seeping through the bung corks of the tins as they shook around on the sledges en route over rough places to the various depots.

WILSON--Scott’s life-long friend, was instrumental in getting Cherry accepted as a member of the Antarctic expedition.

GLOSSARY for two terms, taken from the book.

“Finnesko are boots made entirely of fur, soles and all.”

“Sastrugi are the furrows or irregularities formed on a snow plain by the wind. They may be a foot or more deep and as hard and as slippery as ice: they may be quite soft: they may appear as great inverted pudding bowls: they may be hard knots covered with soft powdery snow.” Page 599.

Thank you, Bob Goddess, for sharing this amazing story with us, and indirectly a piece of your Antarctic journey. We will return the book some day.

Until then, in our singular fashion, we too will follow our desire for knowledge and strive to give it some brush stroke of physical expression. We will sail beyond the sunset and strive and seek and find and not yield. We will march our own winter journeys to explore and reap reward in small discovery, be it only the colours of a new dawn on a distant shore. Perhaps, too, we will find a penguin's egg.

We wish the same for you.

Marilyn
Yacht Zulu

Taveuni, Fiji—Garden Island.

2011-04-14T20:05:00.000-07:00

August 10, 2010

Bus drive along Vanua Levu’s Hibiscus coast; Ferry ride to Taveuni; Looking back in time; Living in Paradise; Flower arrangements; Massages; Tavoro waterfalls; Home grown music and goodbye song-There’s a Light; Images that I’ll take away.

Taveuni, Fiji—Garden Island.

The heavens have torn open. Torrential rain pours down relentlessly, incessantly. Water is all around me—falling from the skies in sheets and moving under me. Now the wind begins to howl, and the boat rocks gently to and fro. I light a candle. Mediterranean Fig. The waxy fragrance is deep, sweet, and fruity. This takes me back to Taveuni, Fiji, The Garden Island-- long after my visit--and I draw from the sound and scent and motion for words to describe. I am warm inside. And write from the Land of the Long White Cloud—New Zealand, drawing at the strings of memory.

Bus drive along Vanua Levu’s Hibiscus coast

It is 7:00 AM in the small town of Savusavu’s bus terminal. There is the Taveuni bus! We board it bound for the beautiful journey along Vanua Levu’s Hibiscus Highway. The road winds south east along the coast to a ferry landing. Here, we are to take the ferry across the Somosomo Strait east to—I believe—Somosomo on the northwest side of the island of Taveuni. Memory fades. All in all this is about a 4-hr journey.

The bus is about to leave, but Russ pushes the envelope as usual and runs to the small bakery to snag a coconut roll. I ask the driver to wait a minute. He starts pulling out, and just in time Russ gets back on. Some day he will miss the ride!

The driver pulls out into Savusavu traffic, makes a right up the hill, and curves around the point until we see the sea. We go east along the narrow, winding road. We are going to visit Russ’ Bellevue, Washington high school friend, Bob Goddess.

“What is Bob Goddess like?” I ask Russ. “You’ll see.” Russ responds--non-committal as usual.

I muse. Anyone who is a high school friend of Russ’ must be a combination of: anti-authority, liberal, gets into silly trouble, likes girls, not too disciplined in school, well read, intelligent, fearless, frivolous, knows it all, and takes on the world like a bite of an apple. I take this image with me
on the journey, unwrapped.

The bus stops and goes. Stops and goes along the bumpy road, picking up people and letting them off. All along there are peek-a-boo views of the turquoise-blue sea with white waves breaking on the reefs. Palms--windblown in curves—leaning gently. The ubiquitous Hibiscus flowers grace the gardens of the odd resort or picturesque homes painted in blues or pinks. Tropical lianas creep profusely. The sky is baby blue. It is a picture of a Fijian day moving by.

The bus stops again. A young boy in school uniform boards carrying a tiny baby under the arm pits like a bag of corn, little legs dangling in pink leggings, a gooey smile on her face. Chocolate brown eyes gleam bright as buttons.

We move back out on the road. Not far down, the bus stops again. The school boy hands the baby out the bus door to a smiling young woman—arms outstretched.

The bus starts out again. Chug-a-lug and a burst of exhaust fumes, then stops again. A young mother at the side of the road, with a small toddler hanging on her leg, passes a Tupperware of lunch to a passenger at the window. The young woman gets up and walks down the aisle to hand the Tupperware to a school girl. This is networking at its best. Always the people smile and laugh. They smile when they give and smile when they take. They are gentle, quiet spoken, underplayed, trusting.

I lean back and turn my head toward the coast. Always the sea calls and I reach out toward it—smelling the now tame Koro Sea. This time I drink in the perspective from land. I am moving along on wheels through tropical greenery. I smell the land. It is pungent and dank. It has a grounding effect on me. And I am lulled into relaxation as paradise passes by.

The bus slows down. Another is on the side of the road with a flat tire. What else is new in Fiji? All the passengers line the side of the narrow road. Patient. Another bus has reversed up, and the passengers look relieved as they begin to board. We ease by.

Not soon enough we stop at one of the many makeshift food stalls. They usually sell samosas, cake, orange juice that has been decantered into plastic bottles of various forms and sizes. Russ jumps off to get a piece of cake. “Can you get me a samosa?” I call to him out the window. In he gets as the bus rolls to a start, samosa in hand.

It is an Indian savoury about two inches-by-two, wrapped fried dough—like a small present-- with a filling of mostly potatoes and a trace of tuna. A bit greasy and I feel it is in free-fall down my gullet straight to the ankles. That should suffice.

Slow down—there is the bus that picked up the passengers who had disembarked from the first bus because of a flat tire. It now has a flat tire! The passengers are lined up again on the side of the road. Stop! They have to pile onto our bus this time. Pack them in. There aren’t any signs of frustration. Everyone smiles as they squeeze into standing room with boxes and bags. It’s all in the day’s ride. And not too soon we stop again and let them off at some small village.

Ferry ride to Taveuni

We’ve arrived at the Buca Bay ferry landing! The ferry approaches. It looks like a toy boat on the glistening waters. The sun shines in all its glory and slowly the people board. Again I am on the waters, headed for Taveuni, which is east of Savusavu and west of the Nanuku Passage, the main approach to Fiji if coming from the north.

The Taveuni bus has arrived at the Ferry landing in one piece.

This ferry is pulling in to Buca Bay. It looks like a toy boat on the glistening waters.

People choose their seats. One B-type personality Fijian takes up a whole bench and lies down—head on a pillow of crossed arms comfortably propped up by soft red luggage--to watch the action American movie. Nobody seems to mind as they take their places on the side seats. The ceiling is low and Russ crouches in, looking askance at the TV screen. He does not sit down before doing a thorough inspection, then finds a place outside on the deck
of the bow.

Passengers find their seats. One commandeers a whole bench as he stretches out to watch an action movie. Russ crouches below the low ceiling, look askance at the screen.

The Indo-Fijian lady collects tickets, then sits down right in front of the TV screen. She falls asleep and her head lolls back and forth in a jerking motion across the screen area, as if on a long elastic band.

I sit next to a Fijian man, who sports mirrored sunglasses to give that dashing look. It is the first Fijian I have met who has a somewhat disgruntled expression.

“She owns this boat and does not care that the passengers who pay the fare can’t see the show, because she sits in front of the TV and sleeps.”

I had to laugh. I told him I would take a picture of her so she can see herself blocking everyone’s view. Then I took a picture of him too.

“Do you have a sister?” He asked after awhile.

“I laughed, and answered yes. But that she was in Africa.” That stumped him and no further inquiries were made.

I think he was looking for a long ferry ride right completely out of the country. Smile.

Then we laughed some more. And the little toy boat—skippered by the mildest mannered man—made her way through the myriad of reefs and crystal clear waters. I leaned out of the window, across the narrowest of decks and gazed down, holding my breath at the shallow waters and reefs below. Not too long and we eased into deep water. I sat down, sunshine on my shoulders and a light breeze through my hair to drink in the rest of the journey. No sooner and we arrive at Taveuni.

This Fijian passenger was somewhat frustrated by the owner of the ferry who fell asleep in front of the TV, obstructing his view of the action movie.

The mild-mannered skipper guided us through the myriad of reefs in crystal
clear waters.

Looking back in time

“Where is Bob?” I asked Russ. “I don’t know.” Russ said unconcerned.

“Who are you waiting for?” The skipper of the boat asked after everyone had left. “Bob Goddess.” I said.

“I know who he is.” I live up that road. You can go and wait there if you like in the shade.

“There he is.” Russ said with a smile.

Bob parked his car and sauntered over with a big smile, very much at ease with himself. He was tall and--like red wine—full bodied with silver mustache and trimmed beard, and short side hair that engaged a thin plaited pony tail. He wore a carved pendant of a fish.

He cut an image of a world diving consultant that he was—for 37 years and in 54 countries, but also he could have joined Johnny Depp’s ship in Pirates of the Caribbean. All that was missing was the parrot on his shoulder.

Barely the handshake over, and the chaps started talking as if no time had elapsed since their escapades of Bellevue, Washington days. So for the rest of the visit, the home boyz talked on and I took to being an onlooker.

I merged a photo I took of Bob in Taveuni, Fiji (left) with a portrait done of
him years back in New Orleans, USA (right). Looking back to the
future—pirate days personified.

Living in paradise

We drove up to Bob and Tamy’s home—between Naselesele Point and Matei Point-- on the Northeast side of the island. Tamy, Bob’s partner, came up and gave me a welcome smile and kiss. Her manner is understated and intuitive.

We were about to experience living in paradise for three days. The sign said welcome to Marau Vale, which translates to Happy House. Their home epitomizes the South Pacific with a huge dolphin sculpture and tropical flower arrangements to welcome us; walls of tapa cloth, masks, shells necklaces and so many more pieces of art from visits afar.

They usually travel overseas for three or so months during the Fijian cyclone season. Try going to Antarctica on a 26-day cruise? Would I stow away? Affirmative! I’m still reading the book he leant Russ: The Worst Journey in the World by Apsley Cherry-Garrard. Antarctic 1919 to 1913. It chills the bones.

“It is hard for us to decide where to go, because we have been everywhere.” Bob says with a mischievous smile on his face. Such a hard life they have!

We walk through to the huge verandah that looks out over a manicured garden with sculptures made from overturned fern roots adorned with shell necklaces; show stopper Hibiscus, Daisies, and varied-coloured greenery, Date palms and other palms leaning over toward the azure sea. A yellow sand beach below with a ‘tinny’ (dinghy ) beckons as it bobs at a mooring. The islands of Rabi are silhouetted in the distance.

Swim time; shower outside time with a pebble rock wall shoulder high to allow for a ceiling of sun and sky and trees; croquet; sundowners of iced pinja colados under the thatched ‘lapa’ (African name in lieu of not knowing the Fijian name); dinner of steaks, sautéed onions, mashed potatoes and spinach fettuccine for veggie me.

The cherry on the top was Tamy getting the telescope out and zooming in on Saturn’s rings. That moment was golden for me--a trip into the galaxy from ground zero paradise. What a gift to share.

All of this was a starter with never-ending stories of “remember when.” What more could we have asked for from gracious hosts.

The front of Bob and Tamy’s home they call Marau Vale, Happy House. It is
on the Northeast side of Taveuni Island, Fiji and overlooks the azure sea.
The rock wall to the left encloses an outside hot and coldwater shower.

This dolphin greets you as you enter their home, with stunning flower
arrangements to complement.

This shell necklace, I believe from New Guinea or the Solomon islands, is an
eye catcher. I want to get one like this!

Tamy, Bob’s partner, pictured on the verandah of their home.

Shells decorate the coffee table on the veranda.

One of many, many fern root sculptures with shell necklaces that ornament their garden.

Their humble front yard view--Breathtaking!!

Palms criss-cross the vista from their garden. The thatched ‘lapa’ gives shade for relaxation: light meals, sundowners, massages.

A meditation bench. Ohmmmmmm.

The ‘tinny’ (dinghy) bobs at its mooring. The beach calls below. This is where Tamy walks in the morning, sipping her cappuccino. Heaven!

I believe that is the island of Rabi to the left. It, too, calls out to me. Perhaps we will make the journey next year.

Croquet time with Shorty the dog acting as referee.

Boys will be boys! Russ (left) and Bob (right)--friends from Bellevue, Washington high-school days long ago.

Bob took our dinner requests by email before we arrived: steaks ordered from Suva for all but me.

Spinach fettuccini with fresh tomatoes and parmesan cheese for me. Yum!

Flower arrangements

If you could dream of creamy pastels and bright colours of yellow and orange and deep rose on beds of green—flower arrangements that actually make the heart beat faster, that provide a deep sense of breathtaking beauty. That hit you like starburst. That make you double take. That imbue serenity.

And then awake to see them morning after morning. Still, in real life, within reach, and created as if for you alone. I stop every time to envision the creative sense that some heart and mind and hands had for composition. The care that person took to make an arrangement that reflects love:
sublime, moving, calm, quiet is the feeling I get. You get the message, I do love flowers!

Thank you Tavui. Always I carry these with me as unspoken gifts. Galleries of fulfilled moments. Satiated.

Then in the garden I walk alone and capture singular elements for the making of imaginative arrangements—Hibiscus, Daisy, a varied-coloured leaf, and Date palm--beauty unspoken.

Words cannot describe these arrangements, so I share them with you without caption. Drink in the colours and fragrance.

Tavui arranges the flowers for the home and guests amongst other creative tasks. Thank you Tavui!

Massages

“Do you want to have a massage?” Bob asks with a look that tells of satisfaction from experience. “My staff-- Maureen and Tavui --are trained and give massages to guests at the various properties in the area I manage.”

(If you want help from Bob with accommodation or massage try www.fiji-rental-acommodations.com.)

It does not take long for Russ to jump at the offer. His ‘salty dog’ skipper muscles are in need of loosening up.

I am a little more conservative, but agree to saunter down to the ‘lapa’ where the massage tables are set up for an hour each. Maureen will massage my Crocodile Dundee body, and Tavui will massage Russ.

Before we started, I wanted to take a picture of Tavui massaging Russ. He looked up with a smile for the Camera, then quickly jumped to task as Maureen, who oversees him, admonished:

“Concentrate!!”

I had to smile. No picture for now!

The breeze kissed our bodies, and the palm leaves gently rustled, and the magic hands pressed deep into our tight muscles and we both succumbed to the epitome of relaxation until the daylight died.

The crown moment was the outside shower as twilight set in. We sauntered in, in an altered state with Bob to greet us with his knowing look. Yes we enjoyed that!

It is time for dinner. Rockfish in coconut milk?

This is where we got our massage: under the shade of the thatched roof with a gentle breeze kissing our bodies and palm leaves quietly rustling.

Bob’s staff people, Maureen and Tavui, have the magic hands.

Russ on the level, while Tavui starts massaging his legs. Heaven is falling.

The hour is up, twilight lingers, and I capture those beautiful Fijians who bestowed the gift of ultra relaxation—a one-hour massage. Thank you!

Maureen weighs the rock fish she will prepare in coconut milk for dinner.

Tavoro waterfalls

“Why don’t you stay another day.” Bob suggests. “And we go to the three-tier waterfalls of Tavoro in the Bouma parkland.”

Yes, another day in paradise sounds like a turnover. “We’d love to.” We say gleefully without missing a beat.

Drive to the stall at the Airport for samosas--the Indian wraps with filling of potato and a smattering of tuna. Grab some bottles of mango-orange juice and a few pieces of fruit, and hop in the car with water bottles and bathing suits.

In no time at all we arrive. We head up the mowed grass path past a field of Taro plants with big green leaves, over a bridge with a copper-coloured stream meandering through a tropical nirvana, intermittent with the wax-like red flowers of the ginger plant.

We’re at the first-tier falls. It cascades down with narrow force into a green pool on a rocky floor. In I plunge. I cannot wait. The others walk on. There is more to come.

Up, up we go. A vista of palm trees by the hundreds stretches out before us on spindly trunks. The last cyclone has stripped them of coconuts. Papayas, too, were stripped from trees, and fish were impacted by the wild winds and seas pummeling the reefs. It is easy to imagine what forces a cyclone can unleash to damage whatever stands in its way. Heaven forbid I stand in the way some day.

I stop awhile. It is all too beautiful. I take a picture of Tamy with a flower in her hair—‘South Seas Traveler’ embroidered on her cap and heart. We stop to rest on a well-placed bench with a boutique view of the first falls from on high. It plunges almost in slow motion down through a window of tropical greenery to the pool below.

“What the hell! Another photograph?” I imagine Bob thinking from the ‘disdainful’ expression on his face—stick at his side. Although sensitive, I aim my camera and shoot once again. “Does it never end??” I hear him think. “No, it doesn’t. I can’t help myself. Pictures tell the story.” I hear my retort echoing back.

It is all so beautiful: powder blue skies with white puffy trade wind clouds, blue seas, islands in the distance--silhouettes. We cross a river with a natural bridge of slippery boulders. Russ skips ahead, Bob jaunts across holding the rope with stick in hand. Where did Tamy go?

I hear the birds. And stand still to listen awhile. The sign back a way said: The birds of Tavoro. They own this land. How fitting the songs they sing.

It is a bit of a down-hill walk, and then you can hear the water falling: plunging with narrow force down the rock face into another cool, green pool. Russ stands on the boulders to drink it all in at the edge. Again, I don’t count to three before I am in the water--Aquarius child that I am. The cold water on my sun-drenched skin is soooo refreshing. It shocks the senses into utter enjoyment.

Hmmm. Where are Bob and Tamy? There they are at a picnic bench tucked into the shade above the rocks. We join them to savour the samosas and thirst-quenching cool drinks. The appetite is met and thirst quenched.

“I don’t think we will go up to the third-tier falls.” Bob suggests. “They are not all that different from what we have seen.”

With fun in the sun, time has had a way of moving on. So down we go--rewinding the beauty of the journey through the magic of tropical greenery and falling water. And, yes Bob, one more photograph of the home boyz shooting the veritable breeze.

I book-end this memorable day with a green leaf.

Up we start along the mowed lawn path. The beginning of the walk.

A field of Taro leaves, I believe.

A copper-coloured stream meanders through a tropical nirvana.

Tavoro falls.

Red wax-like flowers of the ginger plant dot the dense tropical greenery.

A vista of palm trees by the hundreds stretches out before us on spindly trunks. The last cyclone has stripped them of coconuts.

Tamy with a flower in her hair—‘South Seas Traveler’ embroidered on her cap and heart.

Looking down from on high on the boutique view of the first-tier falls dropping through greenery into the cool pool below.

We stop to rest. “What the hell! Another photograph?” I imagine Bob thinking from the ‘disdainful’ expression on his face—stick at his side. Yes another photograph. Can’t help myself.

Powder blue skies with white puffy trade wind clouds, blue seas, islands in the distance.

Bob jaunts across the stream, holding the rope with stick in hand. Brave heart he is with a sore knee.

How fitting a sign as I stop to listen to the bird song of Tavoro. They do own this land.

Russ stops to look at the second-tier—of three—falls.

Aquarius child that I am, I can’t wait to plunge into the cooling waters.

Back down at the first-tier falls the home boyz shoot the virtual breeze.

I book end this day of beauty with a green leaf.

Home grown music

Bob has a magnanimous spirit about him. Like his father, who raised money to fill a sparse library in Taveuni with books, he supports a small group of island musicians amongst other generosities. He does this by letting them play their music in his garage as often as they like.

He also was instrumental in managing the production of a CD called Sunrise in Paradise, Taveuni Magic. The music was recorded live I believe on the patio of his home.

The inside CD cover says ‘They sing love songs and pray that someday you and all your friends come to visit and experience the magic of Taveuni Island.’

The musicians on this CD are: Waisale Naiqama, Rupeni Tamami, Saiasi Nauta Tukana, Isireli Lawakeli, and Setareki Vaierau. Try to remember these names!

