Musket Cove Fiji Regatta Week, held September 15-19 on Malolo Island in the Mamanuca archipelago, welcomed 96 boats and 400 people for three regattas. Some 64 teams raced in the Hobie Cat event, another 30 yachties paddled in the standup paddleboard challenge, 30 sailors competed in the Fun Run, and more than 40 eco-aware cruisers helped with a beach cleanup. 

The five days and nights continued an event that has been going for 38 years. Yachties from around the world flock to this event in the turquoise lagoon west of Viti Levu. Some Kiwi yachts are regulars here on their Pacific Circuit, and a growing number of American and international yachts participate too, before heading westward.

“It started out as a warm-up for the Fiji-Vanuatu regatta, has grown every year, and by now it’s one of the biggest events in the South Pacific,” says Will Moffat, owner of Musket Cove Island Resort and Marina. “It’s all about the fun, really, and everybody’s welcome.”

When this year’s first regatta started on day two at 10 a.m., only a light breeze rippled the sea. We watched flabbergasted as the participating boats simply revved up their engines and motored over the starting line.

How was that possible? Well, it turned out that it was Beach Comber Pirate’s Day, and the rules for this regatta state that “there are no rules for pirates.” The skipper of the Stealth 14GT lightweight catamaran Wow lowered his 50-hp outboards and managed to win the race, reaching 11 knots at times. 

Fortunately, the weather gods played along on the third day and sent a stiff, southeasterly breeze for the main event: the Round Malolo Classic. With full sails up, the 24 participating boats bashed into 15 to 20 knots of southeasterly trade winds. At first, the biggest cats rushed ahead, chased by huge monohulls and a fleet of cruising yachts. But then, three little, local racing multihulls charged through the field, leaving the bigger yachts in their wake. Burt, a 33-foot Reynolds cat, won the 15-nautical-mile race in one hour, 26 minutes, followed by Kaia, a Seacart 26, and 8.5 metres box cat, Miss Minnie. The first cruising catamaran over the finish line was 60-foot Marcato, and the first monohull was Fenice, a 62-foot Beneteau.

On day five, the participants in the 6-nautical-mile Sandbar Race merely drifted over the starting line with flapping sails. All crews rushed on deck to hoist their light-wind sails as quickly as possible, and went chasing the cat’s paws on the otherwise calm seas.

As the race went on in slow motion, we had plenty of time to admire the aesthetics: The boats looked like pretty butterflies with all the canvas they could carry. Colorful spinnakers, gennakers and other light-wind sails reflected on the sea under a deep-blue sky.

Big, heavy boats had no chance in these conditions, and for a while Burt, the winner of the Round Malolo Race, and Wow, the winner of the Pirate race, were neck and neck. Wow won in one hour, 17 minutes, with Burt in the second place.

If you’re heading toward the South Pacific in 2023, stopover in Musket Cove in September. The entry fee for regatta week includes an opening and closing dinner, and free drinks. Prizes range from free haul-outs at sponsoring marinas to gift baskets. https://www.musketcovefiji.com/yacht-club-marina/sailing-regatta

Birgit and Christian have been cruising on their Sparkman & Stephens design Pitufa for 11 years. See their blog www.pitufa.at or follow Pitufa on Facebook.

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We’re setting our digital sails for Fiji next week for a weeklong adventure to one of our favorite cruising destinations. Cruising World will pair up on social media with Cruising World contributor and world circumnavigator Amy Alton from @outchasingstars for a cruise through the islands. Join us for the highlights on Facebook and Instagram. Amy and her husband, David, completed a 6-year circumnavigation in 2020 aboard their Fountaine Pajot Helia 44 Starry Horizons. They are currently cruising the Bahamas, where they have their sights set on Great Inagua.

“We adored the Lau group,” Amy said of their time cruising Fiji. The Altons spent more than four months cruising Fiji aboard Starry Horizons, including a month exploring their favorite part, the remote islands of Vanua Balavu, the Lau Group. 

The nation of Fiji is composed of approximately 333 islands, ideal for sailors seeking sunshine and adventure. There are several ports of entry where sailboats can provision, including Suva, Lautoka, Levuka and Savusavu. “Savusavu (located on the south shore of Vanua Levu, one of the two main islands) is one of my favorite cruising ports in the South Pacific,” Amy said. Nearby Namena reef offers world-renowned scuba diving and Savasavu’s location on the southwest coast makes it a popular jumping off point for the Mamanucas and Yasawas islands.

Follow Cruising World stories on Fiji and enjoy Amy’s Fijian stories here. For more adventure, follow these links to Amy’s Cruising World articles:

Chasing Whales in Tonga

Making Friends in Huahine

The Magic of Cruising Madagascar

outchasingstars.com

And if you’re a cruiser out there with photos to share, throw us a line and let us know you’d love to be featured on our social media sites. Email Theresa.Nicholson@Bonniercorp.com, or message us on our social media sites Facebook Cruising World Magazine, and Instagram @cruisingworldmag.

