Ship’s Log Week Thirty Three
Current Location - Musket Cove, Fiji - 17°46'15.89"S, 177°11'24.59"E
The Kingdom of Tonga - Together again
I confess to being under the illusion that Tonga and our next destination, Fiji, were standalone islands. It’s taken this voyage and Walrus’ navigation through Tongan and then Fijian waters to understand the geography of these archipelagos.
The Kingdom of Tonga covers a 500 mile stretch of the Pacific; it is the furthest south of all Polynesian archipelagos with approximately 170 islands, spread from north to south between latitudes 16 degrees south and 24 degrees south in three main groups (Vava’u; Ha’apaia; Tongatapu). Walrus spent her time in Tonga moored in the Vava’u islands, for the most part on a mooring buoy in the waters outside the small town of Neiafu.
At 9.30am on Walrus’ first morning in Tongan waters, she was moored against a high concrete dock, awaiting the arrival of Tongan customs and World ARC yellow shirt team member, Paul. On one side, two or three local fishing boats, with fishermen busy preparing for the day’s work, beyond these the ominous sight of an almost entirely sunk yacht with warning buoy attached. The backdrop, a picturesque estuary with wooded hills covered in lush rainforest dipping down to the shore that we had traversed in pitch darkness the previous night. To Walrus’ starboard side, dusty industrial-looking buildings behind wire netting and the docking area for refuelling. This might sound an inauspicious start to Walrus stay in these waters, however, if her circumnavigation around the globe has taught us anything it’s to give a place and its’ people a chance to work their magic.
Customs’ regulations are strict in Tonga with associated and separate arrangements for complying with immigration, health and ‘bio-security’, each requiring a meeting with the representatives of separate Government departments. Crew are not allowed to set a foot on land until all immigration processes have been satisfactorily completed. We waited sometime for the first customs officer, who arrived wearing the men’s Tongan immigration officer uniform of black short sleeved shirt; black skirt with, what looked like a straw mat wrapped over the top and secured with a black tie around the waist. He seemed agitated on arrival, repeating two words, with a certain directness. Clearly something was wrong; it took us some minutes to work out that Walrus was not sporting the all important yellow quarantine flag, announcing to all that she had entered the waters of Tonga but not yet cleared through immigration. The yellow flag was duly found and flown alongside the newly raised Tongan courtesy flag.
As each official boarded Walrus we held our breath, keeping fingers crossed that ours would not be the boat that was turned away. We passed this first interview by providing the necessary documentation verifying Walrus’ passage to date and the details of her crew. Likewise the next interview went smoothly and then a wait, patience is a virtue, for the final check. The woman who was responsible for the bio-security check, arrived, again wearing traditional costume, this time a long dress with a woven belt on top, with dangling woven braids hanging down to below knee level. She introduced herself and settled into Walrus’ saloon, spread her papers over the table as we waited with baited breath to see whether Walrus’ many lockers were about to be opened and examined in the hunt for foreign seeds, drugs etc.
In the event, just one question to answer, ‘Did we have any bats on board?’ - swift answer in unison, ‘No’. At which point our inspector signed a number of papers, passed them to Dicky to counter sign, shuffled them and returned them to her bag before getting up to heave herself out from the narrow space between Walrus saloon table and the chart table, she was somewhat rotund. We reflected afterwards about whether the question had been about ‘bats’ and if so, what was the significance of ‘bats’ and ‘Tonga’? After a bit of discussion on the matter we decided it was more likely the question had been about ‘pets’. Although, as we were to find out later, there are plenty of bats in Tonga.
With the matter of bats resolved and our inspectors’ visits onboard Walrus successfully completed we were now free to find a mooring buoy and explore. Our first evening ashore was our last spent with Diane and Colin, owners of Fruition. Diane and Colin, like the best of neighbours, had opened their gangplank to Walrus’ crew, providing us with many evening drinks, great sailing catch ups and a delicious breakfast that morning. Fruition felt like, a home from home… A very beautiful home from home. Fruition and her crew were to part company with the World ARC, Fruition heading to Fiji for maintenance, before making her way to New Zealand in November on Diane and Colin’s return from visiting family and racing sailing (Colin) a new boat at home in Canada. Alex and Claire were to look after Fruition in Fiji and, before heading home to England, visiting Walrus’ home port of Ramsgate, which coincidentally was Alex’ family home town.
A memorable evening was spent together, first stop, the small Canadian floating bar moored to a buoy not far away. Then on to Kraken waterside restaurant where many of the World ARC crew were engaged in a quiz, for a lively evening reminiscing over the adventures of the past few months. This pattern of getting to know people, sharing unforgettable new experiences then parting was one we were to become familiar with over the coming months. I’m sure we’ll keep in contact with those we connected with during our travels, the experience of sailing together over oceans, and exploring ashore on arrival is uniquely bonding.
Tongan Hospitality
The Kingdom of Tonga was discovered by Europeans in 1616 and, famously In the eighteenth century Captain Cook named these islands, the Friendly Isles, due to the hospitable welcome he and his crew received. Taking part in the World ARC has provided us with an immediate community wherever we’ve arrived. The Tongan people we met in Neiafu were genuinely welcoming and enthusiastic about sharing their culture and customs. English is a language taught in school and, as consequence communication with most people was relatively easy.