His staff quarters join the garage and on a night of practice, while the music plays, Fijians walk in and out to the staff quarters for water to fill their plastic kava bowls. They sit in a circle on a mat on the floor and play into the early morning hours--all this time drinking bilo (cup)-full upon bilo-full of kava. The effect is mind and tongue numbing, although I have only sipped a cup here and there at major celebratons. Russ has imbibed more, but not enough to describe the feeling.

This night, to show our appreciation, Russ bought FJD$20 of kava—ground from the root—and put in something like separate large tea bags. A little different from the capsules you can get in an American health store for calming the nerves.

Thirty years ago when we visited the Pacific Islands, the men would drink kava all night from a ‘tanoa’—a large wooden bowl carved from a single piece of ‘vesi’ or hardwood. A young maiden was tasked with preparing the drink and serving the men until they were in a state of quiet stupor. They kept on making music through the night until the sun came up. Our Tongan friend, Katalina, said she used to have to do this and was not fond of the role.

Now, in this modern age, the men buy kava powder in these tea-like bags and make it themselves. Instant kava. The maidens have been liberated! Yay! Each one takes a turn at pouring water over the bags and squeezing them until the water looks like it has been taken from a muddy river. Drink on men, and some women too. Smile. Graciously pass the ‘bilo’. No talking. Just listen to the music. And when one gets tired of preparing the Kava they pass the task on to another, who accepts without need for words.

I took a bad video in bad lighting of the drinking circle of song, where Russ joined in with passing the ‘bilo’. I will try to include it. If you don’t find it, know I did not succeed.

The last night in the garage my heart was filled to overflowing. Bob’s third staff member is one of the musicians—sadly I do not recall his name, Isireli? He sang There’s a Light, the Fijian ‘goodbye song’ for Russ and I. This song is often sung in honor of visitors who are about to leave, wishing
that they return to this island in the sun.

Look up the words, if you can, of There’s a Light-- the Fijian ‘goodbye song’. Some fragments are--

“Someday I’ll return to Fiji, to my island in the sun. Once again I’ll return to Taveuni holding hands with my loved one…….dadadadee……..never more will I sail away……the Fiji isles are calling…….and I’m returning home to stay.”

Too bad this photo is so dark. This musician had a voice of an angel.

Images that I’ll take away

I will carry all these images with me of our visit to Taveuni. But the two I will especially keep are--the Bellevue high school friends from long ago deep in conversation, and the sun setting on the calm sea, signifying time passing by. Friendship carved at a young age remains for all time.

The Bellevue, Washington high school friends meeting in Taveuni Island, Fiji.

Sunset high up on a restaurant patio signifying time has passed by.

I’ve also decided the home boyz are both a combination of the unwrapped attributes I mentioned up front. OK I’ll leave a few out like: gets into silly trouble, likes girls, not too disciplined in school.

Definitely they get credit for being well read, intelligent, fearless, frivilous, know it all, and take on the world like a bite of an apple. This is them now wrapped.

It has been a wonderful visit at Mauru Vale—Happy House. Thank you Bob and Tamy, and your staff: Maureen, ‘Tuvui’, and the beautiful gentle man who sang us the parting song, There’s a Light.

Now the rain has stopped, I put my pen down, and blow the candle out. Even though we have sailed so far away from Taveuni, the Fiji isles are calling and soon we’ll return for another magic stay.

Savusavu, Fiji—Hidden Paradise

2011-04-14T19:49:00.000-07:00

August 4, 2010

Savusavu is a haven from the high seas and surrounding reefs--protected and calm with the friendliest people. Everyone smiles. “Don’t worry!” is the term most repeated by Indo Fijians. There is nothing they say they cannot do for you, no matter how you foresee the impossibility. They are determined to find the resource and accomplish the task at hand, even if in the end it does not cut mustard. One has to be forgiving.

It is wonderful to be back again in 2010, and to see fellow sailors we knew in Tonga or New Zealand. Paul and Katie from Zimbabwe and England, respectively, off Intrepid; Avon and Julian from New Zealand off Windborne; Hans and Dory from Holland off Happy Monster; and our favourite Kalisto-ites—Gary, Vicky, Zeke, and Nina from Tasmania.

We’d gather at the yacht club for soothing showers, listen to Hans or local Fijians sing, and have ice cold drinks to quench the thirst as at last the heat of the day cools down. We’d chat with skippers and crew off boats newly arrived from various ports of call. Listen to their stories. Get tips on local anchorages. Find out where they are going next: the Marshall Islands, via Kiribati; Vanuatu; New Caledonia; Australia then to the Mediterranean via the Suez Canal (no fear of pirates); we haven’t a clue; nowhere, we’re staying here—‘salty dogs’, sun-drenched and invigorated for meeting the challenge of crossing oceans to discover land beyond, and for having found time to relax in a safe haven for now.

Savusavu is a no-hurry place, where spur-of-the-moment things happen: meet for a curry dinner after the sun has set; go on a tour of the copra mill, the oil of which is exported for biofuel; take a bus to the big city of LaBassa—very silk and glitter Indian; spend a morning in the rain forest and listen for the blue dove; pile onto another boat to snorkel off the (Jacques) Cousteau Resort where the water is clear and fish abound; or take a few dinghies out to the nearest motu for sunset songs by the Dutchman Hans as we toast the dying day.

We have done just that. Kalisto-ites and the Zulus take a ride with Happy Monster to the point where the Cousteau Resort bungalows nestle in between the swaying palms at $1,500 a night, edged by the ubiquitous yellow sand beach, reef beyond and clear water.

First a lovely lunch below, then once our food has settled it is time to be one with the myriad coloured fish and coral. Splash! We are in our own aquarium sans the glass—free to move about and pique the interest, get wowed by the marine life first hand. So magnificent.

We dry off in the afternoon sunlight. Our bodies are warm inside and out. Lounge around and while the afternoon away. Then embark on our short mini dinghy trip to a small motu beyond for guitar music and salutation to the sunset.

“Chaps I see people on the beach.” I say as we approach the motu with our dinghies. A tall, tanned, and ‘well-healed’ man—should you be able to see his shoes—walks down to the water’s edge with an air of ownership.

“This is a private motu.” he says. “You will have to book a landing here with the resort. We have paid for the day.”

“No problem.” We all respectfully reply in unison with smiles and waves as we maneuver the dinghies away from the shallows.

“We have six or more years to enjoy uninhabited motus.” I say. “We have time.” The ‘well-healed’ man is dumbfounded. “You have six years and I have a day!” he calls back as we motor away.

We anchor a good distance away--two dinghies, with eight people in them. Hans starts strumming the guitar. Dory cuts wedges of watermelon. Vicky prepares some rum drinks. And the sun slowly finds the end of its journey across the skies at the horizon’s edge. The dinghies bob at anchor on velvet waters. A burst of light sends shafts of colour into the skies, and the last song is sung as the day ends.

Such is the sun-kissed time of a day spent in Savusavu, a place known as ‘The Hidden Paradise’.

Dutch Hans sings Knights in White Satin for me at Savusavu Yacht Club. Dory looks on.

I get to know Sally, a local Fijian who is eager to meet a sailor and venture to horizons afar.

Zeke, Nina, Gary, Vicky on Happy Monster with Dory at the wheel headed to the reefs for snorkeling off Cousteau Resort.

Gary and Vicky scan the horizon as we venture out for the day on the sailing vessel Happy Monster.

Motley crew at lunch on Hans and Dory’s boat, Happy Monster, before plunging into the clear waters to become one with the fish.

Zeke and Nina are going off to fetch their friends off Intrepid. What a place to play.

Dinghies are at anchor and Vicky prepares to mix the rum drinks for our toast to the sunset serenade. Their two friends in the middle from Australia, whose names have escaped me, own the sister boat to Kalisto. Theirs is black, and Kalisto is red. They all built their own steel boats! Hats off to them!

Which song is it going to be? Hans scans his repertoire.

A Tall Ship sailor—he works on these in Australia--takes mice bites out of the watermelon wedge. Sweet dimpled cheek. Mischievous.

A burst of light sends shafts of colour into the skies, the last song is sung, and the day ends in this hidden paradise.

Passage from Tonga to Fiji

2011-04-14T19:08:00.000-07:00

August 1, 2010

Zulu News

Hello to each one of you from Zulu riding at night in the Koro Sea, Fiji. It has been awhile since news came to you across the ethereal. I think of each one of you in your own element of life and hope all is well with you. Write back when you can.

This will be short as my tummy and head are in swirl motion. Outside the wind HOWLS and the wind generator sounds like a prop plane flying low over Iceland. It is dark and wet and the moon is under cover, along with my favourite planet Venus. Wet is the word, and so dark. And every now and again a wave crashes hard against the hull or over the house. The sound of water against metal makes a loud boom.

The main is reefed, and with it alone we point dead into the wind to try to stop our forward motion. We cannot make it to Savusavu bay, on the island of Vanua Levu, before nightfall. Submerged Point Reef waits to bite those with poor judgment or a vessel that founders.

All night long we ride into the wind at only 1.6 knots. That is good. And every 10 minutes or so the one on watch pokes a head out to see if there are other boats or ferries or ships in sight. The Koro Sea is wild tonight, even though enclosed by reefs and encircled by islands. I keep my eyes glued to the electronic charts and radar to make sure all is clear around us. It is.

A gray curtain fell on Tonga for the last four days and it was time to leave. I did a last swim in beautiful Port Maurelle searching for a friend's lost scrimshaw. Then out we sailed leaving the last of the images behind: Tongan fishermen sleeping under the trees on the beach of Tapana Island after fishing all night --their clothes hanging on trees to dry in the sun; a young Tongan dancer with waist-length hair and skin oiled and shiny dancing subtle movements at the Vavau Yacht Club before sunset; the sweet Tasmanian family whose two little children came second in the yacht race, racing their sailing dinghy their mother built them; Russ drinking kava with ‘the boys’ at the Aquarium restaurant, my last bite of the Crows Nest’s cinnamon roll; market ladies serenity--their gifts to me because I bought some of their handicrafts; light shining on Hunga as we searched Whale Alley for whales breaching; then slowly all of Tonga slipped away under the horizon like a dream when morning dawns.

A young Tongan girl dances at the Vavau Yacht Club on the last Friday after the yacht race.

The Vavau Yacht Club commodore trying to squeeze a word out of Nina, while Zeke stands by. These two darling children sailed a dinghy their mother built for them and came in 2nd in the whole yacht race.

Russ drinks kava with Tongan musicians the last night in Neiafu.

Running with the wind down 18-ft waves across to Fiji is not fun. Both our stomachs are in our mouths with the S-motion. We virtually fly across the waters, peaking at 12 knots of speed. Russ decides to come in through Lakemba passage at midnight, rather than hove to at sea. But the Koro Sea is big and it holds Zulu for this last night in its boiling cauldron.

The wind howls with fury and Zulu feels like a wild stallion tethered and held back, but jerking to break lose. It is safe and warm below, but being on watch is nerve racking as I have to get out there and watch. It all sounds worse than it is. I can’t wait for the night to end and to safely tie to a mooring in Savusavu by end of day tomorrow.

I smack my head full on, and then become a human-shower hybrid as the motion throws me against the shower nozzle--my back hitting it with such force the metal makes a clean break. I imagine my back impaled, so that I have a permanent shower attached.

Add these two to smacking my thigh into the corner of the solar panel like I was an Olympic medalist. The only medal being a big round bruise with a bulls eye piercing. I feel like I am going to be sick as I write, so must go up on deck to get air in the rain.

Did somebody say we are living the dream sailing the South Pacific? I'm thinking of a cottage by the sea with bubble or perfumed oil baths, books, and gentle breezes--flowers.

The sun will shine in time and the waters will once again be calm. Through all the challenges, we are living the dream, as I hope you are too.

Running with 18-ft seas is not fun. It is time to tighten the tummy muscles.

Zulu sails under the rainbow: first wind, then rain, then rainbows.

Double rainbows are beyond my reach.

The rain gods have given us a gift of this ribbon rainbow. It lightens the senses.

The captain sleeps under rainbows, unbeknownst to him.

The calm, friendly, relaxed Fijian customs man boards Zulu at Savusavu.

Savusavu Bay offers protected mooring. We are safe and ready for some serious sleep.

Kenutu

2010-07-26T19:04:00.000-07:00

July 15, 2010

Dinghy to Kenutu

We read the Tongan charter company—Moorings—guide notes to Tonga for going to Vava’u’s eastern most island, Kenutu. It is supposed to be the most beautiful of all the Tongan Islands some say.

First you have to find the passage of Fanua Tapu by starting west of Lautala and steering 120 degrees magnetic for ¾ of a mile. Then you have to navigate through an S-shaped channel that is 12 ft at low tide, leaving a boats length away from markers that are no longer there.

Kenutu is difficult to approach. Avoid the reefs off the southern tip of Ofu—these dry at low tide—then line your stern up with the beach off southern Ofu and head for the southern tip of Kenutu or the gap between Kenutu and Lolo islands. Keep a sharp lookout for coral heads.

We did somewhat of a dry run from Tapana to find the Fanua Tapu passage with the dinghy and with the passage markers missing felt it looked a bit iffy. Then Russ got way points from SV Wind Pony and plotted them on the MaxSea electronic charts, which are a ¼ mile off in Tonga. We should have been prepared to go. The sun was even shining brightly and skies were blue.

“Hey Russ, I’ll give you the best back massage ever if we skip taking Zulu to Kenutu. Rather, let us take the dinghy and a picnic basket for a day trip. It is only just over three miles away.” I put this proposal to him in my most persuasive way. My rationale was that way we could have a no-hassle trip. No worries about smacking into coral heads or misjudging S-curves. I’d had my fill of the Seattle 405 S-curves for three years. I was through with them. We’d have a fun, carefree day in the sun.

Russ agreed. Wow! That was easy!! We will go tomorrow, Thursday. Leave Zulu anchored off the southern end of Tapana, where she had been anchored for the last 4 days holding on with chain might.

Thursday dawns absolutely picture perfect. I pack the gift of dried, sliced mangoes Russ’ sister—Bev—had given us; trail mix, macaroni salad with kidney beans and kalamate olives and sweet pickles; canned peaches; oatmeal cookies and cold water--a simple no-frills lunch. Put it all in the little cooler. Pack flippers and snorkel in case the reefs call out to us.

I am seriously looking like Crocodile Dundee with sun-dried skin that would work for shoe soles. Even Russ says I need to protect my skin, which I don’t do well. So for this excursion I smear sunscreen on my face, put on my bathing costume and over that my short pareo and long-sleeved surf shirt to block out the UV rays. The cherry on my top is a serious sun hat and sun glasses--ready for sun combat. I switch the mast-head light on just in case and bring the large bright flashlight. If the Mercury outboard quits, we’d be drifting a long, long way. To Tahiti or Chile?

Russ has his signature cap and cut-off T-shirt with synthetic shorts on for drying quickly. For sure we are going to catch the spray en route. He has pumped the dinghy, has the small dinghy anchor secured, has the hand held VHF, checked the gas. Check, check. He yanks on the starter chord and the Mercury outboard starts to purr. “Let go of the line, he calls.” Away we go. Hey! We’re not going to Everest, just Kenutu 3-plus miles away!

I carry two hermit crabs in a small can. Had inadvertently picked their sweet houses up—this isn’t the first time I’ve done this—while selecting shells on the beach for a necklace. Then in the night I hear them trudging around and over the shells for rent in my necklace box. The tips of their sweet, skinny, hairy little yellow and black legs on view.

As we pass over a reef close to Tapana, Russ throws one, then the other onto a boutique beach where after a shock landing the crabs can resume life in the sun—carrying their beautiful shell homes around with them. I can identify with them living on a boat!

The morning is young and we head north east over the reefs—kind of like dinghy snorkeling. The water is crystal clear and the reefs jut far out from the island of Ofu. It really isn’t too long before we arrive and pull the dinghy wheels up onto the beach at Kenutu.

There are some campers and kayakers there: from New York, and Norway and Chile! All here on Grand Central Kenutu. It is a magnet for free spirits. I was thinking quiet and uninhabited. Not today!

We walk the path to the eastern side. I walk straight into trees, banging my head--my sun hat riding low over my forehead. Ouch!! “That is the trouble with those kinds of hats. You can’t see where you are going. Take it off.” Russ says as he crouches low under branches and I rub my nicked forehead. I need a jolly vinegar rag to soothe the sting.

It is not a far walk to the other side where the Pacific Ocean, blue and benign today thrusts itself upon the island. Huge C-shaped ‘inlets’ are formed, cut into the limestone the high, high headlands of which rest on flat rock platforms. These ‘inlets’ form a sharp and rugged scalloped edging to the eastern side. Huge boulders are tossed up to rest at the inner curve and a semi-circle of receding limestone is eaten away by the tide and waves creating a natural walkway of sorts half way up the vertical sides. The surf rushes into these ‘inlets’ with force crashing over the rocks, sending water that booms into blowholes and spray high up the face of the limestone.

Pacific Ocean waves crashing onto the carved out ‘inlet’ floors of Kenutu.

What? There are two young European chaps on the north side of one of these ‘walkways’. Are they crazy? At one point they hang on as a wall of water breaks over them. They are collecting crabs for some reason. For bait?

Two European kayakers way down in the ‘inlet’ have just had a wave break over them. See the ‘platform’ to the right the vertical walls rest on.

There are Pandanus forests battered and broken by the cyclone season winds. Their roots form an upright triangle of multiple struts and their branches are bent over like the arms of rheumatoid old men, soft like paper mache, and leaves are virtually shaven.

Multiple root structures of Pandanus trees on Kenutu Island.

Russ goes off on a walkabout as usual, where there is no path. He finds a perfect spot for our picnic on the northern headland, which in turn forms the southern headland of yet another ‘inlet’ into which the ocean waves can pound.

There is a pine tree lending shade and another leaning tenaciously over the edge, its days numbered. A mound of red earth is covered by pine needles, creating a soft bed for us to lounge on at the edge of the drop off. The breeze is heavenly.

A mound of red earth is covered by pine needles, creating a soft bed for us to lounge on at the edge of a drop off.

I lay out my orange Hawaiian pareo on which to sit and serve up our simple fare. It hits the spot and tastes soooo good. Nourishment. Respite.

“I’m going to see if I can get down into this northern ‘inlet’." Russ says. Oh boy my mind starts turning. How the dickens do I get him out of there if he slips and falls. Fun in the sun with Mr. Explorer. I know what he is going for. I see floats that have drifted across the ocean wide thrown high onto the huge boulders. I bet he goes for those.

I daydream in the shade. There is bird call. A turquoise finger of water juts out to meet the reefs of the extreme southern point, beyond Lolo island. The ocean is azure blue giving a sense of the passive. But it can change at the toss of a hat! Sailors beware.

The azure blue Pacific Ocean meets up with Kenutu Island, Vava’u Tonga with reefs in the distance to the south.

Russ has returned. Sigh with relief. “This float is from Chile.” He says carrying a white oval float. “There are two from Tahiti and two from China. The names where they come from are stamped on them.” He says.

Russ sits down with his new found Chilean float. It has covered significant distance as have we.

I remember walking through the forest off the Olympic Peninsula in Washington State with Ian, Sarah, and Vanessa. We were staying in a beach cabin at La Push. It was cloudy and windy and gray. I sang a song I made up about a storm in the dark forest and us coming out of it into sunlight on a beach. I sang this to the kiddies as we tramped through the rain.

We came out onto the beach with the wild waves crashing and foam spraying. The winter sun was shining to my delight! There in the white rollers I saw something green off which the light reflected. The waves were bringing it in. It was a beautiful sea green glass float. I ran into the surf to get it--an offering from the seas, a treasure, a gift.

Later a friend of mine, whose father was a beach comber—he had a beautiful cottage at waters edge on Whidbey Island—showed me where to look to find the origin of the glass float. At the very bottom there was a stamp, and from this his father was able to identify the name of the town in Japan where it was made—and came from.

With Russ’ float there were no ifs or buts about the origin. There it was written in plain English--Chile. So fantastic the distance the ocean currents can carry things. Have carried humans too.