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Long before Cruising World magazine, before production fiberglass boats or even square-rigged tall ships, there were a variety of different canoe designs sailing the trade-wind-kissed waters of the Pacific Ocean. Widely recognized as one of the first bluewater fleets in the history of the world, the multihull canoes of the Pacific covered vast expanses of water as pioneering voyagers and nomadic islanders settled everything from volcanic island chains to tiny, geographically disparate coral atolls. Of these many different canoe designs that sailed the Pacific, few were as grand as the mighty Fijian drua.

The drua were revered throughout the Pacific for their ­incredible size and performance, along with their huge ­cargo-carrying ability. The largest of them were more than 120 feet long and capable of carrying up to 200 warriors to ­windward, at speeds of 15 knots.

Around the world, the boats of our ancestors have been replaced by modern craft with engines and composite ­construction. The boats of Fiji are no different, and the introduction of the combustion engine signaled the death of the drua. Drua were originally built in the Lau group of islands in eastern Fiji—islands revered for their legendary boatbuilders and high-quality timber. The drua left the islands one by one and disappeared over the years. While there are records of when each drua left the Lau group, there’s not a single record of a drua returning to those islands in modern times.

Meet i Vola Sigavou, which translates to “the new rising star.” A drua built using fiberglass and modern building methods, i Vola Sigavou is a reproduction of the lines of Ratu Finau, the last known drua built in the traditional sense back in 1913. Launched in 2016, the 40-foot i Vola Sigavou is based in western Fiji and is part of a nonprofit organization called the Drua Experience. The drua takes tourists and locals sailing as part of an effort to ­revitalize drua sailing culture and traditional navigation.

RELATED: Canoe Kids in the Solomon Islands

“Because of the COVID-19 pandemic, there are no tourists in Fiji, and we are not expecting any tourists in the foreseeable future,” said i Vola Sigavou skipper Setareki Corvus Ledua, in August 2020. “We thought to ourselves, this could be the perfect time to go out to the Lau group and do more research and collect all of the evidence that still exists.” The ambitious voyage saw the drua sail around most of the main island of Viti Levu before crossing eastward toward the Lau group. The voyage was dubbed na lesu tale voyage, which translates to “the homecoming,” and it marked the first time in modern history that a drua sailed into its ancestral home of the Lau group.

The two-month journey from September to November 2020 saw the drua and its crew of six Fijians sail more than 500 nautical miles around much of the country. Beginning in Fiji’s touristy western division, the crew sailed i Vola Sigavou north and east over the top of Viti Levu, and then waited for proper weather before sailing across the Koro Sea and crossing to the remote Lau group. With more than a dozen stops along the way, the drua’s ultimate destination was Fulaga Island, the captain’s native home and the beating heart of drua culture.

The voyage was part of the Drua Experience’s larger goal of establishing a traditional navigation and canoe-building school in Fiji to reconnect youth with traditional sailing culture, navigation and the ocean itself. The voyage was conceived as a way to revitalize ancient customs and traditions while collecting knowledge from living elders before that knowledge dies out forever.

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Family News

We got to see Niall! Our crew converged at my father’s home on Bainbridge Island for a few precious days. Then Niall was off to Alaska to finish work with UnCruise Adventures. It’s a boat kids dream job. In a few days, he’ll be flying to Germany for a (senior year of college!) fall semester program.

Our family reunion is a card tournament. Or is the card tournament a family reunion? Every July, save last year, we meet in Bellingham to play vicious games of Chicago Rummy. Cash is involved. So are margaritas!

The event was fun as always, but too short, and left me sad that we didn’t have more time with extended family. Not complaining though, because it sure beat the heck out of not seeing them. And my father now has his name inscribed on one of the perpetual trophies! Alas, it is the Turkey prize for last place. But many inscribed here are later on the perpetual winner’s trophy.

We played many rounds of cards (sense a theme?) at my dad’s kitchen table. There was time to catch up with old friends, the kind where you can pick up again without skipping a beat. And I got to see my mother smile, even when I didn’t hear my name.

Bonus visits touched every sense with the glorious Pacific Northwest summer: the looks and smells and tastes. My aunties in the San Juan islands welcomed us with Dungeness crab fresh from their traps. Paddling near their home, inhaling the briny low tide, I felt nostalgic for our years here. Jamie reminds me I like warm climates. It was strange wearing trousers.

On the way north, we routed via cousins in Salt Lake City, and cruising friends in Idaho.

The road back was via my Aunt & Uncle (and more cousins) in Bend. I am grateful for the time and the hugs and the reconnecting. It’s hard to get enough. Uncle Niall – yes, Niall’s namesake – is 98, and served in D-Day. If I make it to 96, I hope I’m as sharp as my Auntie Mum.

Most of the trip back to Mexico was in smog from wildfires. Reaching Las Vegas, we could finally see more than a short distance – buildings on the Strip fading near sunset.