The location of the World ARC base and our key stopping off point on land was The Mango Restaurant. All week World ARC dinghies buzzed to and from their yachts to the dinghy dock running along the water frontage of the restaurant. Adrian, the proprietor could not have been more welcoming. Within two days I was greeted by name and given a personal welcome by the elegant manager, Christina, always immaculately turned out with brightly patterned blouse and long black skirt, hair up in a twist and as we had come to expect in the South Pacific, flower behind one ear.
Walking down the dusty, dirt track main street in Neiafu, on the way to get provisions to replenish Walrus depleted stores I bumped into several World ARC families and boat crew. We hugged and exchanged tips about where to get bread? No more baguettes - we were no longer in French Polynesia; instead, I learned that sourdough could be ordered and collected the next day from the store called ‘Snabs’. Cash? - by the coffee and tees shop. What sort of veg and fruit were best buys in the market? - watermelon and pineapple, in bunches of four, were easy to come by, a vegetable similar to Pak Choi was good too. The three supermarkets, owned and run by Chinese families, a theme that was replicated in other islands we were to visit, had limited, mainly tinned food on offer. Saturday markets were quite the occasion for the Tongan people and worth an early morning visit for the spectacle alone. A young person’s church choir dressed in purple robes sang in harmony and danced under a wide-spreading Banyan tree. The audience perched on makeshift stools of upturned half oil drums and planks, fanning themselves with woven fans, while on the opposite side of the road, women sat by tables laden with locally grown wares, which if you were lucky might be sold in a skillfully woven bag made from a coconut palm leaf.
Early morning we awoke to the ethereal sound of voices singing in unison, in an act of daily worship that had become as firmly rooted in the customs, culture and traditions of Tonga as wearing straw outer skirts, dancing, drinking Kava together (kava is made from the ground kava roots and has a mildly soporific effect), or holding a pig roast to celebrate high days and holidays.
From day one, it became evident that traditional costume, was not just for show or to satisfy the curiosity of tourists. We found that wearing traditional dress was very much part of everyday life and that skirts with an outer straw mat on top were worn by men and boys and for women and girls, an outer skirt of woven braids, when at work, on official business, and, by most school children and, in particular on Sunday’s for all the church-going community. Given the humble accommodation of people in Tonga, basic small one or two room houses with tin roofs and a red earth patch of garden with wild pigs roaming free digging up anything that wasn’t secured behind a wire fence, I marvelled at the capacity of the Tongan women to, day in day out, maintain their and their families’ immaculate, colourful appearance.
Tongans, like many South Pacific islanders had a history of being warriors defending their territory and ultimately avoiding being beaten and eaten; cannibalism was practised until the arrival of missionaries in the late 19th century. In current times, warrior tendencies had been channelled into traditional dance and singing. For boys and men this involved carrying sticks and making wide, combat-ready movements to music that had a strong beat and rhythm and for girls and women, dancing and telling the tale of journeys across the sea, battles lost and won, and of love and loss through elegant movements of their hands and arms to music that was repetitive and had a swing to it.
A few days into our stay Walrus’ crew joined with other World ARC fleet members climbing into mini-buses of varying states of repair, for a carefree drive, bumping along pot-holed roads through the countryside, which, if it weren’t for the constant sweat-inducing heat and the giveaway banana trees, could have been a bucolic English scene from times gone by. We visited the Botanic Gardens of Ene (meaning by the beach) established by a local ecologist to preserve and maintain indigenous plant life and to share information with visitors about the symbiotic relationship between Tongan people and plants.
Our visit to the gardens was led by recently elected deputy governor of Vava’u, Lucy. Lucy threw herself whole-heartedly into making our day memorable. Stand outs for me were the beautiful ginger plants, some with cascading white flowers, others orange, the imposing Compass plants with their geometrically arranged giant-sized foliage, always pointing north-south, as I recall, and parrot-like flowers and, not to be forgotten, the Ylang Ylang tree, with flowers that have a distinctive intoxicating scent, highly prized by perfumers.
After a walk through sponsored pathways criss-crossing the arboretum we followed Lucy back to a roughly made single-storey building on the edge of a beautiful curved, naturally sheltered beach for a short demonstration showing how natural materials were transformed into finished craftwork or other products - think, Blue Peter and ‘here’s one I made earlier’. The demonstration was performed in a small room set out with low chairs and benches, on one wall photos of a young Prince Charles HRH walking across a lawn with a large and elaborately dressed King of Tonga. A reminder of the historic ‘special relationship’ between our countries. During the period 1900-1970 Tonga had British protected status and the United Kingdom looked after Tongan’s foreign affairs under a Treaty of Friendship. It seemed, from discussion with local people, that there continued to be a reverential respect for the English royal family, which given the distance in time and geography since any formal relationship existed was a surprising eye-opener.