“There were a bunch of flip flops too.” Russ said. I looked down at his feet to see if perhaps he was sporting some used Chinese imports.

We rested some more, contemplating the distance the floats had come: from Tahiti and Chile and China, and the distance we had come: from Seattle. And the distance the European chaps at the base of the ‘inlet’ had come—now clinging to Kenutu’s limestone as the waves broke close to over them. We are in the Tongan convergence zone! All things come together through motion.

Russ lies down and dozes off, using his new found treasure float from Chile as a head rest. And I daydream on with image poetry in motion.

Russ dozes off using his new found treasure float from Chile as a head rest.

Shadows are forming. It is time to go back to Tapana. Back down the path we go and I kid you not, I run head on into a tree again! Off with the hat so that I can reach the dinghy with head in tack!

Before we set forth though, Russ wacks the top off a green coconut he brought with and we quench our thirst with the sweet, refreshing, satisfying taste right down to the last drop. It spills down my chin through some cracks and onto my chest a la coconut shower.

We wheel the dinghy into the water and point it west. It is low tide and we venture out cautiously over the shallow reefs. In the distance I see two amazing sand bars in the middle of nowhere between Ofu and Kenutu. After begging Russ to go there, he succumbs. Throws the anchor into the shallows and we walk onto ‘untouched-by- humans’ sand. Really, really, really perfect sand, the edges of which have been carved by receding waters. A few birds alight. A few shells and sand dollars are left as ornament as the tide goes out. Perfection is untouched. Words are uncalled for. Silence speaks loudly.

I take uncountable photographs that really do not capture context. I take what images I can with me, digitally across the waters, avoiding the reefs of southern Ofu on the dry, past Fanua Tapu, across the reefs at low, low tide to Zulu awaiting us in turquoise waters off Tapana.

We are wet through from spray as we board Zulu, but care not as we sit on the aft deck in the setting sun silent with the beauty of this day within. Fulfilled.

Enjoy the digital images I carried across the waters and coral heads and reefs.

A sand bar at low tide between the islands of Ofu and Kenutu, Eastern Vava’u.

We get closer….

….and closer

Russ throws the dinghy anchor in the shallows and walks on up to perfection.

Looking toward the western Vava’u group from our sand bars in the east at low tide.

Looking south west…..

Russ on a solo walkabout on the sandbar between Ofu and Kenutu.

To the east from our sand bar--from left to right see Faloa, Umuna, Kenutu, and Lolo islands. These mark the easternmost chain of Vava’u islands.

Back on Zulu Russ’ expression shows the day’s fulfillment as he sips some red with the setting sun. Fait complet.

Tapana

2010-07-26T18:41:00.000-07:00

July 10 - 14, 2010
A day in the life of Tapana; Spanish night in Tonga; Herman the hermit crab.

A day in the life of Tapana: Lat 18 degrees.43 S, Long 173 degrees, 59 W

The winds will change to the NW. We must leave Nuku for a better anchorage. We go to Nuapapu to the west, but it shoals far out and the beach is uninviting. We investigate an area inside and to the left of the coral gardens, but there are reefs and coral heads all around. Reverse. Turn around.

We put Zulu in full throttle once out of the area, pass Sisia to our starboard, thread our way between the southern reefs of Kapa and the northern reefs of Taunga—Russ has the sail covers off and lines ready to hoist sails should the engine quit--watch for the shallow spot. Go eight notches to port. We are here. We drop anchor off the southern end of Tapana. Zulu rests in picturesque.

Morning comes with a breakfast fit for the King: tropical fruit salad, crepes with lemon-honey-cinnamon sauce, and hot coffee in the cockpit. Delicious! Tidy Zulu, put clean sheets on the bunk, wash dishes. Cabins are spic and span.

We take the dinghy to an islet under noon sunny skies. A ketch is motoring eastward toward the Fanua Tapu passage. This is the passage we must navigate through to get to our next destination—Kenutu, the most eastern of Vava’u islands. This passage intimidates us for not knowing. We do know we have to wait for perfect weather to get through and wind from the SE for safe anchorage at Kenutu. A northwest wind will put us on the shore.

We hurry to anchor the dinghy off the small islet, and see which direction the ketch goes to get through the passage. I walk around the flat slab low tide reef to get to the eastern side of the islet for a clearer view. Russ clambers up the craggy limestone and slippery pine needles to get atop the mound—the highest point on the islet. Next he climbs a pine tree to see how the ketch navigates through. Russ sees the eastern most buoy—the rest are awash. We get the picture. Now we know the way to go to a degree. But how to actually get through? This will be our reality. We will try to get some way points to be certain and go another day.

Russ climbs a tree to get a better view of the ketch going through Fanua Tapu passage.

My view through the pine tree from ground level atop the mound.

Russ helps me up atop the mound so I can see from his perspective. We sit on the pine needles and look out to the beautiful waters beyond, with underlying treachery. We can see Kenutu in the distance and even see the pounding of the waves on its southern shore—faintly. Spray. It calls us from afar.

Russ sits atop the mound of the tiny islet, taking in the waters beyond.

Kenutu is the faint island to the far far right, the eastern most island of the Vava’u group.

We take the dinghy to Tapana’s southern shore. Anchor it in the shallows. Try to catch the huge starfish images, but the moving water from the dinghy distorts their shape. So I slide down the dinghy side knee deep in the water and gingerly step in between the coral to the beach.

The tide is still low and I walk the length of the shore to see: broken shells; sea nuts; crabs with green backs hurrying sideways—crablike; creatures hidden under slabs of reef with writhing tentacles of gold and black—eerie; giant gnarled intertwined root systems of trees with low lying branches that curve like the arms of dancers, reaching out toward the water. A bird calls.

Starfish on the reefs of Tapana.

Coral on the reefs of Tapana islets.

Russ has disappeared. I assume he is bush whacking to the other side, where the Spanish ‘restaurant’ is. He’s looking for a path through that we can walk tomorrow night. He’s made a booking for dinner.

I carry some red sea nuts and some shells toward the beach at the southern end. I want to swim. I see a pinnacle of limestone, like a craggy finger sticking up out of the sands. I’ll put my shells there I think and walk toward it. But someone else has had the same idea. Beautiful shells rest in small crevices here and there. I’ll leave this treasure trove be and tuck my shells in my cossi top.

It is getting late. I walk back toward the dinghy and tip toe up to it. The tide is coming in and I don’t want to stand on any of those eerie tentacled creatures. I am hip deep and haul myself up and seat myself on the floor with legs slung over the side. I rock with gentle motion.

Russ emerges. He found a way through to the other side, but lost the path a few times and says it won’t do for a night walk. So we will have to take the boat or dinghy around to the other side when the time comes.

We go to deeper water where the bottom is sandy. And I slide back down in. I gasp at the chill freshness and swim my heart out. This is my tonic--my medicine for feeling good. Russ sits in the dinghy eating sour orange-limes he has picked from a tree. Our day is nearly over. Zulu awaits us.

A short rinse off the transom step with warm water from the solar shower. Dinner in the cockpit: the last of my friend Isabella’s gift of corn tortillas fried in olive oil—double layered with cheese and cumin to melt down in between. Cover them with hot, spicy refried vegetarian beans, add shredded cabbage with tomatoes in an orange-lime-olive oil dressing. Add hot sauce. Enjoy under cool gray skies with a cold Maka—Tongan beer.

Darkness comes. Thunder booms. The longest we have ever heard it boom--dull echoing booms. Lightening comes in sheets. Torrential rain follows. Now all is still and our first day in the life of Tapana comes to an end.

Spanish night in Tonga

I’m ready for our Spanish night ashore. Russ has clarified one only for dinner as I am vegetarian. I won’t even take a camera, just enjoy the moment relaxing. My imagination takes flight away from Tonga and I think: crispy vegetarian tapas, chicken and seafood paella for Russ, cold drinks, sunset, Spanish guitar music--a touch of the romantic.

Russ fires up the dinghy—rather than take Zulu—and we head into the sunset to round the points for the north side. We pass a simple bungalow high up overlooking the water with two women enjoying an aperitif on the deck.

Where to tie up so that we can reenter the dinghy in the dark of night without breaking our necks? There’s a concrete step and an overhanging tree. We’ll go there. Russ throws the anchor out to the stern to prevent the dinghy from banging up against the sharp limestone overhang. Crawl up a thread of a ‘path’ gingerly. There is a surfboard marking the spot.

We definitely are not in Barcelona. There are numerous little shacks scattered here and there--a cross between a run-down restaurant and way budget accommodation. Chickens, a goat and dog roam free. Five orange trees are laden with ripe fruit, many fallen to the ground with chickens pecking away at them for their vitamin C. Getting ready for that paella pan!

There is an attempt at landscaping with flower bushes pruned in a hacked way and a little sand path leads up to the restaurant. The outside of the restaurant looks like it met up with Isaac the hurricane. Weathered and worn palm frond branches hang off the face of it helter skelter.

The goat is trying to ram me and the dog is nosing in places not to be nosed in. Bloody hell I’m not in the mood for animal husbandry. Up the stairs we go into the beyond ‘rustic’ shady restaurant overlooking the anchorage, open on three sides with shutters propped up. We are early. Dinner starts at 7:00 or 7:30 PM.

I sit down with a tonic water and fresh lime and look at the last of the afternoon light bursting over the water and boats at anchor below. A slight breeze is cooling and I feel the after effects of a long, long afternoon swim followed by a shower and some solo yoga on deck. Inner peace is at hand now that the animals have given up on me. Short lived though since the sand fleas are now attacking my legs.

Russ small talks with two yachtsmen. One—a single hander—from Florida speculates he’ll spend the next hurricane season in Savu Savu, Fiji.

“I’ll always keep the boat provisioned enough so that if a hurricane strikes, I’ll just go to sea.”

Ja! Good thinking. Not! I tune out of this conversation.

I hear live Spanish guitar music coming from behind a make-shift curtain. It is beautiful and I walk over to watch the magnificent sunset. William, the Tongan kitchen assistant, is sitting on a bench smoking a cigarette at a table set for guests alongside my sunset viewing position. He is tall and handsome, dressed in a short-sleeve shirt and long gray pants. He points to Pangaimotu across the way.

“That is where I live with my wife and two little children.” His smile is warm and the one missing tooth lends character. He knows our friend Katalina’s family. And we talk of Vava’u resources: fish, coconuts, bananas etc. These get sent to Nuku’alofa in the southern group for export.

It is time for dinner and William makes his way to the narrow back section that runs the length of the restaurant, which is the kitchen behind a long bar. Maria, Eduardo, and William are preparing food. Maria has typical Spanish features: a pronounced profile with roman nose and brown, not black, hair pulled back tightly in a bun. Her expression reflects hard work, skin weathered, and a tooth is missing. She is slender of medium height dressed in a simple maroon top and navy long pants with a matching blue apron around her waist.

Eduardo is spindly, with beady chocolate eyes and wild looking unkempt hair with full flying salt and pepper beard. He cuts an image as potential pirate with cotton shirt and baggy shorts. Three tables have colonial-type guests at them—they are neatly dressed, sit up straight, reserved, have pale skins, naïve tourists, like us.

The tapas arrive on a long narrow platter: breaded croquettes with Béchamel filling (a basic white sauce), two of which have toothpicks topped with a spiral of bacon; cold tortillas, which are essentially small egg omelets with a potato filling and garnished with grated raw carrot. In addition, there are two miniscule cups of gazpacho, cold pureed fresh tomato soup with garlic and olive oil. It all looks appetizing and piped music now plays. A gentle rain begins to fall and the rustic element fades as night sets in. Maria closes the shutters.

Russ says he will eat anything I don’t. You’re in luck Russ, most of it is coming your way. The omelet is cold and beyond bland and my imagination starts running amuck on how the gazpacho was prepared. Both of these go to Russ. His expression is blank as he eats away, no sign of satisfaction. He has a hang dog expression.

I order another tonic water with lime to help down the croquettes, the Béchamel filling of which is the essence of a lump of flour and butter and tasteless beyond help. These are heading straight for my ankles.

William brings Russ a little extra delight. One shrimp in a Chinese-shaped spoon with a tot of sauce and slice of lime on the side. The sauce, Russ exclaims is oh so Spanish and the one thing that hits the spot.

Ahhhh Maria brings the Paella, the signature dish after which the restaurant is named. A medium-to-large pan full of saffron rice with chicken and shell fish, enough for four people who know how to curb appetite. Did I not say no dinner for me?

Russ loads his first fork full anticipating a Spanish piece de la resistance. He had been going on about his Spanish travels with little-to-no money in his pocket when he was in his early twenties. And how mouth-watering the tapas were in Barcelona, and how they satisfied his hunger pangs at the time. He held his thumb and index finger together and brought them up to his lips for a kiss--soo good they were. His expectations of this paella are high.

The look on his face as the fork full of paella registers through his taste buds is shatteringly disappointing. It is funny to behold. I have to laugh. Not good. The muscles taste like they are on the verge of being off--with a very ‘ripe’ taste and the rice is somewhat bitter and overcooked, not to mention the sparse amount of chicken barely distinguishable from the rice. So says Russ.

He orders a small glass of wine at TOP12 (US$6) a glass—after he has had three beers already. He is getting desperate. I’ll have a glass of wine too. I need help drowning out all trace of the croquettes and the tonic water and lime did not completely do the job. I need liquid reinforcement.

Bouncing torch lights appear in the dark outside. People are coming up the path toward the restaurant. Lots of them. More guests? Late comers? Heaven preserve them. There are eight people—canoe-campers—who have bush wacked their way in the dark along the path from the other side in the rain. They look wet. Maria and William arrange a table for them--Kiwis, by the sound of it. They order two bottles of wine at TOP40 each, and soft drinks.

A handsome young Tongan dressed in blue and white surfer shorts to his knees and a white singlet sits separately to the side. His hair is tied up in a fashionable Rasta knot. He has milky-brown skin of satin, an impeccably carved and curved physique, and a unique narrow neat plait of beard hanging from his chin. His eyes are like dark grapes emanating calm and intelligence. To say he is a beautiful human speciman is an understatement. He is the guide of the canoe tour.

He turns to us and we strike up a conversation. He rolls a cigarette, lights it, and takes a long pull on it.

“My name is Ofa.” He says and gives us a high five greeting. The name Ofa means love in Tongan. William is his uncle, the ever extended family on hand. Ofa responds to our questions with a wide and winning smile and tells us about the canoe tours he’s been guiding through Tongan waters for 7 years. Sharon, the Canadian owner of the outfit sits across from Ofa. She is petite, pretty, with a mischievous air.

Russ keeps sipping wine after each mouthful of paella. That and good conversation helped the meal go down. However, he still looks like he is trying to swallow raw fish heads and is not making a significant dent in the pan of paella. It is a struggle. No more wine for you Russ! Cool it!

Maria suddenly appears out the blue with a long narrow platter of ‘dinner’ for me. Hello! I did not order any dinner. I thought perhaps this was an on-the-house gesture. Not! There are two Mexican-style flour tortillas folded over with a small slice of zucchini as a decorative topping. Inside is raw cold mushy tomato slices and copious amounts of soft goat cheese that taste very goatish. The goat is back in my life with all four hoofs.

I can barely get one tortilla down, even though I have scooped out the slimy goat cheese. What remains is dry tortilla and tomatoes. My glass of wine hits the quarter mark remaining, holding little promise of completely eradicating bad taste. I honestly want to be sick.

Detraction! Just in time the live music begins. William, Maria, and Eduardo sit on a bench at side center floor, backs to the kitchen. Maria solemnly shakes seed instruments, William deftly beats out good rhythm on some kind of drum, and Eduardo vigorously strums the guitar singing like a besotted romantic as only the Latins can do.

The ‘floor show’ is a mixture of Spanish music with Maria and Eduardo doing intermittent weak Spanish foot shuffles, emulating courtship. William moseys between the kitchen, dragging on his cigarette, and his place on the bench with drums as needed. Suddenly Eduardo moves into a manic American rock solo lifting his spindly bare feet and legs up to startling heights and back down for a few taps on the floor. His head spins atop his neck and his hair takes on various shapes of dishevelment as the musical spirit moves. A cross between Jimmy Hendricks and Houdini in action.

Maria and William escape to the kitchen for this piece of manic expression.
Ofa is laughing out loud as is Sharon. I start roaring too. The pale tourists, wet canoeists, and scruffy Zulu cruisers all brake out in wild applause after this rendition. It is all so out of character for Tonga that comic relief wells up and we laugh hilariously.

Then, as suddenly as it all began the music ends with a last Spanish piece and William, Maria, and Eduardo shuffle dance and sing their way back behind the bar into the kitchen to take up duty again. Quite touching.

Ice cream and a mini shot of Tia Maria liqueur is served. Between the floor show and desert our taste buds are now at bay and stomachs have found equilibrium.

It is time to pay the bill. Maria is in no hurry to give us the tally. She is out of sight having sought refuge at the computer in the kitchen corner. I walk up to the bar and break into her cover. Her manner indicates she has had enough of us tourists. She is void of expression—poker face, not a breath of freshness about her. There is little grace as she presents the bill. It is as if she has done us the greatest favour and now charges accordingly. The bill comes to TOP214 (US$107)! Extremely high for Tongan standard and sub-standard food.

When I give Russ the bottom line his Paella face turns saffron yellow with a tinge of dead shell-fish gray. The cherry on the top! We cannot wait to get out of there. I give my other disaster tortilla to Ofa, who bravely says he’ll try it and we stumble down the ‘path’ to the craggy limestone overhang and somehow manage to get into the dinghy without shredding ourselves into carrot salad in the act.

Russ rips the Mercury starter chord with a vengeance, twists the throttle to full on, and the dinghy planes through the pitch black night waters around to the south side where we make for Zulu’s masthead light, our haven in this night.
It is time to drown this bad experience out with a tot of NZ port and a cube of bitter-sweet raspberry chocolate. The rain begins to fall and wash away our Spanish night in Tonga. Esta la vida!

Hermi the hermit crab

I hear something falling in the middle of the night. Clomp. It is something hard. Hmmmm? Did Russ drop something? I ignore it and go back to sleep.

Then walking into the main cabin in the morning, I catch a glimpse of something in the corner on the floor below the fridge. It is my top shell I picked up off the reef the day before and carried back to Zulu in my cossi top. How strange? I had placed it on the main salon table.

Not thinking anything of it, I pick it up and put it back on the table where it was before. I put on some music—believe it or not Spanish music—to make breakfast. Then when I am ready to serve the meal, I notice again my top shell is not on the table where I put it. It is on the floor of the main cabin by the port bunk. Wuzzup with Russ knocking my shell of the table? Or did it get inspired by latin rhythm?

I pick it up again and whistle into it for a check of life. Voila! A little hairy leg appears. It is Hermi the hermit crab hiding in there! His poor little crab head must be spinning from the falls.

“Hey Russ we’ve got to save Hermi. Will he die after a night off the reefs?” Russ says no.

So I put him up on a coilled line, on the cockpit combing until my morning chores are complete. Ready to go ashore I look at where I put Hermi and his top shell house, and see not to my surprise he has moved again!

“Russ, Hermi missing again!” I search and search. I don’t want him to die. Fall overboard to a watery death. And I don’t want him to die a death from heat while traveling to Fiji on Zulu.

At last I find him, his top house hanging tight against the cabin top side. He is hanging on for dear life with his hairy little legs, perpendicular.

“Put him in a tin can and I will take him ashore.” Russ calls. This time I take no chances. I put him in a tin can in the dinghy and swim ashore sans Hermi in my cossi top. Don’t want to get a surprise tickle.

Russ putters out in half an hour with Hermi and puts his sweet little hairy hermit crab legs back on the reef where he can move his top shell house around in a cooler environment without dropping from great heights that provide him with dizzying experiences.

Malo e Lelei—go well—Hermi. Long may you live on the reefs of Tapana.

Euakafa and Lua Ui

2010-07-26T17:29:00.000-07:00

June 29, 2010

Euakafa

Euakafa from Sisia showing its flat high plateau.