Near Term Plans

Work continues on Totem. Priming complete: We’ll look to move to the Cabrales paint shed for final painting once Jamie’s awesome swim step project on the transom is done. And so, we slide back into shipyard life. Yesterday, that involved bringing the yard’s security dog, Bonita, to the vet for a checkup.

Annapolis! In October, we are booked for the Annapolis Boat Show: It’s on! Jamie and I plan to teach in Cruisers University. All Cruisers U participants must be vaccinated and remain masked on site. I’m looking forward to it, although social distancing will pain me as a natural hugger! The show is a great time to see friends, old and new, and we love the TRU crew meetup.

Cruising Plans

Cruising plans are fuzzier. Is it possible to make cruising plans given all the uncertainty? It is. When I scroll through Noonsite’s awesome mega-list of country status, most now say open. Yes–Open! On their curated list for cruisers, 44 are currently closed, but 109 are open. Here’s another way to put it in perspective: in the 48 countries encompassing our circumnavigation, only eight are currently closed.

Future gazing is dangerous lately, but here’s a view for setting out in North America currently.

Caribbean Cruising This Winter

Juggling a changeable series of restrictions and entry fees/testing requirements takes some planning. But mostly, the Caribbean is open, even holdouts like BVIs. But even this past year, friends had a great season in the western Caribbean. A number of our TRU crew had a blast in the eastern Caribbean islands. They just moved less, or sucked up the cost of moving.

The simplest way this plays out, for those with restriction/regulation fatigue? Fewer clearances and longer stays, which is what seems to organically occur to most cruisers anyway. And for those that need to be on the move, then maybe skewing plans towards countries where a single entry means more coastline/islands/bays to explore, like St Vincent & Grenadines assuages the wanderlust while mitigating the hassles and expense.

South Pacific Sailing In 2022

Among all popular world cruising grounds, the South Pacific is the only one which remains overwhelmingly shut. Thanks to Delta, it seems just as unlikely to re-open now as it did in January: small, vulnerable countries have no incentive to tempt variants. Only Fiji is open. Fiji, where COVID cases are higher than ever.

In the current situation, there are no easy options after Fiji. How much will this change in the next year?

Don’t boats arrive in French Polynesia? A few; not many. French Poly has remained officially closed for sea arrivals since March 2020. At times, DPAM (maritime authority) has accepted applications to allow transit arrivals. Since February 3, 2021, applicants must demonstrate an imperative need, a “motif imperieux,” to be approved.

This imperative need is fulfilled in three ways: 1) overriding personal or family reasons; 2) an emergency health reason; 3) a professional reason which cannot be postponed.

It’s a high bar, and one which touring cruisers overwhelmingly don’t meet. Unfortunately, “Experiencing the annual marbled grouper spawning in Fakarava” or “Taking surfing lessons on a perfect Society Islands wave” will not be interpreted as professional reasons which cannot be postponed, much as I wish them to be. Hopefully the bar lowers!

When Caribbean boats chatter about planning to go, I wonder if planning actually means spit balling over Kaliks in the cockpit vs. actually doing the work of researching the route. Unfortunately, it also means some straight-up intentions to deceive, such as a fake emergency “forcing” arrival. You can guess what I think about those folks.

I’m grieving the probable loss of our South Pac plans. Jamie and I have time, and could go next year or five years from now! But at ages 19 and 17, we feel the clock ticking with Mairen and Siobhan aboard.

While we hope things will change for the better in the South Pac, but we’re pragmatists, so are looking more at where we can go than where we can’t. I still daydream about big passages to Hawaii, Guam, and then the Western Pacific and Asia. Who knows what will happen!

Dreamscape routes

Hawaii/Guam are open to us now… and with hopes for a southern route to follow. But another Plan B is exploring more of Central America. We’d need to get cracking on shipyard projects for that seasonal timing to work in ‘22, though! We’re not interested in spending lightning season in Costa Rica or Panama. Maybe El Salvador?

And if all this means I get more family hugs in?

#Winning!

Grateful to love and be loved by these wonderful humans: the hardest part of the trip was wanting more time with them.

Should Cruising Plans Be Postponed?

Heck no! The qualities that make cruising a fulfilling way of life haven’t changed. We can have amazing experiences, meet interesting people, try delicious new food, and build great memories – even if it’s not our Plan A (or even Plan B) route. Even if it means fewer border crossings due to cost/hassle.

There are always reasons not to go cruising: to postpone it a year here, a few years there. People who probably weren’t ever going to go anyway can latch onto the pandemic for the current excuse.

Still wondering. Check out the Salty Dawg Cruising Association’s Cruising in the Time of COVID webinar on Sept. 22. I’m hopeful they will have useful information to guide individual decisions.

The post Sailing Totem: Uncertain Cruising Plans appeared first on Cruising World.

Fiji set a glowing example for other Pacific countries this past sailing season by successfully opening its borders to cruisers. The country consequently welcomed over 90 foreign boats, over 300 crew and an estimated $10 million to its shores.