Tongan Feasts
On hearing the word, ‘cava’ early on, and with the wonderful aromas of the much anticipated pig roast seeping in from the rustic trestle-table-laid room next door, my attention drifted at times to thoughts of a nicely chilled glass of bubbly. It was not to be, the Kava on offer was the root of the Kava plant, ground down, mixed with water into an earthy tasting, cloudy drink, served in halved coconut shells from a large wooden carved bowl. Nothing like as refreshing as a glass of sparkling wine, just slightly mouth-numbing, leaving a tingling sensation and reportedly a mellow feeling. The lunchtime Tongan feast lived up to expectations with dish after dish of local fish, vegetables and, in true Tongan style, mouth-watering hog roast. Lunch was followed by an enthusiastic display of traditional dance performed by young people wearing authentic costume. World ARC fleet members were suitably appreciative, clapping along with the rhythm and rewarding the performance with noisy applause, right up until the moment that there was a clap of thunder and a huge deluge of water pounded down on the tin roof.
First a few drops made their way onto the table cloth, then a cascade of water poured from the gap between the tin sheets above our end of the table. Ted struggled to extricate himself from the trestle table’s bench before becoming drenched. There followed a moment’s pause then spontaneous movement away from the source of the waterfall, a ripple of laughter spread across the dining room, before Tongan family members and World ARC yachties alike, sprang into action with a relay of buckets passing from one to another, until just as quickly as it had started the rain died down.
It was time to go - we said our farewells, thanked our hosts and headed back to the boats after the wet and soggy but memorable end to a memorable day.
Fixing things in Exotic Places
Any stop of a few days after a passage would not be complete without fixing things on Walrus. Her engine troubles on the passage between Bora Bora and Tonga had left her limping along with an engine leaking water into the bilge and at risk of over-heating, with dire consequences, if used going forward. She had a tear in her parasailor and the storm jib was ripped at the head. All the boats in the World ARC seemed to face the same dilemmas and compromises - there are so many amazing places to explore in these remote places we’re visiting but the priority, first and foremost has to be keeping boats shipshape for the journey ahead. There isn’t a boat in the fleet that hasn’t had to address unexpected maintenance issues - generators and alternators that have failed, sails that have torn, auto-pilots that have stopped working; the gooseneck on the boom of a new yacht that gave way early on in the rally.
Walrus is, first and foremost, a sailing sloop (single masted sailing vessel), however, without an engine to propel her when winds were unfavourable or when manoeuvring in constrained spaces, such as when picking up a mooring buoy or coming into a marina, or just to charge the batteries when wind, sun and water were insufficient, she wasn’t seaworthy. The next few days were dedicated to getting Walrus’ operational in preparation for the sail from Tonga to Fiji’s Lau islands, and to do so we were, as ever, dependent on the skills of the local tradesmen.
Dicky’s detective work established that Riki Tiki Sails no longer existed. The original sail-maker having moved on, leaving his sewing machine behind, but with no one on the island who knew how it worked, business had ceased. The sail repairs would have to wait until Port Denaru in Fiji. Better luck on the engine front, shipwright, Alan, had capacity to look at Walrus’ faulty raw water pump and, fingers crossed, he sounded as though he had a fix that might work. Dicky and Gerald set off in a taxi across land with Walrus engine parts in hand, they returned optimistic and within days (nothing happens overnight) Alan reported that he would replace the ‘o’ ring, skim the surface of the shaft and replace the bearings. Phew… things were looking up.
I should mention at this stage, that at every step of the way when assessing Walrus’ engine issues we had amazing support from UK based ‘Kevin-the-engine-man’, as I had come to know him, Kevin Pateman of Kent Marine, as he’s known more generally. Kevin responded to Dicky’s emails and calls on any day of the week and seemingly any time of day, with well-found advice that kept our hopes up, and generally saved the day on numerous occasions. What a superstar.
The engine’s raw water pump returned some days later and Gerald (chief fixer) headed into the unbearably hot, tiny space that the engine occupies under Walrus’ central cockpit to fit it into place. Sometimes fate and the vagaries of getting things fixed in unusual places come together with perfect timing and everyone breathes a sigh of relief. Such was the case on this occasion.
More Feasting, and Another Dinghy Disaster
With Walrus’ engine back in one piece we were free to sail the seven nautical miles to an isolated beach (space for no more than 15 yachts to anchor) on an isolated island for a beach BBQ under an enormous, ancient banyan tree. A tree that looked as though it belonged in a Lord of the Rings movie, or maybe a Grimm’s fairytale. En route we passed many uninhabited islands of pitted volcanic rock, worn away at the edges by the constant lapping of seawater and topped with green vegetation, looking something like a cupcake which someone had nibbled around the edges.
There was such a proliferation of islands that the horizon was invisible throughout the sail. The family that lived on Vavaaeitu Island, husband, wife and their eleven children, hosted an atmospheric evening culminating in a feast (boy, do Tongan people know how to feast) there were twenty or more dishes set out on a long trestle table), followed by traditional dancing and the ritual sipping of Kava poured by ladle from a large wooden ceremonial Kava bowl.