“That looks like Hipnautical.” Russ says as he holds the binoculars up to his eyes. Yes it is. We’ve pulled anchor from Sisia and motor over to them. They are coming into Vava’u through the southern entrance, like we did with sails on show. The wind powering them toward us.

“Welcome to Vava’u we call.” We wave and give them the high sign. I run down to get my camera and take some pictures. We had been worried about them since they left NZ May 21 and have only arrived in Vava’u June 28. But they stopped along the way in Nukualofa and the Ha’apai group. We were incorrect in thinking they were coming direct. It was good to see them and know they were not one of three boats that got dismasted. One’s imagination tends to run away with itself at times. They are carrying our new windlass switch ordered from NZ.

Hipnautical arriving in Tonga carrying our new windlass switch.

We turn Zulu around and head for Euakafa, squeeze through a passage between two reefs, and anchor too close to my liking to a third reef. It is reef city here. It reminds me of an area close to Johannesburg, South Africa called the reef. In this case reef referred to gold mines.

I used to call this place the English Country garden in that once I got into the water I just kept meandering through the colourful reefs until I realized how far away from the boat I had swam. Then I would reluctantly turn around. I felt as if I was in a safe place. That was on our previous visit years ago.

I remember I swam back to the boat and took the dinghy ashore with Ian to climb to the top of a 300-ft plateau, Euakafa’s great height. I beached the dinghy and went in search of the path to the top, not once seeing or hearing Russ waving and calling to me.

A large gray shark had appeared in his line of swimming and he’d found a safe haven on top of some coral. He was trying to get my attention by waving and calling from atop the coral to return with the dinghy as he, too, was far from the boat. But since his calls fell on deaf ears he had to pluck up courage and swim back to the boat with the shark lurking by. Shiver me timbers!

So this time it is with some trepidation that I get back into the water to swim these same reefs carrying the shark image with me. But we take the dinghy with us and anchor it within a few strokes from where we swim. The English garden image has gone though. It is all quite sparse, except where the colourful fish gather at the drop offs into deep water.

Some charter boat people are splashing and having a whale of a time at the drop offs. They are fearless Australians here for a week. They swim up and ask us where we are from. Seattle? “I went to the University of Washington in Seattle.” One of the Oz ladies pipes up. She also shares with glee that they lived on their boat here in Tonga for 4 years! Now they are back to relive it all in a week. They splash and frolic and laugh like happy children and wave goodbye to us as we motor away.

On the reefs that actually ring the island, whole Tongan families comb them on foot for sea cucumbers to export to China. Mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers--they carry sacks to put the sea cucumbers in. The next day another group come onto the reefs and comb them in the same thorough grid-formation way--and the next day and the next days to follow.

A Tongan boat drops anchor off the reef and awaits the return of those collecting sea cucumbers.

Day after day after day Tongans search for sea cucumbers on the reefs for export to China.

I’ve seen this happen at Sisia as well. A Tongan man said he gets TOP30 (US$15) a day for collecting a box full, whatever size the box is. But it takes him half a day to fill the box and he has to go further and further afield to find them. He has to help feed is family. And here in Vava’u jobs are scarce. His wife does not make much money as a school teacher.

At first I am just dumb struck at how these reefs are being besieged. Can the Tongans not realize they will deplete their sea cucumber resource if they keep this up? But then I am informed that they only collect them for 5 months of the year and that the cucumbers crawl back up onto the reefs from deeper water replacing those that were taken. This is somewhat of a relief to hear.

Tongans comb the reefs for these sea cucumbers 5 months of the year, for export to China. Do you feel like a slice on a bed of lettuce?

We go ashore and walk the lovely beach on the western side--up and down. And then we go around to the east to look for the path to the top of the plateau with a view of the islands worth seeing. We walk all the way to the end of this eastern shore and start up some false leads only to find many, many sheet-like spider webs with large black spiders sporting horribly long black and orange hairy legs. Heaven preserve I get one of these plastered on my face or in my hair.

The western side of Euakafa with the jewel motu of Lua Ui in the distance, with its stealth-coral below blue waters.

I’m hot and tired and salty and sit down on the flat slabs of reef. I think I’ll skip this hike and just look out across the waters to Kapa and Nuku. I watch the booby and frigate birds diving. Russ appears with two green coconuts and we drink them to our hearts content. I’ll declare this day over.

Looking to the north back on to Kapa and Nuku, where I photographed Russ’ footsteps in the sand.

Russ appears with two green coconuts and we drink to our hearts content.

The sun is setting as we go back to Zulu, rolly polly at anchor. We have got to get out of here in the morning!

Sunset from Euakafa with one of our empty green coconuts floating westward.

Lua Ui

A jewel motu with deceptive underlying coral that is ready to bite at your hull. Surprise attack!

“I want to go to Lua Ui.” Russ announces in the morning. Hmmmm. I look at the chart and see little-to-zero sandy patches in which to anchor. But it is just 1 and ½ miles SW of Euakafa and does look like a jewel of an island.

I stand up in the bow and fix my sight on the lovely ring of sand. The water is crystal clear and so tempting. But then I see that yellow brown discolouration in the water off the tip of the beach, telling me to beware. And before I know it, without any warning, I see the bottom coming up pronto with large pale beige and green coral heads about ready to bite into Zulu’s hull. The depth sounder has stopped reading feet, we are in such shallow water!!

Aaaahhhhh. Russ is reversing away from one hot spot, but onto another hotter spot we have just been lucky to miss! Too close a call and luck comes once or twice, but don’t count on it for too many more times. We’ve got to get out of here! And we do. Fast.

I’ve had enough fun for a day! Enough of this tropical stuff. I’m ready for a cottage on a lake in the mountains with a large bath tub for soaks in perfume oil! Switzerland sounds good about right now with an appetizer of cheese fondue and a glass of chill. Dream on.

Traditional Polynesian Voyaging Canoes

2010-07-26T15:32:00.001-07:00

June 22, 2010

In 1777 James Cook happened upon Tonga. A Tongan voyaging canoe was sighted with lateen sails that hung on moveable masts. These sails were of the Fijian style.

Now in 2010 three modern Polynesian voyaging canoes with lateen sails arrive in Tonga from the Cook Islands, still carrying through with tradition. A German sponsored the building of these boats, the recruiting and training of the crew, and cost of the voyages themselves--all in the name of keeping the Polynesian skills of sailing by the sun and stars and swell and current alive. True these double canoes have small engines and GPS, but the engines are used just for getting in and out of ports.

The route of these vessels over the last few months has been: Fiji to NZ (where they encountered 50-knot winds) to Tahiti to Cook Islands to Samoa to Tonga. It is an exciting day. And we pull up anchor in Port Maurelle to hurry into Nieafu to see them arrive.

We round the northern point of Kapa and see them pulling away from the Tongan Beach Resort where they spent the night. My camera is ready as they raise their beautiful red-with-black-design sails and let the light breeze carry them toward Neiafu. They sail right by us and give us the thumbs up. Snap, snap, snap, snap I record these images.

Traditional Polynesian double canoe sailing into Neiafu.

Traditional Polynesian canoes sailing into Neiafu.

They tack into Nieafu under sail and tie up at the wharf. The people of Nieafu have turned out to welcome them. They are lined up on the wharf and others sit on mats under a shade canopy with musical instruments, ready to pay tribute to the voyager's arrival.

But before they disembark, they pack sails away and give some speeches to the crowd from their canoes. Then each group on board sing a song in their native language. They represent: Tahiti, Cook Islands, Samoa, Tonga, Fiji, Vanuatu, and NZ.

I especially enjoyed the song by the Vanuatans, who are Melanesian and quite dark in colour. There were four of them. One played the guitar. They wore bright red shirts with big wide-brim straw hats. They sang about "transporting" across the sea and that they came from different countries, but were all one on this journey. It was really touching. And their wide smiles of accomplishment won the hearts of onlookers.

The Vanuatuans are very poor compared, say, to the Tahitians who are subsidized by the French. But they all did this trip together on these amazing boats. You would have loved seeing them.

After the songs, they all sit cross-legged on the deck of one of the double canoes and do an amazing chant and knee and hand clapping rhythm with voices joining in a call and response exercise.

Some Tongans with connections to the voyagers, and a group of the sweetest little school children get to go on board the double canoes. It is picture taking time. And after many smiles and high fives and laughs the voyagers disembarked in a single line.

The Tongans stand by welcoming each one with a flower lei. And they then proceed to partake in the welcome and kava drinking ceremony.

Here are some pictures to remember the moment of joyful accomplishment by.

One of the traditional Polynesian double canoes as just arrived alongside the wharf in Neiafu, Vava'u from Roratonga, the Cook Islands.

Representatives from Tahiti and one other island bring down the sails.

The Tongan representative is a woman. Tonga Tonga Tonga IO. IO means YES!

The graphic designs on the sails are absolutely beautiful.

A Fijian and a Samoan bring down the sails.

This seaman has the most intricate of tattoos. He is from Samoa, but does not look like a typical Samoan.

I took a lot of pictures of this cool cat non-typical Samoan.

This is Thompson, whom we later met. He is from Vanuatu.

A Fijian crew person is not camera shy at all.

Good on you mates they seem to say!

The personification of wisdom and experience.

Doing the knee-hand rhythm exercise on deck. See the Tongan, Vanuatan, and French flags.

Sweet Rasta man from Fiji, with a Vanuatan in the background.

Crew and Tongan kiddies gather for a photograph.

A Vanuatan steps ashore and is given a lei of welcome by a Tongan.

Another crewman wears a welcome lei as he steps ashore onto Tongan ground.

After all the celebration, the double canoes moved to tie up at the little dock below the Paradise hotel, where we were anchored. One night when we were returning to our dinghy, two of the Vanuatan crew, Thompson and Johnny, talked to us about their journey. They said one boat will leave to return to Fiji in a few days. And in time the other two will follow. Once in Fiji, they will then start recruiting young men and women for crew positions for future voyages, keeping the Polynesian sailing skills and style alive for many years to come.

Early the next morning we heard the call and response chant going on between two of the voyaging canoes. Crew people lined up on deck facing those on the canoe that was leaving for Fiji. The lines were untied and the departing canoe drifted away, all the time voices in song echoed across the waters. This is how they say goodbye—in the form of song.

The red sails were hoisted and away it sailed through the moored boats of Neiafu out into the Pacific Ocean bound for Fiji. What a thrilling time they have had.

A close up of the last remaining double canoe in Tonga. The little semi-circle ‘house’ on deck is the cooking facilities. Behind it is the washroom.

See the shape of the double canoes stern.

The tiller is long and adorned with beautiful rope work.

The rudder.

A double canoe departs for Fiji. See the lineup of crew facing each other to say goodbye in song.

Away she sails out of Neiafu, bound for Fiji to complete the voyage.

Port Maurelle and Nuku

2010-07-25T17:19:00.000-07:00

June 15 to June 22, 2010

Port Maurelle

The bay of Port Maurelle. See the spec of Zulu at anchor extreme right off the southern point.

Southern tip of Port Maurelle

We’ve anchored off the Southern tip of Port Maurelle, named after the explorer Don Francisco Maurelle who arrived in Vava’u May 5, 1781. His ship, La Princesa, was leaking and his men were sick and he was low on food. The friendly Tongan chief, Tupou, gave him fresh food and Maurelle watered and made some repairs to his ship. He named the bay Port of Refuge, which now applies to the whole Vava’u harbor. Maurelle stayed only a short time as he was on his way to San Blas Mexico with dispatches from Manila.

Always Russ anchors way back on the periphery. Zulu swings wide. The wind hits us at 20 knots off the nose and pushes us around like a merry go round. The KISS wind generator spins making amps, making energy just the way Russ likes it.

I sit on my deck chair eating the last of the precious Minerva yellow fin tuna, a gift from SV Windborne. The wind blows my forkful of sautéed potatoes with onions and peas and a morsel of the yellow fin tuna in soya and ginger and lime and olive oil to the winds. Such is the velocity of wind here!

I read from the book Russ’ beautiful mother gave him: Ship of Gold in the Deep Blue Sea by Gary Kinder. The ship of gold was the steamship Central America bound for New York and carrying 592 passengers from California and their gold to the value of $2,000,000 in 1857.

It sunk in a hurricane off Cape Hatteras about 200 miles off the Carolina coast and all its treasure and most of its men were lost and gone to the bottom of the deep blue sea.

The story tells of Tommy Thompson, a 33-year-old research engineer’s methodical search for the ship —along with his friends’ search: a geologist and journalist -- against all odds and question and competition and greed.

True he was a genius, but he thought in the simplest terms, outside of the box, and came up with break-through technology that enabled him to discover the ship and recover its vast treasure in 1985 after 130 years of it being at the bottom of the sea.

His dream of finding the treasure-- against insurmountable odds--was fulfilled through his determination and discipline. “Discipline, the mother of good luck.” This treasure is the greatest ever found in the deep blue sea.

I lie down in the shade on the deck and I dream. I am out at sea and recovering treasure—gold bars and coins—from the deep. 9,000 ft down. First I see the trails of the sea cucumbers on the ocean floor. Sea cucumbers found that deep?

Then, I paraphrase my dream images as the book describes: the sea stars and the fiery red-orange or canary yellow anemones and gorgonian corals with arms of coral pink around trunks and beams and bricks of gold. I see broken crockery, porcelain tea cups, bottles, vases, leather suitcases with books of poetry—the pieces that make up personal life stories of the California Gold Rush days. I see the ships bell and anchor, chunks of coal, and tube worms boring holes into wood. Fragments of the whole—the whole having succumbed to the elements of a hurricane and which became enveloped in a watery grave. Still, dark, and final at rest.

I awake! My book lies open next to my pillow. It is unfinished. I do not want it to finish. I sit up. The wind is howling and the deck on which I lie is hard. I squint and blink to realize I am in Port Morelle, Vava'u, Kingdom of Tonga. I have to close the book. Seize the present moment in my life, being here in the Friendly Islands. This place will not return. There are treasures to be found here.

I slip overboard into the warm, translucent waters and swim toward a white coral beach with tall palms, the trunks of which are a rust red, and with green frond tops that twist and rustle in the wind. I swim on the surface of the underworld—waters of liquid blues. Black and white tipped reef sharks are out there, but have not met up with me. There are caves with swallows and caves with coral snakes and caves with folktales of lovers eloping not far off from this bay.

A huge slice of limestone sits precariously in the balance.

I keep my head above the turquoise, beyond the reefs, and swim parallel to the undermined base of the limestone that edges the island, ever etched away by wind and waves. A huge slice of limestone sits precariously in the balance as I swim by. I feel light and energized and alive. Like my life is treasure, golden in hue. And that I have just discovered it.

Russ comes on behind me and beaches the dinghy. We tie it to a palm tree. Take a walk along a two-wheel track through red earth toward a village. It is empty of people. Three horses are tethered. Pigs and piglets roam. Perhaps the people are in church. It is Sunday. We veer off to the right—to Barnacle beach and see the sign of invitation to a feast on a Saturday night.

A horse tethered in one of the villages.

Four little pigs munching on grass while mom is away.

A village house with a beautiful view of Barnacle Beach.

“You Well Come To Barnacle Beach.” Tongan feasts are held here.

A wall of a home topped with giant clam shells.

A butterfly alights atop of a flower.

We walk on. Into the interior--on and on in the hot, hot sun. Butterflies are everywhere. Small yellow butterflies, orange Monarch-like butterflies, black winged butterflies with periwinkle blue circles and white centers, white butterflies. They surround us making for a butterfly heaven. Flittering and alighting. My homemade words.

One flies into a spider’s web. The spider has long black and orange legs. I see the butterfly struggle with wings imprisoned in silk. I pull it from the web and set it free. Russ calls me the Butterfly goddess. It flies away. I am happy.

I think of the yachtsman, Steve, from the island of Jersey in the Atlantic, who went to a village of a tiny island here in Tonga. The islanders were preparing for a feast. Steve saw a small turtle and asked what they intended to do with it. They responded—eat it. So he bought it from them and took it far away off another uninhabited island and set it free. He being the Turtle god.

We walk the opposite way now from the previous village. Russ carries his panga (bush wacker) hoping to find a green coconut. But all the groves are set behind barbed wire fences--out of bounds. We walk on. Up a hill an elderly Tongan man with salt and pepper hair pushes a wheel barrow along the two-track red ‘road’. He is going to collect coconuts.

Six dogs make for me. Their ribs are showing. They growl. I try to act relaxed, but do not want any fangs buried in my ankles. I hold the back of my hand toward them and speak quietly. The old man stops and calls to the dogs to no avail.

Russ arrives and makes the Gggggggghhhhh sound from way back of his throat. This sound he heard the Tongans use on dogs thirty years ago! The dogs miraculously freeze and stop their barking. We smile, say hello, a few words of pleasantries. Then walk on.

There is a women coming up the path dressed modestly in worn clothes with a small boy carrying a woven matt and a panga. The small boy waves and smiles at us. The woman gives a warm smile too. A tiny boy walks wide-eyed at her side—holding her hand-- and starts to cry with fright as we get closer.

He has seen Palangi (white people) apparitions: Russ is in a cut-off yellow shirt breast high and has a large, battered straw hat askew on his head. His shorts are worn and stained from previous coconut tree climbs. I am in an orange pareo with a yellow Boeing cap on back to front and wearing scratched sun glasses. What a sight. Enough to scare any island child. The little boy is in his underpants and a T-shirt. Bare feet. His nose runs and tears flow and his mouth is twisted, and his eyes are white with fear.

We try to soothe him. But he continues to cry. So we walk on and wave and his Mom tells him to wave back. And he gains a sense of safety at our leaving and tentatively lifts his little hand. He forces a smile--a smile of relief. Tear stained. Poor darling little treasure boy.

Russ says these villagers are definitely not part of the cash flow commoners. They are subsistence farmers mainly. They have VERY LITTLE. But their smiles are wide and they exude calm. They have so little, yet so much. Their simple, yet neat little houses perch in places that offer views of the waters blue.

On we walk until we get to another village gate, which is closed. I turn around and retrace my steps. Russ must have gained access to the village. I hear a rustle. I get a fright. So does the cow. His hoof gets tangled in the lianas. I want to help it, but it just stands there. Eventually it frees itself and moves into the bush.

The beach on which I sat waiting for Russ at Port Maurelle—my back on fire from sand flies.

I walk on. Pick wild flowers with a pungent smell. Things bite my back. Sand flies? I burn and itch all over. I must get to the beach quickly. There is the beach. I sit on a coconut log in the shade. But my back burns on. I cannot wait any longer for Russ. I must get in the water. I’m on fire.

Cool, clear, water. It soothes my back. Russ eventually appears. I pull the dinghy out into the water, pointing into the passage through the reefs. He talks to a Swedish cruiser with a big fat stomach. About some Spanish people who have a restaurant on a small island called Tapana. They serve sea food and chicken paella and tapas. The whole family is involved. And they come out and sing Spanish songs and dance Flamenco while you eat. He wants to go there sometime.

I call to Russ, my back is burning. I want to go out where the limestone is etched away and drops into the turquoise waters and swim. He comes. And we go out there.

I tie the dingy to the branch of a tree and enter the deeper water and close my eyes and swim through the liquid blues. I see the gray herons with yellow legs take off over the waters. Low flying. High above are the marked boobies and frigate birds diving. I tumble through the cool blues.

I am back into my dream. Back down to the bottom of the ocean deep. Back to where the sea stars and the fiery red-orange or canary yellow anemones and gorgonian corals with arms of coral pink wrap around things. But this time they are not wrapped around trunks and beams and bricks of gold. I do not see broken crockery, porcelain tea cups, bottles, vases, leather suitcases with books of poetry—the pieces that make up personal life stories of the California Gold Rush days. I do not see the ships bell and anchor, chunks of coal, and tube worms boring holes into wood.

