Hurricane Evan Hits Fiji —Category 5

                
                   

December 22, 2012

Saturday, December 15: Notification that Cyclone Evan is to hit Vuda Point directly; Sunday December 16: Vuda Point Marina staff soldier on in securing yachts to a point of exhaustion; Monday December 17, Evan to arrive late in the day; Late afternoon; Early evening the elements break loose: the hour of the hurricane is at hand; Tuesday December 18, Dawn breaks calm with Vuda Point saved; We gather at the Sunset Bar for a buffet put on by Vuda Point Marina to assess the losses and our gains; Other observation: water peeling off reef into a wall, the eye of the hurricane, a blue crescent moon; Wednesday December 19, Giving back to the Fijian staff 

Early morning. I sip the last of Starbuck’s French Roast Coffee. Through the port hole I see a red leaf turn in the breeze. I contemplate reality: that by the end of this Monday we will take a direct hit from a category 4-to-5 cyclone. Anticipation for realizing Evan’s intrusion is numbing. 

Saturday, December 15: Notification that Cyclone Evan is to hit Vuda Point directly 



Notification of Cyclone Alert 

December 15 Adam Wade, the general manager of Vuda Point Marina calls a meeting in the Boat Shed restaurant of all yachts people to announce a daunting event—a direct hit from Cyclone Evan. 

Adam has experienced cyclones before and describes what to expect: the wind, the rain, the calm of the eye, the unsuspected surprise onslaught of the second half of spinning fury. The devastation left behind. 

He advises us to take down all that could catch the wind, including sails. Staff would be available for preparation (there are boats with unattended owners to consider), to help ourselves in preparation, and to help each other! 

He shares Evan’s track and speed and estimates time of arrival to be Monday, December 17. He gives us pertinent telephone numbers: management, police, and ambulance. He establishes channel 68 as the channel for communication during the storm. And lastly says they will lay a surge breaker across the channel. 

Tea and coffee and warm squares of passion fruit cake are served and indeed give comfort and a gesture for well being. Now we must walk away and get into action mode as if our yachts and life depended on it. 

Sunday December 16: Vuda Point Marina staff soldier on in securing yachts to a point of exhaustion 

Vuda Point Marina Fijian staff soldier on beyond the point of exhaustion running anchor chain from all yachts—guestimate 65--all bows pointing out from the wall—to secure them to the rim of the big orange buoy at the center heart of the marina. 

A Dutch sailor, Martin on Aloha, does his part in running his rubber dinghy back and forth in the heat of the day ferrying Fijian staff who fetch and let out chain-- laughing as they carry out the repetitive exercise. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth at a giddying pace. 

The Fijians go to the end mile in securing unattended boats. And yachts people secure their own stern chain to pins that go deep into the embankments, and further secure double lines to the wall. It is an adrenalin-rush day, in preparation for an unknown force—immeasurable--yet to face. 

Russ reaches a state of fatigue that slows him down to space walking with not much talking. He has to temporary install hardware like dodger windows and portholes so the boat can be water tight when the rains come, in addition to hurricane preparation. 

I call out to a Fijian passing by, Oscar, to help us take the headsail down. He jumps into action and helps fold it too and as quick as he is on Zulu, is off again helping somebody else. We work ourselves into a stupor and watch the sky turn scarlet with black clouds from the sunset bar. Russ falls asleep in his chair with beer in hand. 



Red skies at night are usually a sailor’s delight, but not this time. All is still and ominous. The Boat Shed restaurant made pizzas for the tired workers and our tall Australian friend John off Red Sky shouted them all a drink. We sleep restlessly. 

Monday December 17, E van to arrive late in the day 

Now this Monday as I sip my coffee and watch the red leaf turn again, it is a daunting thought that all we can do is wait for the elements to unleash what will be the most destructive hurricane to hit Fiji since 1973—a category 5, which will cause evacuation of 15,000 people and destroy not only residential areas around towns, but marinas and small islands in its wake. 

The surge breaker has been laid across the channel—tires on a steel tube that are shackled to either side of the break water. The surge is expected to reach 6-to-8 ft. No boats can come in and no boats can leave now. We are locked in this protected “pond”. 

The French sailor, Veronica, sees me purchasing a medium-sized bumper from the chandlery and offers to pump up three giant bumpers she and Yves are not using as their yacht Elliot is on the hard. I gladly accept. And give her the bicycle pump, and in time she hands them to us—bumpers that will protect Zulu from bashing up against S/V Helene and a the Cat, Marquises, from Yamba, Australia. 