The route to and from the shore was by dinghy. Any ride in Walrus dinghy, with her repaired slash (Hiva Oa) and gradually detaching transom, was a precarious ankle and bottom-wetting experience, despite her shiny, new, orange electric outboard motor. The sea had a swell to it in the bay of the beach BBQ and in the dark, after an evening of partying, with everyone taking to the water to return to their yachts at much the same time, it was hard to see the way. Shortly after Walrus’ dinghy sprung silently into life (the joy of an electric outboard), there was a loud clunk, and a jolt as Walrus dinghy stopped short and started, instead, swooshing backwards and forwards with the movement of the waves. One look at her new outboard showed that the propeller blades were no more, they had snapped off on contact, presumably with a coral tree hidden in the dark of the night.
Expletive deletives followed. Ted, practical and pragmatic as ever rowed us back, slowly and, mainly surely, to Walrus. No mean feat in an ocean swell and after a number of beers (I’m guessing the man has had some previous practice). The miracle of the World ARC community’s commitment to supporting one another was once again put to the test and came up trumps. Dicky recalled a conversation with Chas, skipper and owner of Living the Dream about his electric outboard (they’re still a rarity) and following a brief text exchange, the next morning, before you could say, ‘Jack Robinson’ Chas’ son, Finn, whizzed over to Walrus with a replacement propeller. We were bowled over and couldn’t quite believe our good fortune. Walrus and her dinghy were up and running again. Big thank you to, Finn and Chas.
Bats, Bravery and Goodbyes
We returned to a mooring buoy near to the Mango Restaurant in Neiafu for a final few days in Tonga, this time a little closer to the tree-lined shore. While the guys took a well-earned, post party nap I spent the next hour or so fascinated by the comings and goings of the many fruit bats living in the tree close by (must look up the collective name for fruit bats - it’s a parliament of owls - I’ve always loved that one, and a murder of crows; I’m wondering if it’s a screech of fruit bats). Captain James Cook reported seeing fruit bats for the first time in these parts and named them ‘flying foxes’. They’re the only species of bat that hunt in the day time, as far as I’m aware. The two or three hundred fruit bats in the largest tree, were constantly moving, chattering, flying around and returning in ones and twos. For a while I felt like I’d joined a David Attenborough shoot.
If we thought sailing around the world in Walrus, a 12.2 metre Hallberg Rassy, (the smallest boat in the World ARC fleet) was a challenge, then meeting the sailors taking part in the first ever Mini-Globe Race (you can find it on the Yellow Brick app), as they started to arrive in the anchorage, made us think again. Jakob a Polish/Irish entrant moored alongside Walrus for a night and we listened with interest and admiration as he told his story. The requirements for race entry - all boats must be able to fit inside a 20ft container and be no more than 5.8 metres long. I tried to imagine what it would be like being tossed this way and that on the ocean swell of the Pacific in a boat about the size of two standard double beds put end to end and knew that I didn’t have the bravery, practical skills or self- determination to push through battling against the elements, sleep deprivation and sense of being alone on the vast open sea.
The race had been established to provide the opportunity for affordable, competitive solo sailor circumnavigation. Jakob had built his own boat and proudly showed us how he could work all aspects of sail change and steering from the tiny cockpit area. The Mini Globe solo sailors are required to have a manager or coach with whom they keep in contact and who acts as a land-based World ARC yellow shirt team member might, providing weather forecasts and encouragement, acting as a safety net, if things go wrong. Jakob told us the biggest lesson he’d learned was that company of others was important and that when he returned to Ireland he wanted to reconnect with family and friends. I reflected that it seemed an extreme way to learn the importance of community, but nevertheless admired Jakob’s honest and open approach to sharing his story. We invited Jakob to join us for supper ashore that evening and hoped we’d helped him on his journey in some small way.
It was nearly time to move on, but not before the World ARC dinner and prize giving at the Mango restaurant with all the fleet gathered together for the first time since Nuka Hiva in the Marquesas. A seeming lifetime ago. More Tongan dancing, another feast, lots of catching up and a fun time had by all. Walrus crew were awarded the prize for the closest estimate of arrival time in Tonga, Walrus now has a hand crafted Vava’u basket, coasters, fan and useful pot on board to show for Dicky’s accurate calculation.
As the hangovers wore off the next day, and immigration check out was completed over strong coffees, Walrus prepared to set off for the Lau Islands and then Port Denaru on Vitu Levi Island, Fiji. Meanwhile I prepared for the long journey to New York to visit baby Marlowe, my new grand-daughter - a flying visit of four nights in Brooklyn… Worth every moment.