The arms of coral pink wrap around Spanish discoverers in Tongan bays of blue translucent waters; around white coral beaches that flow into gentle curves; around wild pungent flowers; around green coconuts; around dogs and horses and cows and pigs and butterflies and turtles and herons and boobies and frigate birds and sharks and coral snakes; around quiet villages; around simple little homes with views of waters blue; around Tongan feasts; around smiles of old men and women; around the tear-stained broken smile of a tiny bare foot child.

The world turns, and lives in the passage of time turn too in a kaleidoscope of history and place. I’ve discovered these treasures and know time has a way of giving them to you and taking them away. I feel light and energized and alive. Like my life is treasure, golden in hue. And that I have just discovered it too.

“Diligence is the mother of luck.” Vast treasures await. But it is in the determination and discipline of the search that we find them. Seize the present moments. Fulfill the dream. Time is still here for us. I swim on.

The sun sets to the west of Port Maurelle and on my beautiful day of fulfilled dreams.

Nuku

We take the dinghy to Nuku, around the point from Port Morelle. A gray heron with yellow legs stands gingerly on the reef at low tide as we wiz by. Another takes off low, like a 747.

“Look at the flying fish!” we both exclaim. Schools of flying fish fly inches above the water parallel to the dinghy on both sides! Wow! Silver streaks with tinge of blue. I have never seen flying fish fly so far. They are either energized by us or by bigger fish.

We beach the dinghy on the perfect coral spit of Nuku. It is so perfect I feel loathe to leave an imprint. The water all around is shallow over sand—turquoise. A sign further in from the beach reads: private house enjoy the beach. There tucked in behind pandanus and palm trees is a small square house with a water tank in the foreground.

Russ walks on along the low-tide reefs and soon disappears, his usual style. I like to walk alone and drink in the vistas to the south that frame white sails against the island of Eukafa. I think I might like to live in that house all alone for a month with books and blank paper and music and tropical fruit.

I walk on slowly and find a little cove in which to meditate. I investigate the tidal pools to find starfish and other creatures. Up on top of craggy limestone outcroppings the roots of the pandanus trees push through the stone, such tenaciousness. The water laps at my feet. Is the tide coming in or out?

I get to where my knees rather than my ankles become the measuring stick and decide to turn back. Russ has either walked around or up over. I retrace my steps slowly making the most of the silence and beauty.

I’m back on the spit. Smoothed in texture and a peach-yellow in colour. A white chicken ventures out from the house yard to the edge of the beach. It struts its stuff, waddling stiffly from one leg to another stretching its neck in rapid forward jerky motion and disappears behind the bush as I approach.

Here comes Russ. I have to laugh at the image. He has rounded the whole island. I take a photograph for the record. He walks on across the edge of the spit. I see his footsteps and think about those of his mother and father who visited here with us long, long ago. They walked this very spit and time and elements have washed away all trace of them having been here.

So I bend down low and photograph Russ’ footprints so they will last through time and element for those who love him to see for years to come. Zulu awaits us. We must pull up the dinghy anchor and return.

The rain falls heavily as I write. It comforts and soothes my soul. It helps me appreciate shelter. I can hear the water pouring down. Slowly with time there is quiet. The drops tinkle, drip drip splash, then cease to drop. And all that remains is empty silence.

The perfect spit of Nuku pointing in the direction of Port Maurelle.

My walk begins going south along the length of Nuku’s beach.

A spec of white sails against the southern skies.

My room with a view as I sit down on a bed of leaves.

The ubiquitous sea cucumber. Tonga exports these to China.

Knock knock. Who is there? Don’t step on my toes.

The ever present blue star fish.

A small crater in the reefs holding creatures with long tentacles.

Russ emerges full circle around the island in his beach uniform.

I photograph Russ’ footprints on Nuku’s spit. Record of his presence for time evermore.

Coral Gardens and Swallows Cave

2010-07-25T16:31:00.000-07:00

June 14 and July 6 and 7, 2010
Twice to Coral gardens; Swallows Cave

Coral Gardens

My National Geographic picture of New Zealand skipper, Dave, off SV Vittoria

“It is easier if we take the boat up through Ava Pulepulekai, the western passage between Hunga and Vaka’eitu.” Dave says. Whatever, we’ll go with Dave.

Dave is the sweetest Kiwi--intelligent in an understated way and always willing to please. He is a character. I seriously want to submit the picture I took of him on his boat, Vittoria, to National Geographic. Just because where would you find a better epitome of a Kiwi skipper than this! The ocean is their back yard and they are ready to take it on.

Dave says you can take a boat in behind the reef at Vaka’eitu, but then you have to swim over and if there is an incoming swell you might be hard pressed in the true sense of the word.

So Lynn, Dave’s wife, keeps Vittoria out in the deep and her friend from Christchurch keeps her company. Dave and his friend, Jeff, and Russ and I dingy out to the drop off, anchor, and slide on over into the cool waters and swim for the reef. It is a continuous reef that stretches between the two islands of Nuapapu and Vaka’eitu

The sun is high in the sky and filters down into the water casting bright light on the coral and fish. I do feel like I am in a garden with the subtle colours of mauve, lime green, pink, and yellow. Sea flowers.

Fish are sparse, but colourful and Dave is lucky to have an underwater camera! I swim with him and watch him dive down to get close-ups. Without a camera I feel at a loss or ill equipped, but set my mind to just swim through and enjoy this beautiful meander. To look at the wall of reef gradually slope up to the surface where the waves break. To see the surge pushing through underwater ‘valleys’ as the force calves its path through coral vulnerability.

I cannot wrap my mind around names of fish species. This is a language unto itself: Dascyllus albisella; Chaetodon fremblii; Halichoeres ornatissimus; Coris gaimardi; Gomphosus varius. The only biology class I took was at 7:00 AM in the morning umpteen years ago and I used to sleep through it. Give me the English language! But in fish instance, I can’t even try the names on for sizes: White-spotted Damsel Fish; Blue-Lined Butterfly Fish; Ornate Wrasse Fish; Gaimard’s Wrasse Fish; Bird Wrasse Fish.

So, often I use the word kaleidoscope. This is how I view the fish as they swim around or below or above me. It is an underworld that turns in brilliant colour. My favourite fish are the bright yellow surgeon fish with pointed, puckered, cute mouths that form a pout. They wear what looks like a permanent smile, and have cheer-leader bright blue eyes.

There are the-- butterfly fish with a body of yellow and blue horizontal stripes; wrasse that are red with brilliant blue spots and gorgeous yellow tails; bird wrasse that are greenish blue with long, long pointed noses; parrot fish with brilliant hues of green and blue and beak-like mouths; cow fish that carry hexagonal plates with spines above their eyes and that are bloated and have a goofy look; trumpet fish that are long transparent needle-like with a black and white dotted flair on the tail; tiny electric blue fish and cousins of turquoise; schools of tiny silver fish that en mass form a delicate shimmering curtain around you; ubiquitous angel fish; squid with big black eyes and long noses that swim backward and forward with delicate skirt-like transparent “fins” attached to the length of their black bodies topped with silver-blue dots that turn to gold when the school dart forward ensemble if spooked; trigger fish with small eyes and noses that look a bit like a pigs snout and bold black markings against their yellow body, as in modern art. The cherry on the top of this fish paragraph is the latter trigger fish’s Hawaiian name-- Hu-mu hu-mu nu-ku nu-ku a pu-a-‘a. Come again?

This is just one paragraph of fish and I cannot go any further. I have to swim back to the dinghy where Dave’s friend Jeff from Christchurch is turning raspberry red in the Tongan sun. He looks as if he is about to hallucinate. We haul the small anchor up and Russ zooms toward Vittoria.

We climb on board with red-haired Lynn at the helm and motor back around Vaka’eitu’s southern point past the reefs that join Langitau and create a window onto Nuapapu. Past jewel motus ringed by coral beaches, past SV Windborne headed out to the volcano, Late, and back to Zulu for sliced watermelon, chocolate brownies, and tea.

Vaka’eitu to Langitau reef with Nuapapu in background.

Jewel motus ringed by coral beaches.

SV Windborne that we encountered at Minerva Reef.

Some have said this is the most beautiful reef they have ever seen. And some go a step further to say any reef they have seen after this one seems dead. This is slightly over the top or perhaps they have just gone around the reef block once.

Not that you asked, but my opinion is that it is a beautiful reef, but lacks life in a big, big way. Between human kind and hurricanes this and most of the South Pacific reefs are barely alive. On this journey I have not seen one reef, with the exception perhaps of some at Suwarrow—the Cook Island nature preserve--that compares to what we saw 30 years ago--a sad, sad, sad reality.

Note: We went back to this reef July 7 taking our friends--Vicky, Gary, Zeke, and Nina off SV Kallisto--on Zulu. This time it was a gray day with quite a swell and surge and undercurrent. Without the sunlight the brilliance was missing. Still we seemed to get lost in the beauty and on a few occasions woke up to the fact that the surge had pushed us close to the tops of the reefs. Here the waves were crashing and under water they looked ice green with millions of air bubbles. When we surfaced we’d see the white foam and make haste to do turnarounds with accelerated flipper motion to get back to deep waters.

Swallows Cave

SV Kallisto built by Gary and Vicky from Tasmania. We sail to Swallows cave aboard this vessel.

Gary, Nina, and Zeke en route to outer islands, Vava’u.

Gary, Nina, and Zeke raise the topsail. What a first class 8- and 10-year-old crew!

The entrance to Swallows cave off the northern end of Kapa, Vava’u.

Our friends from Tasmania--Vicky, Gary, and their priceless children 10-year-old Zeke and 8-year-old Nina--invite us to go to Swallows cave on their SV Kallisto.

Vicky and Gary built Kallisto, a 32 ft steel hull, gaff- rigged cutter on the weekends over a period of 7 years. Now they are enjoying the fruits of their labor of love on a cruise from Sydney to Bay of Islands, NZ to Tonga. Their plans are to continue on to Fiji, Vanuatu, and back to Australia for the cyclone season. Who knows if, thereafter, Asia might pull on their sailing heart strings? Time will tell. Right now the world is their own to behold.

Talk about a focused and innovative family. Not only did they build their boat, the interior of which is from Tasmanian Huron Pine, but Vicky made Kallisto’s sails, dodger, biminy, splash guards etc., etc. A huge etc., is that she also built a nesting sailing dinghy! All this while getting a PhD and delving into motherhood. Hope this last bit of information didn’t take the shine off Gary, because he is so sterling that he shines naturally through and through. Theirs’ is a joie de vie.

Zeke, always collected and articulate , tells us the name Kallisto (sp) is derived from the Greek myth where after she becomes pregnant by Zeus, is turned into a constellation to prevent her death.

I read up on this myth and find the following: Calisto was a wood nymph and companion to Artemis twin sister of Apollo. Artemis’ parents were Zeus and Leto. Zeus was the greatest god of the Greek Pantheon. He was the god of light, of clear skies, and of thunder. Calisto vowed to remain a virgin. Zeus, however, fell in love with her and she became pregnant. The myth branches out into three different endings from my source—Dictionary of Classical Mythology: (1) Hera the greatest of all Olympian Godesses, and married to Zeus, had Artemis kill Calisto with an arrow or (2) Artemis changed her into a she bear or (3) Zeus changed Calisto into the Great Bear constellation to prevent her from being killed. I think the latter is the ending Zeke shared—as it relates to Calisto.

Now when I search the skies for the Great Bear constellation, I will think of the SV Calisto.

We are happy to be on board and watch this lovely family work together: Gary hand cranks the anchor up, Nina lays chain evenly below, Vicky is at the tiller and Zeke hauls up sails and all make us feel at home.

We sail away to Swallow’s cave where Gary stays aboard Kallisto and the rest of us pile into our dinghy with Russ at the throttle heading into the entrance of a very special place.

Russ brings the dinghy into the entrance of Swallows cave.

Kallisto glides by in colour under gray light on the outside.

Once inside, if we look back toward the entrance, all is silhouetted in this other world.

Nina looks around in awe and she herself becomes part of the silhouette.

We look forward into the cave and subtle shades of greens, and russet-mushroom-taupe browns, and sand beiges, and perhaps a touch of rust come to play-- earth tones painted by an unknown artist from nature’s palette.

Ground water seeps through the cave top in time upon time. The minerals cause buildup of stalagmites—intricate needle-like formations that hang from walls and ceiling. Together, they create an abstract image—emulating a cathedral-- the beauty of which is silencing.

People throughout time feel the need to carve or etch or paint their names in nature’s places of great beauty or significance. 'I have been here' they want to say. And do say, calling for recognition. Their names scream out at you in blue and red and black and brown and white paint. An onslaught of insensitivity—again humankind leaves their imprint. Some say some of the graffiti was left by whalers in days of old, which lend a certain presence from an historic sense. But without the graffiti I would feel their presence or that of interlopers or travelers or lovers or native Tongans in any case, perhaps even more so. I transcend the graffiti and look beyond.

High up on part of the ceiling are mud bird’s nests. One would think they are Swallow’s nests given the cave’s namesake. However, I understand that they are really Starling nests.

The cave walls are covered in earth tones as if painted by an unknown artist using nature’s palette.

Ground water drips drips drips through time on end and minerals from that water form Stalagmites—fine intricate needle-like hanging structures. These give the feeling of being inside a cathedral.

Stalagmites hang in crystal formation from the cave walls. We transcend the graffiti.

The mud nests up on the ceiling are those of Starlings, rather than Swallows.

There are holes in some parts of the ceiling where you can see the sky and trees leaning inward. Light permeates the water. The bluest of sapphire or cobalt or cerulean blue water carries this dancing light. The water is on a par with Italy’s Blue Grotto. It is crystal clear and calls one to enter—to swim through its cool velvet blues.

Nina dons her mask, hearing the call and Zeke can’t resist and hangs over the dinghy side to peer into the exquisite watery window opening up to the colour of coral heads below. Vicky holds on to him. Once back out we all fall into the water and frolic like whales or porpoises at play. What a day!

The bluest of sapphire or cobalt or cerulean blue water carries dancing light.

Nina heeds the call of the water and dons her mask.

Zeke peers over the dinghy side into the exquisite watery window that opens up to the colour of coral heads below. Vicky holds on to him.

Tongan Island Formation, Colonization, and Culture Update

2010-07-25T14:36:00.000-07:00

June 4 through 8, 2010

Island formation and colonization; Ancient rule; Modernization; Democracy; Making sense of Tonga; Rank; Family; Religion; Tongans like to please; Vava’u High School’s silver anniversary celebration in photo form.

Island formation and colonization

We’re anchored off the south end of Tapana. Last night the thunder boomed for the longest time ever with sheet lightening and short, but heavy downpours.

It made for a good ambience to read I.C. Campbell’s Island Kingdom, Tonga Ancient and Modern. To reiterate in summary would require my cracked skull. Radical, but need for fractured thought—especially with regard the three dynasties.
Try some of these names on for size from the Tu’i Kanokupolu line: Ngata, Atamata’ila, Mataeletu’apiko and Mailelaumotomoto or Ma’afu’otu’itonga or Moengangongo.

I owe some sort of update from a somewhat uniformed, pathetic initial blog introduction to Tonga formed entirely from the sucking of my thumb. This might not be an improvement, but I will free flow—slightly more informed.

The first inhabitants of Tonga arrived from Asia 3000 years ago. They arrived probably in voyaging canoes, or Kalia, that were lateen rigged and held up by moveable masts. Small mixed groups of pottery-making men and women undertook these voyages carrying coconuts, talo, breadfruit, bananas, yams and pigs, rats, dogs and fowl. They came not because of over population in Asia, but rather to strike out on their own.

Tonga was much smaller then. It had no connection to continental history. Rather “it was formed as a result of two volcanic chains associated with boundary between the Australian and Pacific tectonic plates.” With eruption, base was formed for coral reefs to grow and these eventually become limestone islands or sand atolls. Volcanic ash was the icing on these island cakes, forming rich soil.

Ancient rule

About the 13th century legend has it that Tongan society was ruled by a system of chiefs: a central chief who got his status and power from heaven for overrule of subordinate chiefs. There was plenty of food and fish and time for warfare with other islanders.

There was outer island interaction and intermarriage with Samoans especially, and in time Tongans evolved from small people to Samoan-like large people.

Three dynasties took on power and this is where I do a meltdown so won’t go there. There was fair share of assassination and conflict over title and land distribution etc. What else is new with human beings.

Next came unity and independence and leap to Queen Salote’s reign from 1918 to 1965. She was wise, politically astute, got rid of the chieftainship, educated the nobles rather than have them in position by title only. She changed government, put the church in their place, emphasized education and agriculture and health services for all the people.

She was mourned greatly at her death on 17 December, 1965.

Modernization

Tupou IV stepped up to the throne, all four hundred pounds of weight, to modernize Tonga in a radical and grandiose way. Over population became a huge problem and he made for great changes in economic and agricultural development, building of roads, providing for overseas scholarships, teacher training and education, rebuilding of housing from the traditional, adding more health services to include family planning, which in time kept the growth at bay.

Some of his pipe-dream plans fell short because they were absolute pies in the skies and because of lack of qualified workers. The 1982 hurricane also wiped out 60 to 80 percent of everything.

With foreign aid and advisers he tried to find oil; proposed-- building oil storage facilities in Tonga for the whole Pacific region, building on to the Tongan fleet of vessels, played with the idea of regional shipping and even the creating facilities for the building and repair of all South Pacific ships. He built airfields and had a shot at forming Tongan Airlines to bring in tourists, and rebuilt wharfs to better accommodate deep water vessels. A lot of his plans fell short. But cream from some of them took hold.

Democracy

Enter Akilisi Pohiva, a school teacher who had his own radio station and eventually became a member of parliament. Interestingly, he attended the same college in Australia for his degree as did the king.

In 1992 his attempt at bringing government corruption, mismanagement, favouritism to the entitled etc., got his radio station and newspaper shut down and spent 29 out of 30 days in jail before he won his case. His two journalist cohorts kept him company in the goal. The King and nobles and parliament covered their tracks while Pohiva was kept silent.

Even though the people voted for democracy in large numbers, a cohesive body for a strong platform was not there, along with fallout among the leaders. All was not lost though.

Now, in November of 2010 there will be open elections for positions in parliament (rather than positions filled by the King’s choice) and perhaps a fazing in of democracy with the Monarchy on the side able to veto if need be. Things happen when you start then. And I am out of free flow steam.

Making sense of Tonga

A good book to read if you plan a visit: Making Sense of Tonga—A Visitor’s Guide to the Kingdom’s Rich Polynesian Culture by Mary M. McCoy and Siotame Drew Havea.

Understanding the Tongan culture beyond the palangi in-the-box perceptions is so important. Rank is ultra important, as is family and religion the latter of which I cannot find energy to cover.

Rank

With regard rank, there are three levels: Royalty, nobles, and commoners for which a different language for each level is spoken. Therefore, royalty and nobles have talking chiefs when it comes to communicating to commoners.

Also men rank higher than women, but sisters rank higher than brothers. Relatives on the father’s side rank higher than those on the mother’s side. Older people rank higher than the younger.

Family

The immediate Tongan family extends out to third cousins for a start. All uncles and aunts are mothers and fathers to all children. That is the term ‘mother’ or ‘father’ is applicable to all aunts and/or uncles. Tongans call their mothers and fathers by their first names so as not to confuse them with extended mothers and fathers.

It takes a lot to raise a child and Tongans speak of it as sleeping near or close to the child—mohe ofi.

“If the child becomes a menace to the community, it is said he or she did not mohe ofi or lie in the kaliloa (literally a long pillow), referring to the mother’s arm.”

Religion

The missionaries did a thorough job of imprinting Christianity on the Tongan psyche. The church is an integral part of their lives next to family. They work hardest in these two areas, more so than making a living. Commoners can look to a life after death.

The church ‘fathers’ know how to rub this in and draw from their giving spirit in the form of money. They record contribution and at the end of the year read out to the congregation how much each family has given. Some families take loans that they can never pay back to give to the church to avoid embarrassment.

Tongans like to please

Lastly before my breath gives out, Tongans like to please. They answer yes or ‘io’ to a lot of things, so be careful how you ask the question. You might get the wrong answer and disappointing conclusion.