Late afternoon 


It is late Monday afternoon. The wind is now rustling in the palms, almost a soothing sound, but with a distinct energy that dictates the time has come for the unleashing. 

The wind is hollow sounding and light rain begins to fall. Skies are gray. Russ disembarks to go on a walk about to see and feel the effects of the oncoming storm. 

Out beyond Vuda Point the seas are wild. An 80-plus ft super yacht and cruise ship are anchored just out of the Port of Denarau. Noble House, another huge yacht chose to anchor off the reefs at Vuda Point, rather than stay at Denarau. Other yachts are in the mangrove swamps. 

Channel 68 crackles. Somebody wants to talk to Adam. He and his crew are in the water re-securing the surge breaker that has come loose—a really dangerous job. 

Russ brings me wild ginger. I sit in the cockpit as the forefront hits. Wind screams, trees dance in frenzy, boats gallop and tug at their lines. I hear the high pitched laughter and the rapid articulation of the Fijian language filled with rolling Rs--Mo, the head staff person in charge of the crane and leading chain and securing boats is on the catamaran next to us, his crew ashore with lines. At the 12th hour he puts more lines off the stern. 



Mo tying lines to the unattended Cat next to us at the 11th hour.


Half the palm leaves are sheered as the storm engages. 

The barometer is at 986. Ordinarily it is at 1106. 960 is what it will read at the eye of the hurricane. A long night of fury awaits us. I write to my children: Ian, Sarah, and Vanessa. It is time to put our arms around each other. 

Still in the cockpit under the protection of the dodger I see Zulu is pulling at her lines like a wild stallion. The three giant bumpers the French gave us are serving the purpose and the boats on either side of us squeeze in on Zulu, roll and groan on stretched lines. 

The bumpers sometimes pop up into the air like party balloons then find their place—just in time—wedged between the boats. The huge catamaran to our port is somewhat of a guardian: higher, longer, and broader than Zulu and remains stable rather than buck and roll like Zulu. I look to it to hold fast. And see Mo’s image in my mind’s eye as he strained to tie those secondary lines just before elements broke loose. 

Early evening the elements break loose: the hour of the hurricane is at hand 

The rain is pelting down and the wind howling. I must go below and put in the companion-way slides. I leave a gap to bolt through should wind start levitating objects we thought could not blow away. I choose to stay below, knowing my safety is high priority. The hour of the cyclone is at hand. 

Tarps on boats are ripping, splash shields tear on S/V Helene, and headsails unfurl and rip to shreds on an unattended boat—Tequila-- next to the cat. It hurts to hear them tug and snap and briefly flap repeatedly. It is as if they cry out. The wind roars. 110 knots somebody reports? It is maelstrom. I must batten down and stay below. 

Zulu’s stern lifts and heaves and rolls. Our bow chain is our hold on safety. Thank you Mo and the Dutch yachtsman! 

Channel 68 is silent. It is as if all yachts people are speechless. We ride the cyclone out—elements and energy screaming all around—angry, violent. A freight train of wind with furious purpose. 



The big Cat alongside is somewhat of a guardian, to Zulu and holds fast. 


Russ repositions a bumper.



The water is not just rain, rather salt water blown by the wind.


Maelstrom. 


Russ checking the chain to see if it is still holding fast to the center buoy.



Sails shred. 

I ease out—“safe’ behind the iron horse dodger drawn to watch and listen to the elements unleash...but must duck below……night comes and all I ‘see’ is sound. 

All night long the sound of wind explodes. Russ goes out to secure the main sail. He is a veritable blur. We had coil-tied it down with sail cover on. But the zip has ripped open and he clings to the mast in his red jacket tying the line. 

The surge breaker is gone. Channel 68 comes alive. Calling Adam: a boat in the travel lift has lost a support and is leaning over reports Shaharazad from Coos Bay, Oregon. The tree Renegade tied to has come crashing down short of the yachts. Wayward Wind has broken loose and gouged a hole in the concrete wall and is wedged into it. It has now come down on High Aspect and the beautiful yacht Red Sky from Brisbane, Australia.


What the broken surge breaker looked like the day after the hurricane.  

The boats, still somewhat tied, rub and grind against each other as they roll so that Red Sky’s cleats draw gouges on the bottom paint of High Aspect. Stantions are pulled loose and life lines are gone and the toe rails wrenched off. But all of this is minor in comparison. 