Fiji… Bula, Bula…
Of anywhere we had visited to date, Fiji was perhaps the most consistently welcoming. From the outset, without exception, whether roadside gardener, taxi driver, women walking home from work or marina manager, local Fijians greeted us with an ebullient, ‘Bula’, and sometimes for good measure, ‘Bula Bula’, always said with genuine feeling, accompanied by an ear to ear, heart-warming smile. I wasn’t sure of the literal translation for Bula, and perhaps there isn’t one, other than it’s a greeting applied at any time of day and in any situation. It took a little time to cotton on to the protocol and join in with a similarly enthusiastic, ‘Bula…’ in response. What a contrast from England, where such natural enthusiasm would most likely be ascribed to some form of minor derangement, attracting a reaction ranging from ‘ignore it, and she’ll go away’ to downright aggression… ‘what’re you lookin’ at’, possibly coupled with a flying lump of spit, aimed to narrowly miss but deter further social contact. I hasten to add… Sandwich, is an exception to this version of the English way of life, people greet each other in Delf Street, while on their way to ‘No Name Deli’ or the newsagents, with a polite, ‘Morning’ and rarely does anyone go unnoticed or without a smile and a greeting. I’m sure there are other parts of England where the same applies. However there was something exceptional about the universality of a Fijian’s ‘Bula’ welcome which compelled reciprocation and as everyone knows, one smile returned by another is the best remedy for feeling good.
While Walrus and crew sailed the two or three days to the Lau Islands, a great sailI by all accounts, I flew from Tonga to Fiji in a small plane with propellers and spent 24 hours exploring before flights to New York. I took a tour of the beautiful Sleeping Giant Garden, so named because of its location on dormant volcanoes forming a ridge in the shape of three somnolent giants. The gardens were created by an American film star in the 1970s and have been maintained with the same attention to detail on and off since then.
After months at sea and parted from our walled garden in Sandwich I enjoyed a few hours of total immersion in Fijian horticulture. The gardens featured a shady fern festibule, a walkway of orchids, some hanging with roots exposed to the air, a dip down steps passing banana trees and plants said to ward off evil spirits if planted around a village boundary, to a trickling water feature. On and up to a large clearing surrounded by tall trees, on one side three crafted figures inviting visitors to hug a tree, and up steep steps two large swings, side by side. I was guided by one of the gardeners who introduced me to others along the way. I learned about a charity called Weavers of Wisdom. My guide’s co-worker had been invited to join a world-wide Zoom call with other young people forging their way in challenging circumstances through the application of traditional crafts or skills, such as horticulture and wood carving. It was clear that this contact had had a significant effect on his thoughts about what he might do next and he had started to plan a solo journey in a traditional Fijian vessel to visit other gardens. He had high hopes that his new found contacts might help with funding and logistics. I reflected on the good fortune we have in the Western world, and the opportunities we take for granted.
By this time, we’d walked through the creeper covered woodland and been offered a much appreciated chilled fruit juice. The lack of commercialism was noticeable, no gift shop, drinks were given gratis and space in what would be a business-orientated cafe in any English National Trust garden was given over to an area for visitors to contemplate and enjoy the gardens while seated in cane chairs with high semi-circular backs, in keeping with the gardens’ 70’s genesis and as featured in a once ubiquitous painting by David Hockney, of the same era. As much as I love Walrus and her crew, I was keen to make the most of galley-free time on land.
Next stop, a dirt track ride away, thermal pools, fed directly from the depths of the volcano and a skin-smoothing (apparently) mud bath. Not the lavish spa day of Chewton Glen and other such temples to bodily beauty, but rather a large plastic pot of volcanic mud, self-plastered over every bit of visible body, baked in the hot sun and then washed off in first one, then another hot water pool. A heron kept bathers company in the first and the second was overlooked by a tethered cow, chewing thoughtfully on her grass, while staring at the antics of the humans a few yards away. Before the final pool, a foot massage given by a large Fijian woman, sitting cross legged on the floor and using all the parts of a coconut to exfoliate and refresh. My feet have never been as beautiful, and possibly never will again. Amazing experience.
The final pool was large and chest deep, as you do, while blobbing around in super-hot, slightly murky water with people you’ve never met before, I got chatting to a young American couple. They were fascinated by my tale of travel across the seas and I, in turn, was interested in their plans. So taken were they with Fiji and the Fijian people that they were seriously considering purchasing a property in order to qualify for citizenship. As time went by and we got to know a little more of the ways of Fiji, I could understand their thinking.
Final stop before heading to the airport, the Crowne Plaza’s restaurant, tall wooden ceilings, with lazy rotating fans, positioned at the end of calming interior pool with burbling fountains, and a labyrinthine swimming pool, criss-crossed with little bridges. It was instantly inviting and very different from the Crowne Plaza, Kings Cross, London. I settled into one of numerous generous sofas overlooking a long, sandy beach, and ordered a glass of rose and the biggest bowl of crab parts I have ever had the good fortune to be served. The super-friendly, smartly dressed, be-skirted waiters (Fijian men sport ‘Sulus’ a straight skirt made of fabric reaching below the knee, in place of the straw skirts of Tonga) brought a large pliers-like implement and a finger bowl of water.
One woman waiter, in particular, took me under her wing, so impressed was she that I had chosen the local market crab for my dining-alone lunch, she made a point of telling me not to worry about the amount of mess I made of the tablecloth or surrounding area, but just to enjoy. I took her at her word and soon had spattering of crab down my wear-it-for-long-distance-travel T shirt. At the end of her shift the same waitress came over to give me a special Fijian hug farewell. Heart-warming.