For example: our friend’s wife had ‘Delhi’ (runny) tummy in Nuku’alofa. He went to a Tongan chemist and looked at ingredients on bottles off the shelf until he found what he thought mighty remedy the problem.

Wrong way to ask the question:
Does this medicine work for a runny tummy?
Io (yes) was the reply he got.

He went back to his wife and gave her the medicine and she got much worse with debilitating diarrhea. Back he went to a more western-like chemist.

Right way to ask the question:
What medicine do I need for a runny tummy?
They will give you the right medicine.

When he showed them what medicine he had given his wife, they roared with laughter.

I’m out of Tongan culture steam and need to jump in the water to cool down. There is much more to know so that you are better informed on: time and possessions and behaviour and traditional dress and marriage, but you’ll have to come here yourself to find out or read the book.

Vava’u High School’s silver anniversary celebration in photo form

This celebration was in honor of the high school’s silver anniversary and Neiafu burst into animated colour with culture at large for the event. The princess from Nuku’alofa came for the occasion and the minister of education and others of important rank.

There were students marching in smart uniforms and marching band boys feeling important and teachers proud of accomplishment and onlookers watching the parade on the aside.

At the school hall--which consisted of a huge tin roof over a concrete floor open on two sides—the princess and visiting dignitaries took position on stage on chairs while the students sat cross legged on the concrete floor. The powerful songs the students sang lifted hearts and minds.

There was much speech making and certificate and trophy presentation and more song and conservative dance by 4 young women. The dour-faced minister of education was the authority at large in the end. Students never made eye contact with him and approached him for their certificates bent over with head bowed because of his rank.

I can only share images of this event with few words to accompany. Enjoy.

High school marching band boys waiting under the Banyan tree for word to start blowing the trumpets.

High school girls in smart uniform waiting for the green light to march in the parade.

High school teachers in yellow wearing ta’ovala’s—woven waist mats and kiekies—a belt with numerous strands hanging down from it.

The Vava’u High School Silver anniversary float. See the plastic coconuts hanging off the plastic trees. Lucky Russ was not around, he might have climbed them.

The tall chap on the right looks serious about his place in the marching band.

Grandpa is losing his grandchild. No worries. Smile.

The best sailing children in the South Seas: Zeke and Nina hail from Tasmania.

My favourite family off SV Kallisto watch the parade: Nina, Zeke, Vicky, and Gary.

High school teachers wear yellow and the ta’ovala—woven waste wraps. The ties that bind the mat around the waist are often made from plaited coconut husks and sometimes human hair for funerals.

The band readies itself to march on. Gary off SV Kallisto stands on the side for a good view.

Vava’u residents place themselves in a good place to watch the parade.

High school boys start the march from the market place in center Neiafu.

The princess at center stage. Light and my place in the back made for poor exposure. She was light skinned, slender, composed, and wore fine textured clothing.

A mother and daughter sit on the floor of the school hall, open on two sides during the ceremonies.

Women wearing the ta’ovala to the left and right—woven waist wrap- and kiekie at center—a belt with numerous strands of leaves that hang down. The latter can be made of coconut or sea shells or other material.

Tongans of higher rank sit on chairs. The choir master directs the powerful voices of students in two most beautiful songs: Hallelujah and Jerusalem. The voices of these young people bring deep gratification and awe to those who listen.

Two of four girls in dance costume wait in the wings for their event before the minister of education and other dignitaries.

Young Tongan girls dance in between presentation of school certificates and trophies by the minister of education.

The minister of education—see background right--sits in the higher position of honor, on stage. See the tapa cloth on the steps and stage. Tongan tapa is considered best quality in the South Pacific.

Arriving in Vava’u, Kingdom of Tonga

2010-06-16T00:03:00.000-07:00

June 3 to June 14, 2010

Arrival in Neiafu, Café Aquarium, Walk about in Neiafu, Saturday market, Going to church, Sisia my treasure island, Flashback to 1980 pictures.

Vava'u

It is as if the Island gods were at play one day long, long, long ago when coral formation was at hand. I imagine the gods having a pick of shapes and sizes of tilted platforms and coralline rock and reefs, and scattered 61 small islands in the manner of throwing a fishing net into the warm Pacific Ocean. So they fell.

Helter skelter the northern group of Vava’u, Kingdom of Tonga took form. Little mounds of green, some wooded, some with heads of Palms, some with rings of the most pristine white coral sands, some like mushrooms, some like loaves of bread, some tilted see-saws; and to the west the stealth-like volcano of Late lies not quite dormant as it vents its steam, and to the south west of the Ha’apai group the volcanoes Tofua and Kao rise up and mark where ill natured Captain Bligh was relieved of his command of the Bounty.

Islands of blue-gray—a scattering of the 61 that make up the Vava’u Group.

Rose-coloured clouds drift over some of the 61 Vava’u’s islands.

The volcano Late, stealth like on the distant horizon.

The Kingdom of Tonga has borders unequalled in the common vein. The 30,000 ft Tongan Trench digs deep to the east and the area marks a major plate boundary and subduction zone. Under the calm cover of greens and blues there is great tectonic instability and volcanism--enormous violent energy potential stored in the ocean depths.

Vava’u is not dramatic in its beauty. It has subtle and hidden beauty and lends an ambience that quietly unfolds. This quiet beauty reflects the nature of its people whose roots are Polynesian with a sprinkle of Melanesian. Mostly they cater to the tourist trade—weaving baskets, making tapa cloth from the Mulberry trees, carving pendants from cow or ox bone, wood carvings, and putting on Tongan ‘feasts’ with young people dancing. They hold administrative or small business positions--there are now 26 restaurants in Neiafu mainly owned by Palangis (white people) providing jobs for locals, and they make do with family subsistence based on their ancient culture.

At 16 years of age, each male Tongan is entitled to rent 8.25 acres of bush land and a village space of three-eighths of an acre for his home for life, per Earl Hinz’ Landfalls of Paradise. However, I can only imagine how population growth now might impact the practicality of this entitlement. Where do the young Tongans go from now with little development and not much job opportunity on the islands?

The Tongans do look to protect their future generations and have created five national marine parks and preserves in the southern group of Tongatapu. These parks protect their valuable resource and food supply, fish.

Yet what is troublesome is seeing how the reefs are pillaged to provide, for instance sea cucumbers to the Chinese. It is an agonizing sight to see whole families combing the reefs in grid formation day after day after day.

I cannot grasp slippery time, but understand that evidence shows these Tongan islands have been settled since 2500 BC. And Kings in the thirteenth century reached out with reign as far as Hawaii. Still, now the King reigns on, unmarried and without a son, however his brother’s son waits in the wings.

For now, our reality is that we are here for a whisper of time, our second time. We will only have time to brush by the Tongan culture and concentrate on sailing between the uninhabited outlying islands. It all waits us.

Arrival in Neiafu: Lat 18 Degrees.39 S, Long 173 Degrees.58’W

I have the usual butterflies coming alongside a dock with boats ahead of us. Remember Port Morelle in New Caledonia when reverse did not work? Well stay cool, reverse works now.

The wharf is high and buoys, sans two lost on the way due to my sloppy knot tying, are tied high too. Squelch, squeeze, the buoys roll up and an inevitable scrape to Zulu’s sides is like chalk on the board. Ahhhhhhhh.

A fellow sailor girl stands to catch my too-short spring (mid-ship) line. “Where should I tie it she asks?” “Anywhere!” I call back. I jump off with the stern line and tie a bowline quickly. Too quickly and get my thumb caught in the action. Throw it over the large cleat. Russ is off and getting the bow line tied.

Hallelujah. The drama is over. Now the pain of going through immigration is next.

Clomp clomp. Here come the Tongans. They discard their shoes on deck. Big flat bare feet emerge and I see them smile as I greet them in their native language.
“Malo e lelei.”

“Malo e lelei.” They greet me back--Customs and Agriculture.

The Customs man wears a royal blue lava lava (traditional skirt) and a slightly stained short-sleeved blue shirt with a name tag. The Agricultural woman has a royal blue calf-length skirt on and a white short-sleeve shirt with name tag. They sit down in the cockpit and begin filling out the forms.

The Tongans are as quiet as their islands, in general, and friendly. Their emotions are tucked way down in the depths of their being. They are not animated. Their feelings are not written on their sleeves. Their smiles are wide though, and brown eyes seem to search through you, and they raise their eye brows to show recognition or agreement. They are polite. And when they laugh it is infectious.

The first two lots of paper work are complete. Progress made.

“Av you got some Kabage?” The agricultural woman asks.

“Yes I have some cabbage, and a few New Zealand potatoes.” I respond, happy to give them the sacrificial vegetables on the fringe.

I see a cloud of question come across her face as I hand her the paltry half a cabbage.

“No, I mean Kaabage!” She emphasizes.

“Oh! Garbage!” I laugh and she laughs too and hands me back the pathetic half a cabbage and floury NZ potatoes way past their prime. And I give her my bag of garbage, but not the gazillion beer bottles as they say they do not have recycle on the island. I would pay her TOP38.00 (US$19.00) for her trouble later, for one bag of garbage. That was the charge.

Once paid I read this paragraph on her form following the paragraph--Instructions: “Please take note its very strickley (sic) prohibited to carry any Quarantine items a shored (sic). Eg fruits, veg, meat, eggs.”

Smile. I won’t take my cabbage ashore for sure.

That settled, they saunter off and the Health and Immigration representatives arrive. The Immigration man asks to come down below.

The Health man has a crisp royal blue calf-length lava lava on and a cheery yellow and green checkered shirt. He is tall, and sports a mustache. It looks like he might have some blue blood overflow in his veins. He utters few words, and when he does he sounds understated and his voice is barely audible. He is embarrassed to charge us TOP100.00 (US$50) for filling out three lines: Name of vessel, name of passengers, passport numbers. Zero information on health gets recorded. He gives a twitch of shoulder when we ask why so much, when we hear a year ago it was TOP30.00 (US$15).

“The Government decided to triple the fee.” The Immigration gentleman, who had an air of authority, backed him up. “Yes a group of Government men got together and talked and decided to raise the fee.” He confirms.

Just like that. No sweat. As the Kiwis say, Fair enough, even though it may be questionable.

The Health man disembarks and stands on the wharf waiting for Russ to come back with the money and I am left alone with Mr. Immigration.

I hear someone calling Zulu. It is SV Vittoria from NZ passing by to tell us where they will be. They preceded us to Tonga by three weeks. We knew them through Christian in Bay of Islands.

I notice Mr. Immigration has gotten up off the bunk down below while I was in the cockpit and is scoping things out around the galley and goodie cabinet. He is like Mr. Eagle eyes or a kid in a candy store. I come back down and make small talk, then suggest we come and sit in the cockpit where it is cooler.

“Can I have a cold drink he asks?” I was waiting for that request. Yachties one after another tell tales of Tongan Immigration asking them for liquor. We were asked for liquor thirty years ago by Immigration. He said he wanted some spirits to celebrate his daughter’s coming of age party.

Well this time he got tank water with a splash of Roses Lime. Once on deck he sips the drink and sighs, and then like a preacher man goes on to explain—

“My son likes to come with me on the boats on weekends. Then you know the people they like to give him sweets or chips or something. Do you have some sweets or chips or something for him?”

Ahh the Tongan way comes to life--that not-so-subtle psychology at work.

My precious cheese Doritos are at large next to the fruit hammock and bitter sweet chocolate jumps into view through the Goodie cabinet glass door. I get a slab of Russ’ Trader Joe bitter sweet chocolate, a gift to him from his sweet sister Bev, and give it to Mr. Immigration somewhat begrudgingly.

“Thank you for this.” He smacks his lips at his prize as I hand it to him and smiles. He puts it in his top pocket and checks to see if it is visible or not, perhaps so his colleague who has not asked for a single thing does not see.

Russ returns and climbs on board. Right off he spies his present from his sweet sister in Mr. Immigration’s pocket.

Hands up! I have to chuckle at his expression. He swallows casually in a bitter-sweet way. Hey what’s Mr. Immigration doing with my chocolate in his pocket? I read his thoughts between the lines.

Relieved of some cash, we cast the lines off and head into the protected bay filled with bobbing boats on moorings, happy to be through the Immigration gauntlet. Here comes the first Tongan row boat—a man rowing with one oar with all his might to reach us.

“You want a Tongan flag he calls out? I got one! TOP40.” Now here is an entrepreneur. We are too tired to deal with him or flags and motor on by. It is time to drop the anchor and sleep. Russ finds our old spot from long ago at the base of the Paradise Hotel, away from the madding crowds in 40 ft of clear water.

Yet another row boat pulls up alongside. I have already hit the bunk. I hear the Tongan voice: “Do you have a coffee for me?” “Do you want to buy some baskets, or a conch shell?” He queries and starts blowing on the shell. “Do you have some line for me?”

“Negative to all Russ comes back.” And soon down below he hits the bunk as well. We succumb to sweet sleep.

Awake the next morning to a beach hibiscus floating by the boat, with the sky reflected. There were hundreds of floating flowers floating with the current close to the shore.

Café Aquarium

Creative sign for Palangi-owned Aquarium Café.

Russ, Dave off SV Vittoria and I enjoying refreshment at the Café Aquarium.

Refreshed we meet up with Dave and Lynn off SV Vittoria at the Café Aquarium. Dave fits the scientist-professor bill—wispy white hair and beard on end and bright blue eyes bespectacled, and red-head high-energy Lynn seems more a head master than the teacher.

The deck overlooks the harbor with rally boats of all shapes and sizes at the moorings. Flying flags from the Around-the-World, and Windflower’s rally from NZ en route to Tonga, Fiji, Vanuatu etc, also make for a show. An international flotilla at large.

We order a tropical smoothie and exchange passage experiences. There is a breeze so pleasant it calls for us to stay for dinner. First we take a little walk to stretch our legs. Then return for a curry night as the sun sets. Sounds appetizing and the friendly island waitresses treat us like their long lost family.

We drink it all in until the brilliant stars come out-- tropical heaven.

Walk about in Neiafu

I take my camera and we go for a walk about into town. We are in a Third World, no matter how you slice this Kingdom. Garbage is strewn all over. It is even tucked into beautiful old trees on the waterfront. There are few to no visible garbage cans. Have a soda and toss the can. Have a cheap packet of Chinese chips and toss the packet. Really sad that pride is so lacking or rather garbage cans and education. Where’s the King when we need him?

Garbage tucked into the trees in Neiafu. I did not have heart to show you the worst.

The town center is small. Two or so shops have small selections of canned goods etc., on the shelves and sell and white nutritious-free bread. There are three banks, a Backpacker’s accommodation, Tourist Center, lots of signs for activities like Whale Watching, Diving etc., and other small businesses.

Neiafu harbour is lined with Palangi (white man) businesses: silk-screen T- shirts (Tropical Tease) with beautiful island designs of whales, manta rays, sharks, swordfish, mermaids, butterflies; The Mermaid Vava'u Yacht Club and Restaurant; Mango Restaurant; Giggling Whale restaurant and handicrafts; Moorings and Sailing Safari charter boats; Baluga Diving; Aquarium Café, my favourite, to name a few. There are 26 restaurants altogether tucked away in nooks and crannie, to include a wonderful wood-fired pizza place behind the Paradise Hotel. Yum.

Sign for the Mermaid Restaurant and Vava’u Yacht Club.

The Mermaid or Vava’u Yacht Club right on the waterfront.

Giggling Whale outside seating. They sport a panoramic view of the harbor.

View of Neiafu Harbour from most of the waterfront establishments.

Relics of dream establishments remain, burned down or out of business. They stand empty, some hit by cyclone Isaac of 1983 or others more recent. The old Vava'u Club overlooking the harbour got hit by the cyclone of 2005? It sits high on the hill, derelict. Ghosts of customers enjoying sundowners haunt the place without grace.

The Vava’u Club hit by the cyclone of 2005?

Ghosts of customers enjoying sundowners haunt the place without grace. The Vavau club was destroyed by a cyclone.

What is left of an untold story.

In other instances of burnt down businesses: some children tried to use firebrands to smoke out bees in the bottom of multiple water front concerns--the Bounty Bar and other shops--and the fire took over and all that stands is an empty concrete shell. Gas bottles exploded in the kitchen of the Paradise Hotel and caught fire burning to cinders. Luckily there was no-one there at the time.There is now no kitchen, no restaurant, no bar and only one guest inhabits a room. The past remains silent.

Sign showing Puataukanave International Hotel.

The Puataukanave International Hotel—beyond a white elephant. Long live the King.

There is a Tongan-owned hotel right in town on the water front. The sign reads Long Live the King Gv’t Puataukanave International Hotel. It is the most horrendous white elephant in elephant land. Furnishings are nouveau riche garish and the rooms are emptied of guests. Boxes still remain unopened inside and newspapers are pasted up on some windows. Ja, long live the king? What about long live the people with all due respect? But you cannot knock the dream and the effort.

The Tongans seem to have accepted that The Kingdom rules, good or bad. They seem subservient in an underlying way. The protest for Democracy in Nuku’alofa to replace The Kingdom hit the wall real quick in 1992.

There are the gem images of Neiafu too. Little homes with lace or pale blue curtains blowing in the breeze; flower gardens; pigs and piglets roaming the yards; dogs resting in the shade; children laughing as they go to school in various and sundry uniforms; little girl friends with hair in plaits with ribbons walk by holding hands and smiling, a cluster of youth in soccer outfits are proud they belong to the team; an old man sits in the shade of a shop front holding onto a stick for a walking cane; an old woman in black with a grass mat wrapped around her skirt waits for someone to buy her wares and unccountable more images exist to capture.

A sweet little home in Neiafu with pale blue curtains tied back and louver windows open to let the breeze in.

A house tucked behind a beautiful flower hedge.

Four little piggies went to market.

A hot dog seeking shade.

Neiafu laundry drying in the sun.

A group of Tongans sit under this huge Banyan tree in Neiafu.

The Tourist Information Center.

The Vava’u library.

Some kind of messages are being communicated over loudspeakers, and these men listen in.

Blurry sample of a woven mat the Tongans wear around their waist. They walk toward the ANZ bank of NZ.

Look who is guarding the bank on Sunday.

A sweet lady selling her taro leaves at the market.

Saturday market

Saturday is the big market day. All the Tongans are out and about in the morning. Going to the bank, to the grocery stores, and to the Utukalongalu market. The market pickings are slim at best: watermelons, small expensive pineapples—TOP8 each-- and piles of tomatoes, a few bunches of long green beans, onions, potatoes, taro, sweet potatoes, bananas, papayas, one or two bread fruit, taro leaves bound by string, small cabbages, tender lettuce and sweet basil and cilantro. Good enough for our needs. I carefully select my produce and stretch my mind for ingredients to create sunset dinners at anchorages fit for a King or just two salty dog sailors that we are.

There is an older lady—kind of like me, smile—with grey-blue eyes. She has a black shirt on with notes of green money printed on the front. She sells small, borderline acceptable tomatoes. “These are just the beginning, she says. Better ones will come later in the season.” She smiles.

My friend, Dawn, picks the best tomatoes from the piles to make her own pile. “How much for this pile?” she asks.

“They were already in piles LADY!” the gray-eyed Tongan in black emphasizes in an unusually frustrated way. “TOP3!”(US$1.50).

“I like your shirt.” I said smiling at her to break the ice.

“I don’t!” She said. “I wear it to remember my son.” Her expression softens. I ask her to elaborate.

“My son graduated with a Bachelors Degree in accounting from a university in Fiji. She smiles a proud smile. He did not want to work. I can understand that. He said to me: ”Mom, why should I work when I can get TOP30K for nothing? No one will know where the money went.”

“He built himself a house and planted a vegetable and fruit garden with the money. He was 29 and not married. Then he died. That is why I wear this shirt. It is to remember him by.”

Her gray-blue eyes fill with pools of tears, and she can barely contain her sorrow. I do not ask how he died, but surmise he might have taken his life after being caught for fraud. But I do not know.

