Chapter 2 Return to Fiji
As we swung to the buoy in the pouring tropical rain and the motor fell silent, Pam turned to me and said "that was about the hardest trip we've had so far". I had to agree. The voyage from New Zealand had taken us over twelve days. To cover under 1150 miles we had sailed nearly 1400 (See chart). We had damaged our new mainsail, broken part of the rigging - but we had done it. We were back in the tropics, back in Fiji, and already we were starting to make out the names of boats we knew, either from our stay in NZ or from the Pacific crossing the year before.
The weather on this run is
tricky. We had spent hours studying forecasts, had even paid a Kiwi Met
man to do us a personalised route, which turned out to be completely useless and
misleading, as it promised nothing but light winds.
Off we set on Monday 15th August into a breezy, cloudy-bright afternoon and soon
we were bowling along out of the Bay of Islands and into the ocean. It
felt good to be back, even if our sea-legs had got left behind in the rush
to depart.
And, boy, was it cold? Here is Pam all togged
up as we left the Bay of Islands! At night it was on with the thermal
underwear and layers of Polartec.
Early the next morning the wind died away, much as forecast and we turned
on the motor. Because our forecast predicted a lot of light winds we had
shipped extra diesel fuel in jerry cans lashed onto the deck. It was
easy enough going, but boring. We used the time to tidy up and to
practice some of our ocean-crossing skills, including the receiving of weather
fax from New Z
ealand. Here is a sample.
If you identify New
Zealand it will probably make sense. Incidentally, just look at
the closeness of the isobars down in the Southern Ocean, where Ellen MacArthur
and the other lone sailors race their lightweight flyers!
On the Thursday, sailing along once more, we found to our dismay that a Low was to form across our track, bringing strong to gale force winds right on our nose. This had not been predicted, but such things do happen and these Lows can turn quite nasty, with winds to 50 knots and huge seas to match. We held a quick conference and turned to the north-west, to get onto the Low's western side. Here, all being well, we should avoid headwinds and, instead, "enjoy" following winds of 30-35 knots.
Friday morning we made ready. I double lashed the fuel cans and the dinghy, reefed the main and even raised our bright orange storm jib, a small, heavy sail we have never yet used in anger. Pam made sure nothing could move down below and made huge piles of sandwiches. We waited. The wind grew lighter and we shook out a reef to maintain some speed.
At 0100 the following morning the gale finally arrived, from the south-east as we had expected. Rapidly we reduced the mainsail, first to two reefs, then to three, and still we sped along at five to six knots. We could have gone faster but at the lower speed ALIESHA is more comfortable (a relative term under the circumstances!). As in other storms we planned to use the radar to maintain a watch for other shipping, as we had sighted fishing boats earlier in the trip. Sadly it developed a fault and we were back to using our eyes every 15 minutes or so from the sodden cockpit.
The next day the wind dropped a bit and the sun came
out. We maintained our gentle progress under reduced sail as we were
unsure if more wind would arrive (it didn't). What did come over us was an
Albatross, a bird with a wingspan of 
maybe 2 metres. We spent hours
watching this graceful bird performing aerobatics over the tumbling wavetops
with hardly a beat of its huge wings.
Sunday, nearly a week from port and the gale left us. Sailors find this period worse than the height of the storm, as there is insufficient wind to keep the sails filled and the sea is still rough, so the boat gets tossed and rocked and rolled and everyone gets quite bad-tempered. In the end we dropped the sails to save wear and endured the rolling until, at last, things quietened down and we could sail again, in a gentle following breeze. The layers of clothing were gradually peeled off, as it was definitely warmer.
When we dropped the mainsail we found that the stresses had broken the slides which hold the headboard at the top of our sail to the mast. We carry spares but in those seas could not fit them. However, we found we could set the sail safely with one reef in it and so proceeded rather more slowly than we would have liked.
That night, as I lay asleep in the port side saloon berth, secured by a leecloth (a canvas side to keep the sleeper from rolling out) a strange and disturbing sound roused me from my slumbers. Turning on a light I looked onto the cabin floor and saw a decent sized flying fish thrashing about in distress, spreading slime and scales everywhere. It had flown over the deck and through the small opening in the cabin hatch, hitting the leecloth full-on. It was a strange way to be woken, and could have been a lot worse had it actually joined me (naked) in the bunk! The mind truly boggles. (No pictures exist of this event)
The following night we came across a brightly lit vessel whose course we could not make out. It was a Japanese fishing boat, or so we think, having tried with limited success to raise them on the VHF radio and to discover what their course and speed might be. Although lit like Regent Street at Christmas, this boat was not showing the regulation navigation lights and we had several attempts at avoiding it before we got the information we wanted and could plot a safe course around them.
Later that night, with slatting sails in the feeble breeze, there came a loud "Boingggg" from the rig. When I came on deck I was irritated by a persistent banging from up the mast, which finally revealed itself to be the broken end of one of the shrouds tapping the mast as it swung to the roll of the boat. When dawn came we could see that it was an intermediate shroud, probably the least important part of the rigging, but even so, we would have to nurse the rig the remaining 150 miles or so to Savusavu.
By now we were curving around the eastern end of Viti Levu, the main island of Fiji, and starting up the east coast to Savusavu. See Chart. It was clear that we could not make port before darkness fell and, without radar, we were unwilling to try a night approach. The island of Koro lay just to the east of our track and we located an anchorage on its northern coast which would offer shelter for the night. Getting through the reef pass was a bit sweaty, as the light was fading fast and we could not really see the reefs until very close. Still, in we went and passed a peaceful night at anchor.
The next morning I was on deck mending the broken headboard and wondering what, if anything, I could do to shore up the rig when we were visited by a deputation from the local village. There was the chief, his spokesman, his son and some kind of official from the Government, to judge from his demeanour. We were flying the yellow flag which means the world over that we had just arrived from foreign parts and had yet to "clear" with the correct officials.
After exchanging cries of "Bula" they came alongside and requested permission to board us. I replied that they were welcome to do so but that we had not yet cleared Customs etc and, strictly speaking, they should not! "Strictly speaking, you should not be here at all" was the reply.
So they came aboard, introductions were made, we told our story and they inspected the damage. Then Pam produced two tins of bully beef, which we presented as a form of "sevusevu" and they left, all smiles, The chief, by way of farewell, said " when you have done the formalities, come back and see us again and drink kava with me ". We said we would and parted the best of friends, a nice welcome back to Fiji.
From Koro to Savusavu
is about 35 miles and it rained all the way. The wind got up and we dropped the
sails to safeguard the mast. About 1600 we secured to
a mooring buoy and
looked around Namaka Creek, beautiful even in the rain. It had been a
difficult trip, but we were OK, ALIESHA was nearly OK and it all seemed worthwhile.