Fiji - Warm welcome, rest and repair
Whilst I made my way to and from New York, Walrus and crew checked into Fiji in the Lau Islands, a remote group of islands to the east of the main islands of Viti Levi and Vanua Levu. Dicky, Gerald and Ted and Walrus, too, had their own adventures, spending a memorable evening on Vanua Belavu, dining on blackened fish and weak coffee with a minister and his family observing intensely; anchoring in the reportedly beautiful Baie of Islands, where volcanic rocks with lush vegetation atop surrounded an isolated azure bay and the local chief invited World ARC sailors to join his tribe for a Sevu, Sevu (Kava root drinking) ceremony.
I don’t recall at what point we discovered that all was still not well with Walrus’ engine. Maybe it was just before she left Tonga, or maybe it was on the sail to Fiji. The raw water pump having had a complete revamp the engine room (more of a cupboard than a room, in Walrus’ case) should have been bone dry. It was Ted who first spotted water leaking, albeit slowly, into the bilge. His assessment and the general consensus was that another pump, this time the fresh water pump, was at the heart of the problem. After lengthy email exchanges with Kevin the engine-man, and yacht services in Fiji, Dicky established there was an engineer with the skills needed to fix the engine at our destination on Viti Levu Island; with that a new pump was ordered.
Ordering of boat parts in remote places is not the easy ‘click-and-pay; get-delivery-the-next-day’ type of experience we’ve become used to in England. In this case the pump was sent from Sheffield in England and delivery was by DHL. Notoriously packages can spend days in customs, where the bureaucracy of importing items can cause interminable delays. In this case we waited two weeks for delivery.
Walrus’ navigation into and out of the Lau Islands required concentrated effort to avoid crunching on the many uncharted coral trees known as ‘bommies’ and partially submerged tiny islands. The team effort paid off and she came through unscathed as the crew navigated the seas, sailing on to meet me in Port Denaru, using the engine as little as possible. As Walrus motored towards her destination, I stood on the pontoon ready to take lines.
The last mile of Walrus’ 24 hr journey seemed to take forever, as I watched and waited with feelings akin to those I’d felt when waiting for summer camp graduation ceremony to end and one or other son to come racing over, reunited after a week away.
Port Denaru, although a small marina had, it seemed, pitched in as Fiji’s super yacht destination. Walrus was very much the little shrimp, moored amongst the glamorous and gorgeous of the yachting world. At dusk, soon after Walrus’ arrival, the lights inside the yacht moored on the opposite side of the pontoon revealed a helicopter ready to launch at a moment’s notice to whisk owner and friends to and from, their main yacht, which, too big to come into the marina, was anchored in the nearby bay. Many of our neighbouring yachts had uniformed crew and polishing was the name of the game, day and night. In my view, Walrus held up her own, an authentic blue water sailing vessel with beautiful white hull and the instantly recognisable blue line of a Swedish Hallberg Rassy.
The warmth of Walrus’ reception was no less than that of any other boat, such was the Fijian way. Our stay at Port Denaru was the first in a more commercialised environment for some time, the area beyond the immediate marina complex covered extensive acreage and included an 18 hole golf course, shops, supermarkets, five large hotels with gorgeous gardens discreetly positioned along a mile long stretch of sandy beach coastline.
While waiting for sails to be mended, engine and other parts to arrive from the UK and New Zealand we kept ourselves busy. There were definitely worse places to be marooned. Dicky and I headed into the nearest town, Nadi, to buy provisions from the extensive local vegetable market. Rows of trestle tables laden with pineapples, peppers, cabbage, misshapen green oranges, watermelon, green bananas, papayas, yams and other local produce, spread out before us, behind each a Fijian man or woman sitting patiently, ever hopeful that you’d stop at their stall. I tried to buy from as many different stalls as possible, to spread the financial benefits.
A covered area the size of an Atcost barn was dedicated to the sale of Kava root, such was the importance of this natural drug to the Fijian life-style. On one occasion Gerald and Ted visited Nadi and found themselves invited to drink Kava in the home of a local townsman, they were shown, with some pride the wooden weapons of former days and told the gory details of how these utensils were used to brain, kill and otherwise dismember the unfortunate victims from opposing tribes. We were glad to see Ted and Gerald return alive at the end of the day.
On Sunday we hired a car and explored the coastal area from Sleeping Giant mountain to the Sigatoka sand dune park, driving along a dusty main road for mile after mile, crossing over the narrow gauge railway used to take sugar cane from field to processing plants, passing hamlets with tumbledown shacks clustered together. As we climbed up to the brow of a foothill overlooking the sea, we heard the beautiful sound of singing coming from a small church far below and listened for awhile. Further along the road we passed groups of open-air church goers sitting on rugs under a canopy. Sunday was respected as a holy day, but not everything was closed.
Time passed while we waited for the parts and engineer to fix Walrus’ engine. Port Denarau marina held a party on the pontoon, attended by marina workers, super yacht crew and World ARC sailors; Dicky became a regular at the Sails restaurant bar and I at Cafe O, where the sun always shone, waiters smiled and the carrot cake was to-die-for. Dicky, Ted and I spent a day travelling on the Bula Bus, a thatched shuttle bus transporting visitors from the port to the various hotels, we had coffee in Wyndhams, lunch on the beach in the Sheraton and a cup of tea on the wooden verandah at the Sofitel. Walrus crew spent a fun hour watching Fijians juggle, eat and walk on fire, in a phenomenal display of traditional skills and dancing.