I look at her a long, long time in empathy. “I am sorry for your great loss. So very sorry.” I say quietly and slowly pick up my package of tomatoes and walk away. I walk up the stairs into down town, past a few men over indulging in drink. Lives in an island paradise shattered.

Tema sells tender lettuce at the Saturday Utukalongalu market. She tells me my name, Marilyn, is Melalini in Tongan.

Dawn off SV Kudana making her market picks.

Going to church

The London Missionary Society succeeded in spreading Christianity throughout the islands in 1830. Tongans are conservative. They dress that way and every Sunday you can hear a pin drop as they all dress up and go to church. Smoke from the umu ovens (earth ovens) spiral silently into the skies slowly cooking their Sunday meals as they sing their hearts out in worship in church: Catholic, Methodist, Church of England etc.

Dave and Lynn say the Methodist church is their choice to go to listen to the Tongan’s sing. So Sunday I tog up with my hat and skirt, and Russ dons long trousers and a smart shirt.

We walk to the church, a little way from the town center. It is a huge yellow building with heavy wooden pews and doors and windows open wide to let the breeze in. Everyone is dressed in their best. Most Tongan men, and some women, wear woven mats tied around their waists—over their lava lavas and skirts. Even some little boys and girls wear woven mats. Little girls are priceless dressed in gorgeous ballerina calf-length chiffon or organza dresses, hair in French braids.

The singing begins—absolutely amazing in 6-part harmony. The Tongans sing from the heart with voices loud and strong, voices that open up the heavens, like the Samoans who they resemble. Who should conduct the choir, but the Customs man.

He is dressed in a smart lava with a woven mat, a blue shirt and collar with mauve tie and black blazer. His face has beads of perspiration and after each set of hymns he sits down and wipes his face with a crisp, clean white handkerchief.

Then the preacher gets up and in a laborious monotone voice reads from the bible accentuating parts with a tone of warning and admonition.

A little boy, whose mom is not keeping an eye on him climbs over pew after pew—about five in a row—back and forth with a big smile on his mischievous face. He wears a long-sleeved blue shirt with collar and a cute little navy blue lava lava. Eventually one of the youth boys drags him from the front row to where his Mom is sitting and she gives him a good smack. I have to chuckle. That sure put the cherry on the top, or rather a damper on his little game!

Russ barely makes it through the first hymn. He whispers in my ear: “I’m going to try the Catholic church out.” He leaves through the side door.

There is more monotone preaching and now some ‘Big Church Men’ line the sides and give some authoritarian bottom-line messages. Another sits down below the preacher man at a little desk and opens what seems like a record-keeping book. A few of the congregation walk toward the man dressed in black with envelopes in their hands. Tithes? He has a pen in his hand and seems to check names off, I suspect. Can’t slither out of paying up here!

I take opportunity to slip out the side door before communion begins. The birds are singing. The sun is shining. Butterflies are flying around me. This is my church. I am too weary to go and find Russ at the huge ostentatious Catholic church so walk on to the Aquarium Café overlooking the Neiafu harbor. I’ll have a cold tonic water with lime and ice I think, to quench my thirst.

Voila! There is Russ in the Aquarium Café church, reading a Diving magazine and sipping on a cup of coffee--so much for his conversion. Our church is in nature, where we have a direct line to a personal God. Plus it is free. We relax, looking out on waters blue. Faintly in the distant background we hear voices in song--in 6-part harmony.

One of the largest buildings in Tonga is the Catholic church.

The Catholic convent in Neiafu.

After escaping the Methodist church, Russ finds solitude at the Aqurium café.

Sisia my treasure island: Lat 18 degrees.43’S ,Long 174 degrees03’W

Sisia my treasure island.

Where is it? It is a mere dot of an island in the south west of the Northern Vava'u group. It is somewhat oblong with a dense medley of trees: Palms, Banana, Pandana, and other gnarled, tall, old wide-spreading, leafy trees that provide a great amount of shade.

On the west side a swath of white coral beach graces its shore, stretching about ¾ of its length. On the east side its limestone edges dip down vertically and are undermined and etched away into razor sharp overhangs as they drop the last few feet into crystal clear waters. Holes in the limestone are sometimes formed by erosion and roots of trees dangle through them. The waves eat into the base relentlessly as they break across the ring of reef that surrounds Sisia and crash against the islet for time eternity.

We cannot wait to go ashore. Since being here on our previous voyage we see the coral has virtually grown across the little channel we used to swim through. Still, we find a way in through a sliver of an opening. I don my snorkel and fins and by the colour of the water—turquoise versus yellowish brown--I swim through the narrowest of narrows with small waves breaking on the reef.

Russ has managed to navigate the dinghy across somehow and he now guides me in the rest of the way as he stands waist deep in the water.

Once ashore I stand awhile in disbelief that I have, indeed, returned to my treasure island. Treasures of memories flood back through the gates of time. Zulu lies anchored in the exact place our previous boat, Toti, was anchored all those years gone by. Toti is derived from Amanzimtoti: Amanzi means waters and Toti means sweet-- Sweet Waters in Zulu. Amanzimtoti is the town I grew up in on the South Coast of Natal, South Africa.

Bastian, my late younger brother was on board Toti at the time, along with Ian my toddler son and young ye olde captain Russ. We had just finished a spaghetti lunch and were lazing in the cool of the awning to get relief from the heat.

I often thought how I would rescue Ian if he happened to fall over board. Should I do the breast stroke, backstroke, crawl, or dog paddle? Should I put him on my back or on my breast?

Then in my half-dream state I heard a splash and looking up saw Ian face down in the water. Adrenalin took over and with n’ere a thought of swimming stroke I was in the water and grabbed him, and before I could blink an eye I had Ian back on board with the help of Russ. I never underestimate the state of consciousness even in a half-sleep.

I used to swim ashore through the small channel in the reefs with Ian on my back and we would walk the little beach. We’d find a spot of shade and pick up shells we guessed might house hermit crabs. Ian had learned a trick from me. He would hold the shell up close and make a whistling sound as best he could and the hermit crab would peak out of its door. We would then laugh with glee.

One day, after just having arrived and hurriedly anchoring Toti we all four snorkeled on the northern side of Sisia over the coral heads. We had rounded the corner with Toti out of sight. Ian was on my back. A gentle rain came down after some time and I turned to swim back to the boat alone with him.

There was no boat! I screamed for Russ. He came swimming like a Barracuda. There far away was Toti. The anchor line somehow swparated. In Russ’ hurry to get in the water though, he had left a fishing line with a decent sized hook on it hanging over Toti’s sides. This hook had caught on some coral and held Toti fast. The angels were with us. A huge lesson learned. Check the anchor before leaving the boat.

It was here off Sisia that we stayed a whole month. Russ built a dinghy from plywood by hand. Our Metzler rubber dinghy was in a sad, perished state. Day after day he worked under the shade of a huge tree, while Ian and I whistled for hermit crabs and swam in pristine waters. We napped in the shade of the awning after nutritious meals. We whiled away our days here in Nirvana.

Tongans would come ashore in open boats and await the tide to recede. The women would then walk the reefs with long sticks in hand searching for octopus. These they hung on a makeshift rack in the sun to dry. They always worked in slow, quiet motion. The men would lie down with heads on a coconut for a cushion close to where Russ was building our dinghy and sleep and snore.

One day when a boat full of Tongans returned for their dried octopus they scooped Ian up with all their little children into the open boat. The children laughed at having a little blonde, blue-eyed Palangi aboard, and Ian was in his element. The sun began to make its journey low to the west and skies were apricot with palms on distant islets silhouetted.

They were about to leave, and pushed the boat out into the water. I went to fetch Ian and he did not want to come. He wanted to go with the Tongans to wherever they were going. I had to pry him loose with many tears spilling. My little island boy.

With Bananas completed and tested A-1 for rowing, we left for Ha’apai, the Central Tongan group, with two Peace Corps guys who were growing vanilla for the King. We towed Bananas behind Toti and after a long day’s sail dropped anchor.

That first late afternoon after spear fishing, one of the chaps tied Bananas to the stanchion. The next day Bananas was gone. He had not mastered the bowline knot and neither Russ nor I saw fit to check the knot. Gone--drifted away in the moonlight night. All that work. All those days under that tree and Russ’ masterpiece drifted away to sea.

A storm came up and the wind was pushing us onshore. The Peace Corps guys stayed below with Ian and Russ and I raised the sails, pulled up the anchor, and with no engine to help get us out of the maze of reefs, we sailed out of Ha’apai.

“I see breaking waves!” I kept telling Russ. No reply. I looked over the side and screamed out “I see the bottom!”

“Come about.” Russ called and we navigated our way through riddled reefs out to sea by the light of the moon! We did what we had to do. And we succeeded much to the relief of all.

The last flashback gets framed. Returning to Vava'u from Ha’apai those long years ago, we sailed past Sisia to pay respect to the place Bananas was built. The sun was setting. Tongan children were running the length of the uninhabited island, children of the octopus ‘fishermen’, waving firebrands into figure eights or zig zag patterns--free spirits at play dancing with the elements. Toti glided by, a silhouette.

All those memories are imprinted forever. I snap out of my reverie now and walk the narrow short beach from end to end. The sea breeze cools my face and blows my hair. I pick up hermit crab shells and whistle, and watch them come to their door, legs first. It startles me and I drop the shell. Some hermit crabs hear my footsteps and they would roll their little shell houses over and play dead, or insinuate a ‘not-at-home sign’. Smile. I pick up broken shells with a mind to make a necklace and then walk toward the entrance of an overgrown path.

A natural beach shrine: a coconut, two beach morning glories, and a shell.

There is a rudimentary lean to of palm leaves and a natural shrine: beach morning glories abloom besides a coconut. And naturally placed by the tide in front of these flowers is a shell. I walk on, looking for Russ. There he is with his wide-brimmed straw hat on and cut-off T-shirt, his signature look.

He looks up toward the blue skies, through the banana leaves and up toward the swaying palms at birds circling overhead. I cannot see anything so walk on. Then there in front of me is a burst of flickering butterfly wings. There are butterflies in yellow and white and orange and black with periwinkle dots. A whole island of them! I’m enchanted and stand dead still in my own world of butterflies. Vanessa, my daughter graduates today. Her name means butterfly. I feel her presence and love.

The shade trees as they stand today, under which Russ built our dinghy, Bananas, in 1980.

I draw myself away and walk the length of the beach again and find the big tree under which Russ built Bananas. I can hear the saw going and smell the glue and see the Tongans asleep on pillows of coconuts in my mind’s eye. I sit awhile looking back. I can hear leaves rustling now. Russ has returned to the shade of the tree.

“Let’s get going back to Zulu.” He says.

Yes it is time. The tide is in and waves are crashing ashore. Into our dinghy we get, find that narrow bridge of reef, slither over it as the waves crest and make for Zulu.

Once on board and down below, a single white butterfly awaits us. It circles my head and alights on a shell mobile. Is it a good omen for Vanessa—transformation, purity? Loved ones far removed from our paradise.

Facing west from Sisia, skies turn a fire apricot over Langito’o, and palms turn inky black like they did 30 years ago.

We sit now just the two of us having a sundowner, letting all those flashbacks of yesteryears wash over us as again the skies turn apricot and the islet, Langito’o, to the west becomes drenched in the firelight of yet another sun set, palms turning inky black.

The volcano, Late, stands still in the distance with Vaka’eitu and Ovaka its sentries. It seems to call reverie to order. The waters turn black. The sky turns indigo blue with shafts of red rose.

Venus comes on stage bringing us back to the present moment, and slowly the southern cross comes to light with the aid of the two pointer stars. The night is upon us. Sisia, my treasure island, sleeps silently on in time.

Enjoy the pictures of Sisia, along with more Flashbacks from 1980.

Pictures from our current visit to Sisisa--

An end piece of Sisia with the island of Euakafa in the background.

The reef in front of Sisia with Euakafa in the background.

The clear water, reefs, and white coral beach fringing Sisia, my treasure island.

Gorgeous clear water at the north west base of Sisia. See the limestone etched and eroded away by the waters of time.

Another shot of the northwest point of Sisia with reefs in pristine waters.

Waves breaking criss-cross off Sisia’s reef with scattered islets on the horizon, each with their own natural ‘boutique’ beaches and reefs that lurk below.

Russ maneuvers the dinghy ashore after coming over the reefs with it.

The beautiful beach of Sisia--quiet and desolate in its own sense.

Russ enters the path to the interior of the island, where I find the butterflies.

The edge of the shade tree where Russ built Bananas, our dinghy that floated away.

Banana and palm trees in Sisia’s interior.

Another shot of the ever setting son over Langito’o, from our anchorage off Sisia.

The sky turns indigo blue with shafts of red rose, from our anchorage off Sisia. We bid adieu to another day.

Flashbacks from 1980 when we visited Tonga on our boat Toti

Where is Tonga. Russ finds it, and all other islands, by celestial navigation.

This is it he points. We have arrived in Tonga. Smile.

My late youger brother, Bastian, on board Toti coming into Vava’u from Samoa.

Marilyn and Ian aboard Toti in Vava’u. How young we were!

The three sea scallywags eating watermelon: Ian, Marilyn, and Russ. Juicy sweet.

After this spaghetti lunch on board Toti with my brother Bastian, Ian fell overboard while we napped in the shade.

Ian walking out on the reefs mimicking the islanders in Sisia.

Tuala, the amazing woood carver now deceased, takes Ian for a swim with Toti anchored in the background.

Octopus drying on homemade racks on Sisia. Ian plays with Tongan children on the beach.

A boat full of Tongans on their way to Neiafu wave at us. Umbrellas shade them from the incessant sun.

Towing our new dinghy Russ built and heading out for Ha’apai. We called it Bananas. Sadly it floated away never to be seen again.

Swimming with Ian on my back at his birthday party. Smile.

Ian taking on the Captain’s reading habit.

Waters in reflection from the top of Eukafa.

Toti careened--its bottom painted at low tide.

Tongans bringing trays of food for the King, who weighed 400 lbs.

Young Tongan boys dancing for the King.

Passage to Tonga

2010-06-06T19:11:00.001-07:00

May 17 to June 2, 2010
10 days at sea and 7 days in Minerva Reef.

Leaving New Zealand; Shelter at North Minerva Reef; Walking the reef; Alien space ships; Catching a giant lobster, NZ Air force Orion and SV Windborne; The last leg is at hand.

Leaving New Zealand

There is always anticipation in leaving a place after a long stay. You touch the country and build relationships and it is hard to say goodbye.

In these last few weeks of May, yachts people have been scurrying to look for weather windows to fit their destinations, to complete the last projects in order to make their vessels seaworthy for the voyage ahead. There is some finger biting whether to go or no go and you can feel the adrenalin flow.

We do, however, find time to let our hair down and meet in the Marina Café on Friday nights to listen to the fantastic Kiwi singer--Robert we call him--belt out song after wonderful song with guitar. His tanned, blue-eyed, sandy-haired open innocent image holds our attention as he sings in a Yankee accent and throws out the odd Kiwi humor tinged with a slight dry edge. He is talented and unpretentious.

Robert the Kiwi at far left belting out beautiful songs with Hans on base at center and a young Kiwi golfer on the right all at the Marina Café in Opua, NZ.

Hans off SV Happy Monster up close playing bass for the Kiwi singer and guitarist in the Marina Café.

There is also Southern Californian Bobby Joe and Roger off SV Hypnautical singing 60s songs with harp and guitar taking us back to another era. We drink flat whites (sort of a late coffee) or hot chocolates and sample an assortment of cakes: lemon coconut, apple date.

Visuals of hot drinks that warm on a late Fall night: Flat white coffee and hot chocolate at the Marina Café.

Sailors Annabelle and her Norwegian beau smile for my camera, with Dean from
Canada in the background enjoying the music at the Marina Cafe.

There was also time to meet in the Cruising Club on a Saturday night for a Jam session. Hans the Flying Dutchman off SV Happy Monster usually takes center stage since the Irish of SV Balu left, and a motley crew of nationalities join him. The night the weather put all in darkness, they lit tea candles and sang on into the night without missing a note--jugs of beer emptied.

Hans and Dory, off SV Happy Monster, having a coffee and telling tall tales on Zulu one blustery night.

On one of these down pouring windy nights we had Hans and Dory off Happy Monster over to Zulu for refreshment. Russ had to ferry them back. His style is to untie the dinghy, throw the line in, then jump in. I usually get in first, then untie the line. Each to his own.

This night after he had thrown the line into the dinghy, a wave banged the dinghy up against the hull and sent it skimming away. Next Russ was in the water at 10 at night successful at grabbing it and levitating on up into it like greased lightning. The Dutchman's eyes were like organ stops watching Russ' dinghy entry.

There was one last time to take the dinghy ashore at Okiato Pt. This is where we moored Zulu for the cyclone season. We were invited for dinner by Christian and Hannelore and Claudia, family of our friends Heike and Johnny who are now our friends too.

The rain poured down as we climbed the narrow, steep, wet, leaf-strewn path to the house on the ‘bluff’. There was candlelight, chilled South African champagne and Kiwi Stoneleigh Pinot Gris, fish stew on rice, mashed potatoes on silver greens with mushrooms, salad, and a desert of ice-cream on chocolate crunch with sweet sliced home-grown bananas. Yum.

We laughed and talked about the fun we'd had with Christian, leader of the pack, sailing to: Great Barrier Island, Arid Island, Mokohinau Islands, Cape Bream, Whangamumu, Cape Brett, Deep Water Cove, Oke Bay, Oma Kiwi, Okiato, Robertson Island, Urapukapuka, Cavalli Islands, Mahine Pua Bay, Manganui, Matai Bay and driving up to Cape Reigne with Heike and Johnny, tip of North Island. There was Isabelle's short visit too, to remember where digging clams at Matai bay for dinner was a highlight.

We said our good bye to the Eckhoff family and to friends they had introduced us to. We said good bye to those salty dogs off Nkwhasi from England, SV Balu from Northern Ireland; SV Chinook from England; SV Happy Spirit from England; SV Atlantia from Scotland; SV Free Spirit from Luxemburg; SV Happy Monster from Holland; SV Light Heart from Seattle; SV Ms Pauline from Southern California; SV Hypnautical from Southern California; SV Kestrel from Canada and others who have slipped out to sea and from memory, but not from heart and mind.

We left Opua in a whirlwind, with Zulu dragging anchor while we checked out and Russ having to do the 100 yard sprint in the dinghy and bring her back alive to the fuel dock where I caught the lines with virtually a Cranberry drink in one hand and a cheese scone in the other. All said and done, Russ was tired out from trying to complete all his ’projects’ and declared-- "We'll leave Monday at first light." I immediately thought of those fronts coming our way and how we needed to move out of North Island fast.

Now we sail away into the day and night and I paint our first daybreak at sea: The midnight watch brings extra darkness, a squall approaches. Lightning strikes. The winds pick up to 24 and Zulu surges forward on course for Raoul Island in the Kermadecs. Christian says, because we left late we might get hit by a low coming in from Lord Howe Island. The isobars are squeezing tight. We head for Raoul Island, now 237 NM away to try to beat it and take refuge.

4:30 AM Tuesday morning Zulu is in the middle of a dark circle of moving seas. Sheet lightening flashes on and off 360 degrees where skies meet the ocean. It is a light show. The rain comes down--a shower. Predawn makes its entrance to the southern hemisphere with a subtle wash of light. The lightening plays games with my eyes turning low-lying clouds into island, figments of the imagination.

To the west it is dark and gray and somber and to the east the hem of sky becomes golden. I am mesmerized. The ‘islands’ now emerge as clusters of clouds. A hot rose colour pushes its way up through the golden light in the east, as if from a tube of oil paint. To the south a giant rose-coloured cloud looks as if it is spewed from a volcano that isn't there. To the west the dark menacing clouds are permeated with glowing pink linings. I turn around full circle with wonder.

The sun slowly makes its morning debut.