The Blue Lane initiative, launched in June, set strict guidelines for pleasure craft to follow in order to enter Fiji. This protocol involved sailors having to activate their AIS for their entire trip so that the Fijian navy could confirm uninterrupted sailing, along with quarantining crew on board their vessels for a total of 14 days, including passage time. Additionally, all crew had to take a COVID-19 test and obtain a negative result within 72 hours of leaving their original country and again two days before their 14-day quarantine was up.

While Port Denarau is currently the only port of clearance in Fiji, once finished with their quarantine, boats are free to cruise the different island groups as usual.

Though small in number compared with the usual 750 boats that visit Fiji every year, the cruisers that arrived have helped contribute toward Fiji’s suffering tourism industry. They’ve provided the sailmakers, mechanics, electricians, taxi drivers and dive operators with a much-needed income, without which they might not have been able to survive the past few months. Due to a lack of onward destinations, the majority of these boats remained in Fiji during the 2020-21 cyclone season, providing further income for the industry.

United States Ambassador to Fiji, Joseph Cella, invited cruisers who’d participated in this initiative to a buffet brunch to celebrate its success, and there he highly commended the Fijian government for the way it has contained COVID-19. With only 35 cases in total, and no community cases for nearly 6 months, Fiji has handled this pandemic extremely well, with its Blue Lane initiative being a testament to its success. Let’s hope more countries follow suit next season.

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Once upon a time, in what now feels like a former life, I visited a small village on a remote bay in Fiji. Daku village, on Kadavu Island, used to be frequented by a steady stream of cruising sailors in search of a deep connection to the local culture, though today, it seems to have dropped off of most Pacific cruisers’ radars. Just an overnight sail away from the bustle of Fiji’s main island of Viti Levu, Daku was full of happy memories for me of a time spent anchored off the village decades ago while I was cruising on Mahina Tiare, a 31-foot Hallberg-Rassy sloop. For years, I’d dreamed of returning, but time passed and life got in the way. Then a happy coincidence appeared in the form of an email from a friend who had recently visited Daku. She photographed my entry on the first page of the Daku yacht log. The entry was like a message in a bottle from my former self, reminding me that I’d written in the logbook that I would return one day. My former cruising partner and I had started the log for our Daku friends, Epi and Kata Ravono, 25 years ago.

With just this email, the plan for going back to Fiji was set in motion. But this time, since I no longer have a cruising boat, it would be on a charter boat — my maiden charter experience as a passenger rather than crew or boat owner.

We chose a crewed charter aboard Stellar, a 49-foot Jeanneau Sun Odyssey, which we found online. More than a simple vacation, I wanted to use this trip as a chance to introduce my partner, Bill; my sister, Pam; and my brother-in-law, Jim, to traditional Fijian culture and my long-ago Fijian friends. Stellar was the magic carpet to transport us.

Shortly after stepping aboard, we left Port Denarau, on the island of Viti Levu’s west shore, and were comfortably motoring toward Tavarua Pass, destination: Daku village. Our Fijian crew — Julian May, the skipper; Eroni, our talented cook; and George, the friendly first mate — added immensely to our Fijian immersion over the ensuing week. And we, by sailing to a traditional village, were about to add to theirs.

Steele Jones, Stellar‘s Kiwi owner, recommended Julian to captain our charter because of his familiarity with Kadavu Island. Still, up until we stepped aboard, Steele tried to change our course. Thinking our proposed passage into trade winds would be too uncomfortable, he asked, “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go to the nearby Mamanucas or Yasawas?”

Forget discomfort! I thought.

While napping on our long flight to Fiji, I’d dreamed we were sailing to Kadavu and remarked to myself while asleep, “Oh, it’s so calm.” My dream turned out to be prophetic. The typical 12- to 16-knot east-southeast trades were not blowing that morning, so Julian suggested we make a beeline for Kadavu. We found Daku Bay on his chart plotter, and he entered the coordinates to the anchorage.

The worldly Julian told us, “I grew up speaking English. I tried to learn Fijian in school but instead spent too much time mucking about in boats.” His passion for boats had taken him all over the world. Moreover, when The Moorings had a base in Fiji, Julian led the bareboat flotillas, including one with Cruising World editors.

“I would be leading four or five boats, with a chase boat behind us,” Julian said. “I’d tell them, ‘Follow me. I know where the unmarked reefs are.’ Once in a while, someone would wander off and end up on a reef. They’d say, ‘That reef isn’t on the chart,’ after they’d hit it!”

This is the main reason that bareboat chartering in Fiji ended back in the mid-1990s. Since then, chart plotters, updated charts and excellent cruising guides have fortunately made it easier for cruising yachts to visit, and there are several options for crewed charters.

As we passed the world-renowned surfing spot Cloudbreak on our port side, it appeared as a translucent aqua band topped by thin, white spume, with surfers dotting its moving face. Behind, the dry, golden California-like hills of Fiji’s Coral Coast on Viti Levu provided a backdrop contrast. It was the last we saw of any other pleasure boats or tourists for almost a week.