Finally sails were returned, all tears sewn up, Walrus’ engine was fixed and back in tip top shape. It was time to move on to our final destination in Fiji, Musket Cove on Malolo Island. Glad to be underway again across the deep blue seas of the Pacific, we enjoyed an exhilarating sail between Fiji’s myriad islands, avoiding shallow patches with sandbanks and coral creating ominous ripples on the surface not so far away and at times a little close for comfort. After a period of being in one mooring for a week it felt good to be raising Walrus’ sails, steering a course and getting underway. Walrus’ crew’s sense of purpose and momentum returned; we had become veritable travellers on this voyage, always seeking new lands to explore and the next adventure.
The Next Adventure
As the sun started to lower in the sky we approached the anchorage off Musket Cove, taking care to keep to the deeper channels travelled by World ARC boats ahead of us. I don’t know if you’ve ever watched a group of boats at anchor? They turn through 360 degrees in response to tide and wind, usually, in choreographed synchrony. At first I found it a little disorientating going to sleep with Walrus bow facing one direction and waking up in the morning, climbing out of the saloon to the cockpit to find she was facing a completely different view, with a neighbouring boat, sometimes disconcertingly close. We looked for a space between the other boats and away from rocks and shallow patches. Dicky slowed Walrus to a halt before giving the instruction to lower the anchor. The anchor was lowered and sufficient chain let out to keep Walrus secure in an area of Musket Cove signalled on the chart as sufficiently deep to accommodate her draft of 1.85 metres, at low tide - easier said than done in amongst the myriad rocks, coral and islands.
All was well with the world, our timing couldn’t have been better… the vista was stunning, the late afternoon sun’s rays highlighted the contrasting colours and contours of the island to Walrus’ port side. Over the next half hour or so the islands ahead became hazy outlines, dusky purple silhouetted against the horizon and a deep golden hue spread over the ocean behind us, illuminating the clouds with reds and orange. We watched, mesmerised as the sun, glowing like a fiery orange or one of those glowing lumps in a 1970s lava lamp, slipped lower and lower, finally disappearing over the horizon and all too suddenly, as is the way in this part of the world, the pitch, black stillness of night descended.
Some nights a wonderful tranquility descended with the onset of evening, this was one such. After half an hour or so, eyes adjusted to the light of the starry South Pacific sky, we enjoyed the glorious freedom of being at sea, in a calm anchorage and waited for moonrise. We whiled away the evening over supper and a glass of wine and went to bed looking forward to exploring Musket Cove and seeing World ARC fleet members after several weeks apart.
It’s never completely silent at night on board Walrus, there’s the creak of ropes straining, sometimes the mainsail halyard taps against the mast, in calm seas there’s the reassuring light slap, slap of water against the hull and when at anchor the occasional noise of heavy chain moving-under-water. These sounds have become a familiar night-time accompaniment, a sort of Walrus’ lullaby. A few hours later, well before dawn, one after the other we were woken by a loud grawnching sound… once, then a minute or so later again… not one of Walrus usual nightime noises. At first, in my half asleep state, I thought it was the anchor chain… a dragging sound would suggest we were moving away from our anchored spot. As the noise repeated, Dicky was up on deck investigating, the rest of us followed as we came too and registered the unfamiliar sound.
Walking around the deck to check on her anchor it was clear the sound was not coming from Walrus bow, where the anchor chain dropped below the surface. Again the ominous, echoey, grawnching sound, this time louder and definitely coming from under her hull, towards the stern. Gerald shone the big spotlight used at night to signal to other boats onto the water’s surface around Walrus. He poked the boat hook into the sea on Walrus’ port (left side - if you’re standing on deck looking forward) and hit rock bottom. The jigsaw pieces fell into place and it wasn’t a pretty picture. To Walrus’ left was a large area of coral just below the surface, the tide had fallen, the wind had changed direction and Walrus was being blown onto a reef, her keel grinding against coral as she crept ever closer to the shallows. As the penny dropped and our predicament became clearer, after a quick exchange of thoughts about the situation, Dicky started the engine, Gerald raised the anchor and, in an attempt to push Walrus off the coral and steer her to a deeper, safe anchor spot, Dicky engaged bow-thruster and throttle.
The good news, there was a clear channel of deeper water up ahead to Walrus starboard (right). The not so good news, with the anchor raised we were now at the mercy of wind and tide. Bow thruster and the engine were not having the desired effect, the grawnching became more intense, Walrus was, if anything more entrenched on the reef. Quick thinking and team work was the name of the game as a new course of action was put into play. Walrus bold night rescue operation was executed from her much-maligned and only-just-holding-together dinghy, which Ted, Gerald and I inflated and launched over Walrus starboard side as quickly as we could. Gerald took the anchor from Walrus bow and put it in the dinghy. I lowered the chain. Gerald and Ted transported both as far away from Walrus as the chain would allow. Gerald played out the chain and finally the anchor, while Ted steered and held the course. Once the anchor had been dropped and was firmly planted in the seabed Gerald and Ted returned to Walrus. Dicky engaged the engine and bow-thruster, while Gerald carefully pulled in the anchor chain using the windlass at her bow. Result…. little-by-little Walrus moved off the coral reef and into deeper water. Sometimes this circumnavigation has been a little too adventurous. Once safely re-anchored in a definitely deep and nowhere near coral reef spot, there was a huge sigh of relief from one and all. After cups of tea all round, we were back to our berths to catch up on sleep.