The sun slowly makes its morning debut. Pushing its way up over the horizon in a cast of brilliant fire light. The ball of fire is now radiating a new day. And as if in a ballet dance finale to the west, one leg of a rainbow drops from the grey skies into the ocean, bowing out the night. We surely have left NZ behind and new days await us in the Tropics.

Two fronts are coming our way so we head north as fast as we can for northern
Minerva Reef, rather than Raoul Island in the Kermadecs.

Russ speaks to Christian twice a day on the radio. Two fronts are coming our way. One with winds from the NE up to 25 knots and one following straight into the Kermadecs at up to 40 knots. So we swing the compass bearing and head north as fast as we can to the northern Minerva reef. We will catch the tail of the first low Thursday and reef down to take the medicine. And expect to miss the second. But the weather is ever changing and we are grateful to Christian for keeping an eye out for us.

Shelter at North Minerva Reef: Lat 23 degrees.37’S, Long 178 degrees.54’W

“Let us move down to 66.46 USB,” Christian is on the radio to us. “Ja, too bad you did not leave a day earlier like I told you. But you are making good progress. You must not go to Raoul Island in the Kermadecs. You will get hit by a 40-knot front coming across after this one. You must be at Minerva by Sunday to avoid this front. Tonight you will get NNW 15-to-20 knots on the nose and at midnight it will change to W 15 to 20. Have a good watch. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

What an amazing top-notch weatherman Christian is, guiding us through these southern seas.

I feel as if I am on an Ecuadorian donkey with my kidneys about to land in a NZ pie as we sail with the wind on our nose. It is not that bad. Only gusting to 23, but still an uncomfortable jolt. Then like magic just after midnight the winds change to the west and my kidneys are back in place for the rest of the watch.

I read Papillon, by Henri Charriere, by flashlight--happy that I am free and at sea. The hot herb tea tastes good. I’ve been up 5 hours and it is time to climb down the companionway steps and gently wake the captain.

“Russ, can you spell me?” I gently ask. “Yes sure” he responds always happy to take over. Sleep overcomes and I dream of Papillon escaping Devil’s Island in French Guiana on a sack of coconuts.

Then a commotion on deck wakes me: Russ’ feet scurrying back and forth on deck---sails flapping. The roller furling has broken so down comes the huge head sail not without an effort and up with the staysail in the dark of night. Zulu keeps up the speed. 7 knots. Not bad.

Morning comes quickly and turns into night. Our watches are like the hands of the clock turning, turning over-- day into night, night into day. I watch the screen on the computer. The little red boat symbol crawls into view from the bottom of the screen and makes its way toward Minerva. We’ll be there in the morning.

“Where are you now?” It is Sunday morning and Christian is back on the radio. He wants to make sure we get to Minerva in time to get shelter. “5 miles from Northern Minerva.” Russ speaks into the microphone. “25 miles away from Minerva?” Christian comes back. “No 5 miles away.” Russ corrects him. “That is good. That is good. The Front will come on Monday, tomorrow. 25 to 35 knots by lunch time with a lot of rain.” He warns.

Russ scans the reefs of Minerva, looking for the pass.

Russ scans the reefs with the binoculars. There are two boats in there. One is a motor boat and it is just outside the pass fishing and rocking back and forth on a building sea-- A sailboat is anchored inside.

Minerva is at hand. We’re in Tongan waters. There is always adrenalin running fast when we approach a pass through a remote reef. The electronic charts are a God send. Without them we’d be sitting on much sharper pins and needles. And many a boat, before electronic navigation, met it’s nemesis on these reefs. My heart is in my mouth in any case.

In we go. The pass is wide enough for sure. Down with the staysail. Come into the wind. Let the main sheet fly. Drop the anchor on the fly. Reverse. We anchor close to the wreck Christian showed us on the chart, on the SE side of a circular reef 270 NM from Nukualofa, Southern Tonga, and on the rhumb line from NZ. It is a wilderness. The wind is picking up in Minerva Reef, awash at high tide.

The motorboat comes in now—into view so we can see its name: Starlight. He drops anchor close to us and soon races over in the dinghy with a huge filet of fresh tuna he has just caught. Wind blowing his Crocodile Dundee hat. White caps are starting to form.

I go to sleep. It has been a long night and day. I hear Russ on the radio talking to our Scottish friends off Atlantia. What? They were headed for Fiji, but are coming in to Minerva too. Russ says Chinook is here too, our English friends also headed for Fiji. What a surprise! The Front drove them east for refuge.

Atlantia comes through the pass and circles us. They will anchor closer to Chinook. Welcome! The Ozzie off Starlight gives them fish too.

SVs Chinook, left and Atlantia, right, both bound for Fiji change course to seek shelter from the front in Minerva Reef.

Will and Margret from Scotland off SV Atlantia, bound for Fiji on a journey around the world.

Kathy and Andy from England off SV Chinook, bound for Fiji, alter their course to seek refuge from the storm at Minerva. Andy bought Chinook in Australia 11 years ago and is still sailing onwards.

Lack of sleep has caught up with Russ and he rests his head at the navigation station.

I cook up a brown rice medley, make a salad, and Russ BBQs the fish and I serve it with ginger. We open a very chilled bottle of Oyster Bay Sauvignon Blanc, meant for May 18, our 35th wedding anniversary. But we were at sea then and so it had to be tea.

What a setting we are in. It feels so good to be at anchor, to sip the good wine, and eat the wonderful meal—a gift of fish from a stranger in Minerva. We’ll sleep tight tonight.

Monday the winds start to freshen and skies become overcast. We radio our friends with weather from Christian, very happy for their presence here and hunker down to experience the storm. The royal blue waters are whipped up and white caps fly. The waves bash over the narrow reef separating us from the ocean wide.

The wind is picking up in Minerva Reef, awash at high tide. Zulu is at anchor.

The SV Starlight anchors close by and dinghies by with a beautiful fresh filet of tuna just caught.

SVs Chinook and Atlantia are now pencil silhouettes framed against a backdrop of
grey rain-streaked skies that darken rapidly. Now they are enclosed, out of light, out of sight. SV Starlight is disappearing from sight too. Zulu is wrapped in a blanket of gray. The wrath of the rain gods rip the heavens apart and let the walls of water flow. A torrential downpour is unleashed. There is no seeing beyond.

Zulu is wrapped in a blanket of grey.

The wrath of the rain gods rip the heavens apart and let the walls of water flow. There is no seeing beyond.

I sit in the cockpit under cover of the dodger and watch the elements at work, at stormy best and duck from under cover every now and again to shoot a picture. The balm on the wild dark waters is feeling the presence of SVs Chinook and Atlantia.

I watch the wind indicator: 25 knots, 30 knots, 36 knots. Zulu pulls at her anchor like a wild horse. The tide is high with no reefs showing and the seas are up and against us. We swirl and rock and pull and bounce like a cork, as if alone.

The torrential onslaughts of rain that come down on us in the form of a dark wall from the eastern heavens and flow over us with such great power come in waves. Stop and start. Like an army from heaven, it marches on.

I am soaked even under cover of the dodger, but cannot bring myself to leave the cockpit. It is a baptism. A humbling experience and only 4 knots away from a storm as measured by the Beaufort Scale. Can I fathom The Perfect Storm? No. Never. Ever.

It is all quiet four hours later. The heavens have reigned in their wrath. The winds are down to 15 knots, the seas are void of their white caps. There is a truce called in the form of a rainbow reaching up and over to great heights against the gray. Zulu is bathed in its arc of colour. Silence is at hand.

There is a truce called in the form of a rainbow reaching up and over to great heights against the gray.

The artist of elements is at work turning the sky to blue. The sun sets like a ball of white fire, bringing to light the masts of our fellow sailors in silhouette.

We sleep at last, peacefully.

The sun sets like a ball of white fire, bringing to light the masts of our fellow sailors in silhouette.

Walking the reef

The day dawns. Sunlight. Fresh winds whip through the breaking waves. The wind has changed directions and comes from the west. Too much fetch. Zulu bounces to and fro.

Fresh winds whip through the breaking waves. The winds have changed and we must move.

“The windlass is not working!” Russ calls. “We’ll have to work it manually, I’ll give you hand signs.”

The hand signs begin. We’re up and head for the western shore. Now to re-anchor manually with hand signals. Russ is going beserko. STOP! STOP! STOP! He yells. The anchor chain is one big spaghetti mess. Whatever! It is rewire time. The solenoid has gone west! On with boat maintenance in exotic places.

What are we faced with? Deep calm royal blue waters that meet in a line with aquamarine, that meet in an edge with the reef, blue sky and white puffy clouds. Heaven?

What awaits on the western edge? Deep calm royal blue waters that meet in a line with aquamarine, that meet in an edge with the reef, blue sky and white puffy clouds.

Russ tests the water and anchor out.

Row out to the reefs. To a sliver of a white coral spit. Absolute wilderness perfection. Russ goes on a reef walkabout to where it meets the ocean deep with white curled breaking waves. He becomes a spec on the horizon, one with the coral heads. Far gone.

I stay on the spit and photograph the breathless views. The spit is corrugated in places from water and wind and lies above silver clear water. Just below the surface are giant clams with purple lips and other coral. Sea cucumbers, sea greens, schools of small fish that dart away as I move inadvertently toward them.

The dinghy is a single point of focus. The anchor thrown up on the coral spit, the lagoon is mirrored water, the sky turns dark again. Colours ever changing from turquoise to royal blue to crystal clear to mirrored light.

Now I capture an image close to fish eye. The curve of the world. Water over reefs. Zulu on the horizon. Far removed. Still. Full with silence except for the sound of breaking waves. I photograph the curves of reef and the coral spit in water. Again and again I capture the lone wooden dinghy. I lie down to feel the earth. One with the creator.

Russ is back. Back to Zulu we row, our reef walk is over.

Russ goes on a reef walkabout to where it meets the ocean deep. He becomes a
spec on the horizon, one with the coral heads. Far gone.

The spit is corrugated in places from water and wind and lies above silver clear water.

Just below the surface of the crystal water are giant clams with purple lips (above) and other coral.

The dinghy is a single point of focus. The anchor thrown up on the coral spit, the
lagoon is mirrored water, and the sky turns dark again.

I capture an image close to fish eye: The curve of the world. Water over reefs. Zulu on the horizon.

Mirrored waters of Minerva Reef.

Again I capture the lone wooden dinghy.

I lie down to feel the earth--one with the creator.

Russ is back from his walk about.

It is time to get out of my reverie. Zulu awaits us.

Alien spaceships

I awake to feel Russ’ presence missing in the night. Perhaps he is reading. I sleep in broken waves. There is a commotion on deck. Things dropping, banging. It is Russ returning from a night walk on the reefs under a near-full moon. He’s tied the dinghy up and dropped the wooden oars on deck.

“I saw sea urchins out there that looked like alien space ships.” He said with awe. Between their spines there were green rings that glowed in the dark!”

He lay down and went to sleep and I lay awake seeing the moon and the eerie urchins in my mind’s eye and listened to the waves breaking.

Catching a huge lobster

Another morning breaks gloriously. Blue skies. Blue waters. We have moved again as the wind changes to the NE. We must ever move when the wind changes for protection.

Time to go for a swim. I’m about to get in when I see the fins of a shark stealth fully swimming through the reefs. Perhaps just a black-tipped reef shark. But who knows. I have sharks on my mind, since Christian got nipped here by one while spear fishing.

“Russ, I don’t want to go in.” I chicken out. He moves the dinghy to a different spot and I go in and just swim around the dinghy in royal blue waters. It is heavenly, but still I have sharks on my mind and soon am back in the dinghy and back on Zulu.

Russ goes out toward the wreck alone. He is looking for lobsters where Christian told him to go. He was gone a long, long time. Diving alone. I scan the horizon through the binoculars. He has the portable VHF radio.

After some hours I see him returning. He throws me a line and I tie the dinghy up. What? A jolly mammoth lobster! Wow. It is the biggest lobster I have ever seen and that Russ has ever caught. He says it looked like a huge spider in a hole in the coral. It scared him.

Nevertheless you can imagine lobster in lemon butter sauce with chilled white wine and sliced tomatoes and baguettes and Brie cheese. Fit for the lobster man.

Proud catch of the day--a giant lobster.

Scrumptious lobster dinner with chilled white wine.

NZ Air force Orion and SV Windborne

Next day we hear voices from the sky. It is the NZ Air force in a plane named Orion buzzing us, and asking that we identify our vessel and give next destination. They sound polite enough, but no nonsense. What are they doing in Tongan waters anyhow? Throwing their weight around we muse on a training bout perhaps.

They buzz the only other anchored vessel, a schooner called Windborne, with a Kiwi skipper. They, too, respond with the name of their boat and say they are headed for Tonga next. Avon, Windborne’s owner and skipper next calls Orion and in his clipped Kiwi accent says the following--

“Can you do me a favour and throw me down a newspaper?” Orion responds negative and takes off across the heavens from whence they came. Only a Kiwi would be that cheeky. It got a good laugh out of us. Smile. Crackle crackle and Orion calls two passing sailboats asking for their ID and destination too.

We visit Windborne. A schooner built in the 1920s in England. It then found a home in Vancouver, BC for years and thereafter landed in NZ. Avon is a character. His son and son’ s mate are professional divers and they are making a movie. They dive the pass and film the massive fish out there. Renee, a young Swiss woman is a diver too, and is enjoying a month at sea with them.

Yesterday they speared a gigantic yellow tail tuna and gave us a hunk fit for a King. A tiger shark came toward them and they slithered into the dinghy at such a pace and with such incentive that they punctured the dinghy with their spear gun. Meanwhile Avon was left waiting on the reef with the tide coming up and he, too, was starting to get energized wanting off the reef. All turned out well in the end.

I served Russ sushi for lunch with a cold beer and chili-cream cheese on crackers with sliced cucumbers all surrounded by sliced persimmon. Aaah the fruits of Minerva make up a feast fit for its namesake, the Roman goddess identified with Greek Athena: sumptuous, opulent.

Ocean fresh.

SV Windborne from the Coramandels, North Island, NZ anchored in Minerva.

People on board Windborne from left to right: Renee from Switzerland, Avon’s son (name escaped me) and his mate Duane—professional divers, and Avon the skipper. They are making a diving movie.

Fresh Tuna caught by SV Windborne divers.

Lunch of sushi, crackers with cream cheese and cucumbers ringed by sliced persimmon. Two cold ones to accompany.

The last leg is at hand

On Sunday morning Windborne takes advantage of the NW winds and sails through the pass to sea. We take a last morning swim. We linger in the cockpit with Zulu gently rocking to and fro. Tomorrow, Monday, we will have been here a week. We must take leave. The last leg is at hand. Raise the sails and point for Vavau with light winds from the ESE.

The sun makes its descent on Sunday’s last light. “Let’s pack things away and leave right now.” Russ declares. It’s a little late, but on with the engine and up with the anchor. Find the pass, stick to the middle of the channel, waves breaking on either side and out onto flat mirror seas. We motor all night long. No wind, perhaps just a whisper.

I search the southern skies and see a planet ‘blinking’ on and off. Red-green. It does not look like an airplane. It is too stationary. The next night it is the same. I want to wrap my arms around the stars and planets, know their names, where and how they are placed infinitesimal light years away.

We have three sails up: a short, high-cut Headsail, the Staysail, and Main. The moon, my benevolent light, shines on Zulu’s sails as we cut through the silver-light night waters. Clouds engulf the moon, the sheen on the water recedes, and then like a river runs back to Zulu’s side and the clouds drift on. The moon is waxing. I reach out and hold on to its light—balm in my night.

I think of the Orion Nebula, prompted by the name given to the NZ plane that circled us in Minerva. Orion, the hunter with its bow--dweller of mountains. It is out of reach, out of sight. Where is Sirius, the hunter’s dog? Brightest star in the sky it is only 8.8 light years away!

I read by torchlight, an essay entitled Orion the Hunter by Tim Robinson, from an anthology of Best American Essays. Some poignant paragraphs stand out.

“The Orion Nebula, a cloud of matter millions of miles across, all of a glow from the birth of stars within it. Whorls of gas pulled in on themselves by their own gravity, condensing into spheres, pressures rising, atomic reactions beginning. And when stars have gone through their long evolution—almost as long as all the past—and ever more complex processes in them have built the heavier nuclei out of hydrogen, the simple primordial stuff, they collapse inward, and then explode, and suffuse space with carbon nitrogen, iron, and the rest, the rich and rare.”

“Einstein wondered if a traveler at the speed of light carrying a mirror would find himself reflected in it. What did you see, riding time into my quiet historical garden, O Dweller on the Mountains?” (The writer is in a room, the door of which opens up into his garden. It is night. And he feels or sees Orion enter through the door ajar.)

“The figure opposite me remained absolutely silent and still. All the wild sensations had withdrawn into him and the room was left an empty geometry. Time must have flowed on, though, like a trickle of meltwater under a glacier, for in the end a signal came: a bark (from his dog) that rattled the windows like a cannon shot, from the end of the garden, or the end of the world, I couldn’t tell which. The hunter stood and stretched and yawned, took up his stick—it was a little bow, I saw, with a thin knotted thong for a string—and stepped out into the glow of the dawn. Very slowly the room was emptied of strangeness, as if he were drawing after him long dim tatters, glittering streamers, dazzling billowy starry banners.”

I close the book. Switch the torch off. Close my eyes in silence paying tribute to the writer, to Orion’s visit, to the universe.

There’s a light on the horizon. A boat. Perhaps it is an inter-island boat running between Fiji and Nukualofa, Southern Tonga. It cuts across our stern, far in the distance—ships silently passing in the night.

Dawn breaks with a rainbow round the moon. The wind is building—on the nose 18 to 23 knots. Each wave hits us full on and jolts our very being. Hold on! Reef the main. Take down the staysail after the shackle breaks with a crack.

Christian’s voice comes across the airwaves. “Happy spirit will sail head on into a ‘bomb’ on its way to Vanuatu: two weather systems interceding. I say a prayer for Kalo and Jacky and Phoebe on board, that they pass through the storm safely this their very first ocean voyage. Adventurers for sure.

I took this picture of SV Free Spirit in the Bay of Island, New Zealand with Jacky and Kalo on board. At the time of writing they were headed for Vanuatu.

Kalo in Opua, NZ--always kind and smiling--off SV Free Spirit. He could have gotten hit by two converging weather systems—a ‘bomb’—as he headed for Vanuatu while we took shelter in Minerva. I pray for their safety.

Day in day out the head winds hit us--forward motion north, but with the wind not having enough of an eastern component. We have passed the Southern Tongan Group and Ha’apai the reef-riddled middle group. We look out onto Tofua, a flat topped volcano with a lake in its belly and Kao, asymmetrical with the top blown off. These volcanoes mark the vicinity where Captain Bligh was obliged to skipper a smaller vessel gratis of mutiny on the Bounty. I get a shiver up my spine. Serves him right!

There is diesel in the bilge! A spill resulting partially from Russ having transferred fuel from plastic containers while underway. It gives me a headache and waves of nausea sweep over me. I take a cold shower. Wash my hair. Sit on deck and let the wind cool me. I stand my watch where blue succumbs to gray and gray to blue.

Ahead lies the volcano island formed in 1995 and, as a result, Metis shoals. I saw a photograph once taken of a sailboat sailing through a sea of pumice after the undersea eruption. What an experience.

Further north is the Volcano Late. Russ visited that island on our last voyage. He went over the lip of the volcano and got his foot cooked. Not a good call. A group of Tongans had gone there to check on the King’s vanilla beans. The memories return and I am impatient to arrive.

We cannot get enough easting to pass both shoals to our port, so pass the first to our starboard and then tack for four hours. Head SSE. That is how we will get our easting. We are moving at a good clip and tack again for a straight shot to Vavau.

One more night. And we will return to Vavau—pass through the southern passage as we did 30 years ago with my young brother Bastian and young son Ian and young husband Russ. Joy then and joy now. Turn right up the channel to Neiafu, the capital. We have arrived. Tonga awaits us.