Just after we transited Tavarua Pass outside the reef, a fat blue-green yellowfin tuna hit one of our fishing lines and was quickly reeled in by the crew. Then, the singing of three nylon lines unspooling at once was followed by pandemonium as George, Bill and Jim simultaneously reeled in three 20- to 25-pound skipjack tunas.

Zing! Another line spooled out as afternoon tea was served. Wahoo on the line! Jim fought to bring in the long-billed fish. We were motorsailing as a band of thick purplish clouds clustered low on the horizon to starboard. A squall hit suddenly with 20 knots of wind, and the rain felt like needles. As we flew along at 8 knots, another fish struck — this time a beautiful dorado.

“Six fish in four hours,” I said. “Maybe the villagers are praying for us.” In truth, Julian was somewhat of a fish whisperer. This wasn’t meant to be a fishing charter, but our Fijian crew loved to fish. The charter was becoming as much our crew’s trip as ours, which was as it should be.

Early the next morning, the engine’s rpm changed and sails were furled. I automatically shot up on deck. It was strange for me to sleep through most of the night and not stand watch. Years of cruising on Mahina Tiare and teaching sail training on Alaska Eagle had ingrained in me the need to help on deck when something changed. I put on shoes, grabbed a flashlight and made my way forward to help Eroni as he lowered the anchor chain. I was ­incredulous that we passed through the unmarked reef in inky darkness!

Morning revealed our anchorage was actually outside the reef. Smart move, I thought. Julian admitted that he’d never been into Daku Bay before and, wisely, he had entered the coordinates for the bay outside the complicated reef system.

Looking around in daylight, I felt like a cat, homing in on a familiar place after being lost for a long time. Slowly the shape and tropical texture of Kadavu’s landscape stimulated long-ago memories.

Julian delivered fish to the village, and my old friend Epi arrived by motorized skiff to guide Stellar to the anchorage and take my family into the village. Since it was low tide, it was best to rely on local knowledge to thread our way from the anchorage through the coral outside the village to land.

Epi’s hair was now white, his ­demeanor a bit more serious, but his hillside gardens have kept him fit, and his mind was as curious as ever.

As we padded barefoot into the village, the bright-green ground cover was deliciously cool, spongy and soft. The village seemed charmed. The dozen or so houses were shaded by lush mango and big-leafed breadfruit trees. Chickens and roosters ran freely alongside a sow and her nine frisky piglets.

While many small Fijian villages are now deserted, Epi and Kata’s family and the whole village of Daku are thriving. Out of a population of 74, Daku has 30 children. The family had grown from five to 10 living in their home, which had doubled in size. They now offer the occasional rustic home stay to tourists, many of whom wish to experience traditional village life while staying at the nearby Papageno Resort. They are also visited once a year by the South Pacific Study Program for village stays; Epi was hired to give lectures on ecotourism to the group.

Epi loaned Jim and Bill sulus (Fiji’s version of a sarong) to participate in sevusevu in the chief’s house. Sevusevu, a formal welcome and permission to visit the village, was also a blessing for our village stay. Any visit to a traditional Fijian village, to be proper, should include sevusevu, which involves gifting the chief a half-kilo bundle of kava.

Sevusevu completed, Epi’s wife, Kata, was as welcoming and busy as I recall. Her rustic kitchen now had running ­water part of the day and a propane stove, but she still preferred cooking over a wood fire. They also now had a generator, electric lights and a DVD player, but overall, the peaceful village vibe hadn’t changed.

Dinner ashore was a treat, although sitting on the cool woven pandanus mats on Epi and Kata’s floor was easier in my 30s. Everything, from the coconut milk to the kumquat jelly and juice, was made from scratch. The fish in ginger-and- soy gravy was caught by hand, and the ­vegetables and limes were grown in Epi’s garden.

When the tea made from lemon leaf was poured, I exclaimed, “Drau-ni-moli tea!” Everyone was surprised I remembered the name. I’d shared many meals with Epi and Kata when we were young and their children were small. Now Epi Jr. is married, and he and his wife, Wati, live in the house, along with his sister, Maraia, and her three daughters.

Epi invited Stellar‘s crew to drink kava that evening and warned them to “come prepared.” The men spent hours drinking and laughing as the coconut cup was passed around the ancient wooden kava bowl.

Kadavu is famous for growing Fiji’s best kava. It’s prepared the traditional way, using long strands of shredded bark, instead of cloth, to strain the root bits out of the mud-colored, medicinal-­tasting liquid. Our crew, Eroni and George, savored its strength. Jim and Bill not so much! Julian remained on board to catch more fish.

While the men drank on the veranda, darkness settled in. Inside, a bag of bootleg DVDs emerged and 21 children silently filed in to watch. Pam and I were on the floor among a sea of nut-brown faces, watching the movie Pitch Perfect. It seems projectile vomiting is funny in any culture! At 8 p.m., all the children silently filed out — Epi’s rule on school nights.