An Island For Two Muskets
In the not so distant past, sixty or so years ago, when Malolo Island was owned by the chief of a Fijian tribe whose custom and practice still leaned towards cannibalism and barter was the modus operandi, a visiting sailor from England took a chance. As it was told to us by young Fijian, John, on a walking tour around the island; when offered two muskets in exchange for ownership of the island the Fijian chief was taken with the thought of getting one up on other tribes and, in a rash moment, took the two muskets. Perhaps he thought the Englishman wouldn’t follow through or perhaps he fancied his chances turning the tables once the muskets were in hand. Too late, he hadn’t bargained for the resourcefulness and determination of an English sailor. As papers were drawn up confirming the new ownership of the island, the tale goes, the chief of the tribe realised the enormity of the barter arrangement and tried to re-negotiate. The Englishman was having none of it, he had already planned the start of the resort, which would later be named Musket Cove.
Malolo Island is now owned by the Englishman’s daughter, who still resides on the island. John spoke about her with respect, saying that he and the other Fijians in her employment were provided with accommodation, all their food, healthcare, education for their children and a small wage. He was proud of his heritage and keen to share information about what it was like to be Fijian.
The archipelago of Fiji is made up of three hundred and thirty-three islands of which one hundred and forty-nine are inhabited. Each island has its own dialect and islanders from one island do not necessarily understand the language of another. John explained pupils are required to pass English exams as a baseline in order to gain an overall ‘leaving school’ certificate; a pass in Fijian alone is insufficient. John spoke four languages, including those of his native island, the common Fijian language, English and Hindi, he had attended a Hindi secondary school in the mainland town of Nadi. We learned that education was free for children of primary school age, there was a fee for secondary school. Fijian schools had a strong emphasis on sport, in particular rugby.
John took pride in the achievements of his siblings. His youngest brother (one of nine), aged 15 yrs, had been selected to play for the Japanese international rugby team and sent money home regularly to his family, none of whom were likely to have the opportunity to see him play. Another sibling had joined the British army and was living in Yorkshire, having exchanged the warmth of weather and community for the security of a good wage and an English wife, many miles from home. John’s tour ended with just a hint of wistfulness about the lost opportunities of ownership of Fijian land, (not just Malolo Island but more widely the mainland as well) by native Fijians. When asked, he was, however, clear about his aspirations, he planned to live and die on the island, it was where he belonged.
The ethos of community was reflected in John’s narrative and our experience of Musket Cove’s warm, welcoming and open-hearted hospitality. Rustic charm, with more than a touch of sophistication, South Pacific style, doesn’t do the resort justice, but is close enough. Of all the marinas that Walrus had been moored in around the world, Musket Cove, Malolo Island had to be one of the most appealing. One small pontoon, a picture perfect sweep of sandy beach, with tiny adjoining islet reached by bridge. A one-room yacht club, of which Dicky and I had no hesitation in signing up to be lifetime members. Beautiful swimming pools set amongst manicured shrubs on one side and overlooking the beach on the other, with elegant thatched cocktail bar and huge comfy chairs around low wooden tables. A spacious hotel reception bordering a lagoon, set out in colonial style with wooden ceiling fans, display tables with shells and sand laid out in suitably sea-like patterns and a classic car complete with leather luggage, behind glass, gleaming, all ready and waiting. I’ll stop there, I realise I’m beginning to sound like a January, post-Christmas holiday advert.
Meanwhile, what of Walrus and her mishap with the coral? How had she fared? Mooring alongside in crystal clear water provided the ideal opportunity for Gerald and friend, Peter, from Entre Nous, to dive and check for damage to Walrus’ hull. The report back - looked like just a scrape, with some anti-foul missing in a few places. Walrus was good to go for the journey to Australia, where a haul out would allow the damage to be repaired in preparation for the second half of the World ARC Rally. Onwards and upwards.
It was difficult to contemplate leaving…. as ever the World ARC schedule called. In true World ARC style, we were treated to a delectable buffet supper poolside, with a myriad of local salads to choose, freshly caught fish, hog roast, wine and cold beer aplenty. There followed speeches, prize-giving, applause and lots of laughter, another evening of beer, BBQ and karaoke and then it was time to turn thoughts and our planning to the onward journey. Preparations completed for the next leg of the rally - Fiji to Vanuatu, Walrus was amongst the boats circling closest to the start line as the horn blast announced the start of Leg 7. We were off with thoughts about progress towards our ultimate first-half-of-rally destination, Australia, very much in mind as we steered our course to Port Resolution, Tanna Island, Vanuatu.