Beautiful old trees groan with brittle age and crash land to muddy landing. To the end of their lives. Coconuts become green missiles as the tops of the trees are twisted off. The tall flimsy plywood houseboat buckles and lets go of panels, which become airborne. It lists and starts to take on water. 

Then comes the calm—the eye is only approximately 6 miles away. One yachtsman said the barometer fell to 945! All is strangely quiet. For a while. 

And then it starts up again. The wind originally on a track from the North turned around on itself and came back up from the south, then east, and after the eye from the north. Imagine the circular spin---of untamed force. 

The leaves torn from shorn trees and foliage plaster themselves on the boats. They are engulfed in leaf collages. Ants, too, became airborne on flying leafs and find new landings on the decks of sailing vessels. 

Tuesday December 18, Dawn breaks calm with Vuda Point saved 

Tuesday, December 18. Dawn breaks calm. Like an unwanted guest, Evan left leaving behind untidy havoc--disaster within chaos. Around Vuda Point trees are down, windows shattered, the beautiful Sunset Bar roof has gaping holes. Yachts people disembark to absorb the impact--climbing over huge fallen trees, feet squelching mud, camera lenses framing nature’s disarray. 

They are quiet and in shock. But Vuda Point is saved. And so are we. And so is Zulu at Berth 15. What saved us was all that went into preparation with the Fijian staff’s relentless effort; the guidance up front from Adam Wade; the help from co-yachts people; the marina’s position and construction—circular and rimmed by berm and reef; but moreover FATE! Luck! Our dice drew double sixes!!! 

Without calling yachts people went to work. Chain sawing trees, clearing branches and walkways, helping the loan chef—Nicholas and his assistant, Sam—prepare food. 











Many fallen patriarchs, old and brittle take the hit. Yachts people uncalled come to clear the debris.



A strap holding a boat in lift slips in the wind. 










Damage in Marina. The sinking house boat is lifted out the water and will become a home—rebuilt-- for someone whose home blew away. 






Leaf collages on boats.


Seaspray made the right decision to come to Vuda Point Marina from Denarau. Safe! 



Our friend Melinda (and Darren) on S/V Mischief from Hawaii are relieved to be safe.




S/V Red Sky from Brisbane, Oz with my yogi friend LeAnne and John are safe. 




 





Damage at the Point of Vuda. 



Mo and his assistants face the daunting task of moving and stabilizing the surge breaker. 



The Sunset Bar roof being repaired post haste. 


 

David from S/V Chrisan Daver—Dream of Poole gets bandaged after falling off the railing while repairing the roof of the Sunset Bar, twisting his ankle and hitting his head on an anchor. Darren, of S/V Mischief is an acupuncturist and acts as ‘Doc’ here in Vuda Point. 



Grant of S/V Lochiel is a builder by trade and will rebuild the Sunset Bar roof and the house boat for the family whose house got demolished. He dropped a wrench, and Mo walked by just in time to get it on the head! Veronica and Grant stand by as the ‘injured’ get iced and bandaged! Smile. 




Marilyn, looking as wild as the storm helps Chef Nicholas make pizzas for the volunteering yachties. 




Our Kiwi friends Grant and Caroline from the surf town of Mount Monganuij—on S/V Lochiel enjoy respite and are happy to be safe! 



Colby from Main on the right, the surfer off S/V Kipuka (Hawaiian for place of calm) with his French friend Alex. 



Veronica bringing water from her boat to wash the Boat Shed Restaurant dishes. 

We gather at the Sunset Bar for a buffet put on by Vuda Point Marina to assess the losses and our gains 

At the end of the day, exhausted and battle fatigued, we assemble under the holed roof of the Sunset Bar to a sumptuous meal put on by the Marina. Nicholas and Sam have gone the umpteenth mile for us with a little help from Marilyn, Suzie, and Melinda. We are nourished and for the most part are like happy children safe and sound. 

Adam calls for our attention and gives what news he can gather. Evan was a category 5 hurricane. Winds on the outside were 140 knots and clocked 110 knots inside the marina. Port Denarau and Musket Cove marinas are no more—non-existent. The 80-ft super yacht is on its side on rocks and mud. The town of Nadi and Lautoka are in shambles. Adam’s friend’s concrete house took flight and is no more, 3,000 people are still evacuated. Many, many houses are lost—one of which (and all his belongings) belonged to the SWEETEST Indo-Fijian chandlery store man. His house and belongings are just GONE and he, his wife, and two daughters are left without shelter. He was the one that stayed late Monday serving the needs of yachties rather than his own. 