Bill and I slept ashore in the guest room on a comfortable mattress, while the family slept in separate rooms on pandanus mats. We quietly tiptoed out at night. The stars were brilliant in the velvet bowl of the sky, and Kadavu parrots squawked from a towering 300-year-old banyan tree. I couldn’t help reflecting — the tree has stood sentinel as Daku’s fierce warrior culture was transformed into today’s peaceful, cellphone-carrying Christian village.

At 4 a.m., the village roosters started a fierce crowing competition by our window, and two hours later, the family joined together to pray outside our door.

It was picnic day, so we all piled into Epi’s skiff. He sat on the bow, looking back, with his granddaughter, little Kata, in his lap — a big grin on his face as he surveyed his family and guests. We disembarked on the family’s deserted beach. As if by magic, Epi quickly built a fire to cook cassava root and then weaved a basket out of a green palm frond to transport coconuts.

While we snorkeled nearby, a colorful bolt of fabric was rolled out on the sand. Mahimahi, red snapper curry and tuna in gravy were laid out along with bele leaves (Fijian spinach). Stellar’s crew arrived with chicken curry and rice — thankfully, because everyone, including Epi’s family, seemed tired of eating fish. The village’s chicken and pork were reserved for special occasions, such as weddings and funerals.

We stayed an intense and memorable few days at Daku. They would have liked for us to stay longer to see dancing and to teach us tapa cloth making, but we felt the need to move on. Kata was suffering from a painful mouth infection while still managing a household of 10, without the benefit of even a clothes washer! As her guests, we were acutely aware that we were adding to her burden.

As we departed the beach, tears welled in my eyes and glistened in Epi’s and Kata’s too. Our respective islands are separated by 5,800 miles of ocean. I took solace in that perhaps the next generation of Marretts and Ravonos will meet and continue this story. I left Daku with the hope that cruisers will again experience the magic of this village, and add their names to the yacht log started years ago.

For the rest of our weeklong cruise, Julian slowly reintroduced us to civilization until our final night’s barbecue at Musket Cove, a busy cruisers hangout. Not only was Julian an excellent skipper, he was an astute judge of his clientele’s desires.

A charter was the perfect way to revisit Fiji during this season of my life and share a taste of the cruising life with my family. And, not being responsible for sailing, cooking or provisioning allowed me to fully relax and enjoy the adventure.

Barbara Marrett has been a contributing editor to Cruising World since 1993. Mahina Tiare, Pacific Passages, her and John Neal’s South Pacific adventure book, is now available as an e-book from amazon.com.

Why Charter in Fiji?

Taxis, crewed charters, provisions and fine-quality native carvings and crafts are more affordable in Fiji than in French Polynesia or the Caribbean. The reefs in general are in good shape, other than the recent isolated damage from 2016’s cyclone Winston, and ­provide world-renowned snorkeling and scuba diving just over the side of your boat. Fiji offers incredible variety — you’ll find lush mountains with rivers and waterfalls; deserted coral islands and semi-sophisticated towns; and good shopping, museums, a university, ornate ­Hindu temples and exotic East Indian restaurants. The culture is more intact than most tropical cruising areas, and it’s possible to see the ­traditional way of living among very friendly people.

Practicalities

The best time to visit Fiji is May to November, when the southeast trade winds blow, ­making it cooler and drier than the summer months and avoiding cyclone season. Pick up a free Mariners Guide to Fiji at any marina; it’s updated annually. Find it online at fijimarinas.com.

Resources

Safari Charters Fiji (Stellar): fijisafari.com
Fiji Weather: met.gov.fj
Practical information: noonsite.com/Countries/Fiji

The post Sailing Fiji appeared first on Cruising World.

Caribbean

Windward Islands

Tropical rainforests, barrier reefs, secluded anchorages: In the Windward Islands, you’ll get a taste of all that the Caribbean has to offer, and plenty of fine trade-wind sailing to boot. For sailors, there are multiple choices for your Windward Islands adventures, and from any of them, you can choose to make your sailing vacation as laid-back or as challenging as you’d like.

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Leeward Islands

The Leeward Islands are full of cruising hot spots, with much to offer to sailors, making passing through the Caribbean. lush scenery, vibrant reefs and a laid-back vibe make for the ultimate sailing destination.

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Lesser Antilles

The Lesser Antilles, in the Eastern Caribbean, are among the best charter destinations on the planet. Why? Diversity and conditions. The winds, seas and harbors in the Lesser Antilles are nearly ideal 99 percent of the time, and landfalls are perfectly spaced. In many of the most popular chartering waters, destinations are 30 to 40 miles apart — or less. This means you can get up at a reasonable hour, have a thrilling sail, and still manage to clear customs by happy hour.

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Cuba

Cuba is one of those mysterious destinations for US-based cruisers: close, intriguing, but seemingly out of reach. In 2017, when regulations were a bit more relaxed for cruisers, Cruising World hosted a rally to the island nation. The verdict? Cuba is everything we expected, and so much more.