Other staff members—the ones that worked so hard, were so loyal in working to keep our boats safe also lost some part of what little they had—in some cases. The roof went, then the kitchen then a bedroom. But when you ask how there homes fared, they smile and say good! And then expound that only the kitchen flew away or the roof or the bedroom. They look at the cup half full. 

Adam called for a moment of silence for those who had lost homes and possessions—for the most part meager. It was a deep, long silence. A time for humility for what we escaped and gratitude for what luck bestowed on us in being safe in the arms of Vuda Point Marina. 

Other observation: water peeling off reef into a wall, the eye of the hurricane, a blue crescent moon 

Michelle, from Baobab Yacht Services told us that from the vantage point of her beach home—at the onslaught of the hurricane—she saw the body of reef water peel itself off the reefs into a wall of water as the force of the first winds hit. Slowly the water released itself from the wall and receded back over the reef. What an amazing image. What a phenomenon! 

She, too, said she saw a grey light in the sky from what she thought to be the eye of the hurricane. The calm place for short respite. 

As we spoke on the lawn of Vuda point, hot tea and banana bread topping the buffet feast we looked up to see A BLUE CRESCENT MOON. A blue moon! Pale cobalt blue. It was as if it was saying: I, too, played a part in the rage. 




Jerry and Topu unlocking the bar in the damaged Sunset Bar. Yachties give thanks for being in the right place at the right time: Vuda Point Marina where hurricane Evan hit us directly. 

 
Russ taking it all in.





Stephen from Wales with a relieved expression. 




Adam, General Manager of Vuda Poiint debriefing the yachties. 



Topu running the bar with warm drinks: no ice, no electricity. But we are happy. 




The French: Veronica middle and Yves right lent us their mega bumpers for the storm. They are from the Maritime Alps in France. Pierre with the beard is from the island of Reunion. The chap on the right is from Brussels. Caroline in blue is from NZ. 


Two beautiful French yachts people: Yves and Veronica gave us their huge bumpers, which helped protect Zulu big time. 



Brian—originally from Zimbabwe and who runs Baobab Yacht Services—talks with Russ. 





Sunset after the storm with the flagpost down and the roof of the Sunset Bar holed. 



The phenomena of the crescent Blue Moon, after Hurricane Evan. This was taken with my small Canon camera. Wish I had my Nikon on hand. 

Wednesday, December 19, Giving back to the Fijian staff 

On Wednesday, yachts people and Adam and a small Marina crew worked hard to clean up the debris and at 7 on the point—with a money pot collected by John from S/V Red Sky—we served the staff to a BBQ and buffet and drinks. Giving them thanks for all they gave us. What money was left over would be distributed among them. 

Stephen, a Welsh sailor, dressed himself in a sulu and a coconut bra and acted as waitress. John off Red Sky from Australia and Alisa who escaped the snow and ice of Maine for a tropic sailing adventure on S/V Kipuka (calm place) in Fiji were the bar people. There was elation and satisfaction and replenishment. 


Alisa who came from New Foundland with her boyfriend on Colby’s boat—S/V Kipuka-- runs the bar with Jon from Oz off S/V Red Sky. 



Vuda Point Marina staff get served by yachties for a change. How wonderful it is that a Hurricane turned the tables. 

Thanks to the construction and position of Vuda Point Marina, Adam , and staff , we escaped unscathed. 

Thanks to Adam, Vuda Point Marina General Manager and his AMAZING staff our yachts and sailing friends came away unscathed from a once-in-a-lifetime natural disaster. 

Russ made a poignant statement. He said while out on the deck in the midst of the hurricane he saw the boats in the pit swaying back and forth and he thought: what a terrible beauty! 

S/V Zulu came away unscathed at berth 15 in Vuda Point Marina. Thank God. Thank the luck of the dice: double sixes!! 

We are humbled. 



S/V Zulu from Seattle, WA with Marilyn and Russ are safe at berth 15! Smile. 

Marilyn Marais 
Yacht Zulu, Vuda Point Marina, Fiji 

Note: Vuda Point Marina is midway between Lautoka and Nadi on the island of Viti Levu, Fiji