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USA, Canada and Atlantic

Bahamas

The islands of the Bahamas are a cruiser’s playground — clear water, colorful communities and great sailing. The Bahamas offer endless islands to sail between and explore; from the Abacos to the Exumas, each island is unique.

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Intracoastal Waterway

Those with a mast height under 64 feet can also take advantage of the beauty and convenience of the Intracoastal Waterway on their trip north or south through the East Coast. While navigating the ICW requires lots of motoring, when conditions are good, the sailing is spectacular.

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Southern New England

Cruising through Long Island Sound, anchoring in the Great Salt Pond of Block Island, exploring the coast of Cape Cod – there are endless opportunities to enjoy a romp through Southern New England.

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The Great Lakes

Some of the best freshwater cruising in the world, the Great Lakes offer endless opportunities for exploration. Each lake offers unique cruising grounds, ports and conditions, from uncharted rocky inlets on the Canadian shores, to bustling cities.

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Bermuda

For as long as ocean-going sailors have been sailing the North Atlantic, Bermuda has been the crossroads and a popular race destination. But Bermuda is so much more than just a waypoint—it’s also a wonderful cruising destination.

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Nova Scotia

Packed with geologic and cultural history, the beautifully quiet coast of Nova Scotia is a nature lovers dream. Spruce trees, granite, grasses, sea, seals and terns, there is no shortage of excitement here.

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Europe

Greece Isles

The sailing can be challenging, but the landfalls — full of history, diverse towns and tasty cuisine — are worth it. Greece boasts thousands of islands, spread across an enormous geographical area stretching from the Aegean to the Ionian sea. Four of Greece’s five island groups are prime cruising areas: the Cyclades, the Saronic Islands, the Ionian Islands and the Dodecanese. Each group has its own unique character and charm, making each one worth exploring.

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South Pacific

Fiji

Cruising yachts from all over the world come to Fiji to anchor in the crystal-clear waters of the South Pacific. This Pacific crossroads is a refreshing break, with world-class snorkeling, beach combing and hiking.

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Marquesas

Smack dab in the middle of the South Pacific, the remote and untamed Marquesas are an unforgettable sailing stop – if you can get there. The topography of these young islands ­reflects the dawn of time; the exquisite drama of the islands’ violent, volcanic origins has not yet been smoothed and worn, with towering peaks rising above anchorages.

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Tasmania

Tasmania offers world class cruising, friendly, welcoming people, and a rich sailing history. The beautiful anchorages are uncrowded and private, and the sailing is world class. Just ask anyone who has ever sailed a Sydney Hobart Race.

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Whitsunday Islands

Pristine white sand beaches begging for footprints; the Great Barrier Reef Marine Park just waiting to be snorkeled; and our charter catamaran tugging on her mooring lines, ready to set sail. Who could resist such a tempting welcome from the Whitsunday Islands? Not us.

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Southeast Asia

Phang Nga Bay

Towering rock sculptures rise out of the water in Thailand’s Phang Nga Bay, providing a surreal backdrop for cruising. Anchor among the hongs and hope into a dinghy for an unforgettable experience exploring hidden caves and uncovering secrets from the 10,000 year history of the bay.

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Africa

Cape Town

From the blustery southeaster that can blow 45-60 knots for days on end, the “table cloth” on Table Mountain, to the waterfront with all its great seafaring tales and bars and the beaches of the suburb of Clifton, Cape Town has it all. The weather is like Southern California; you can stay active in the great outdoors year round.

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Madagascar

Madagascar is a true cruising gem. Its culture is a delightful convergence of Europe, Africa and the Middle East, as evidenced by the gourmet French meals, baked goods, mélange of rum drinks, vibrant materials for both traditional and modern dress, and the combination of French and local Malagasy language.

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South America

Chile

The Cape Horn archipelago conjures images of heroic voyages through inhospitable landscapes and harsh, raw conditions, the true beauty Chile is that it’s remote enough to be pristine, but not isolated enough that you feel completely cut off from the rest of the world.

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Antarctica

Antarctica

Cold, unforgiving and a challenge for even the most seasoned sailor, there isn’t quite any place on earth like Antarctica. Just ask anyone who has been, though, and you’ll find that the journey to the bottom of the world was unforgettable.

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The post 20 Best Cruising and Sailing Destinations appeared first on Cruising World.

The gray dawn came reluctantly, with occasional drizzle that at times became torrential rain as increasingly heavy squall lines passed through. We’d left Niuatoputapu, Tonga, four days earlier aboard our Flying Dutchman 50, Small World II, and the leading edge of the cold front we had been racing ever since was finally over us. For several hours, we’d been plowing through intensifying squalls under triple reefed main, staysail and reefed yankee. Just ahead lay our destination, Savusavu Bay, on the south coast of Vanua Levu, the second-largest isle in the nation of Fiji. It had been an interesting trip. What had started out as a fairly boisterous passage with 20 to 25 knots of wind and 6- to 9-foot seas ad mellowed to an easy broad reach in around 15-18 knots for most of the next two days. But conditions changed as we closed in on Fiji. At midmorning on our final full day out, as we skidded past several low atolls while entering Fijian waters, we watched somewhat apprehensively for the rapid wind shift expected behind a strong frontal line that was approaching us from the southwest; with each successive download of the GRIB files, it drew closer. By around midnight of the final night out, as the wind lighten with the approaching trough, we actually reverted to motorsailing. At about 0200, the shift came, and with it the squalls began in earnest. Luckily, the wind shift to the southwest happened gradually, so we were able to lay a course, with a few degrees to spare, past the heavy breakers of the ­menacing barrier reef to clear the entrance to Savusavu Harbor.

As we entered Savusavu’s narrow channel, we saw cruising yachts from all over the world anchored and moored along the straggling, somewhat dilapidated waterfront of the small, bustling city. Steam rose from the muddy banks, attesting to the prevalent volcanic activity in the region. The waters were murky from the runoff of many rivers and streams — a marked contrast to the crystal-clear waters of the islands and atolls of the central Pacific, where we had been cruising for the previous two years.

Miraculously, by the time we had anchored and contacted the port officials on the VHF, the skies had begun to clear. Shortly after, a boat came alongside with the officers from health, immigration and customs. After a perfunctory fumigating of Small World to eliminate any mosquitoes we might have brought from Tonga, we were warmly greeted and welcomed to Fiji. Clearance was simple and straightforward, with a trip ashore later to finish the process. By midday we had moved farther into the harbor and picked up a mooring ball off the Waitui Marina.

To understand the dynamics of cruising Fiji, it is first important to note the region’s geography as well as its history. With more than 300 islands, by some estimates, and countless reefs and shoals (many of which are poorly charted), for centuries the Fijian archipelago has been a feared and often avoided area for shipping.

Dutch explorer Abel Tasman first sighted the islands in 1643, but it was another hundred years before Capt. James Cook briefly went ashore on one of the eastern outlying islands. Then, in 1789, Capt. William Bligh of HMS Bounty, having been set adrift in a small boat with 18 of his loyal crew, successfully navigated and began charting the archipelago’s interior waters.

Ostensibly en route westward toward Batavia, in the Dutch East Indies (where Jakarta sits today), Bligh had unknowingly chosen a course that took him through the often hazardous Somosomo Strait, between the rugged and lush island of Vanua Levu to the north and the larger, mountainous main island of Viti Levu to the south. To this day, the treacherous, reef-strewn area bears the name Bligh Water. Although it is possible to safely transit the strait in benign conditions, when the trade winds rise above 25 knots, the Venturi effect between the two islands, combined with the strong currents that flow through the passage, can create challenging sea conditions for smaller vessels. Forty to 50 knots of wind and steep, short 8- to 10-foot seas are not unusual.

Entering the island group along a course similar to ours, Bligh doubtlessly would have passed several ­enticing-looking landfalls. But it was well known that cannibals inhabited these islands, and so Bligh wisely avoided going ashore. Instead he sailed through what is today still some of the most difficult navigation in the entire South Pacific.

Although cannibalism has not been openly practiced in Fiji since the late 19th century, it is an important and undeniable part of the islanders’ heritage. Fiji’s most famous cannibal, Ratu Udre Udre, was finally laid to rest in 1840 after he had consumed, according to the Guinness Book of World Records, 872 people. We found the tomb and shrine to this man on the shore near Rakiraki, which attests to the reverence with which at least some Fijians still hold this barbaric custom from the not-too-­distant past.

A much less threatening custom that is still widely practiced is the ceremony known as sevusevu, wherein the powdered root of the yagona pepper plant is mixed with water to become kava, a drink that’s shared communally while drinkers sit in a circle. Kava is consumed almost daily by many Fijians in a ritual that’s an important part of the traditional Fijian culture and lifestyle. Before leaving the town of Savusavu, we stocked up on the yagona root to use for gaining introduction to the village chiefs of the various islands we intended to visit.

While in Vanua Levu, we rented a car and set off on land adventures. To the south we discovered verdant lowlands with winding rivers, while the semiarid northern plains were filled with extensive sugar cane plantations. The scenery was ­breathtaking. Looking out across the fields and seeing large groups of men and women using machetes to harvest the cane, we felt as if we were back in the 19th century. Narrow-gauge railway trains are still used to harvest sugar cane, one of Fiji’s most important crops. The tracks meandered across the rolling hills and wound along and over slow-moving rivers where children swam and cows bathed. Men sat on bridges smoking as the long trains moved across a landscape that was romantic and exotic.

Traveling farther east, the roads deteriorated but led to some remote coves and headlands that revealed pristine reefs with a huge diversity of coral. The mind-boggling proliferation of marine life we saw while snorkeling was quite a contrast to some of the fished-out places we’d observed in the eastern Pacific.

Fishing is so good in Fiji that when we made our initial landfall, we put out a line and immediately caught a 23-pound yellowfin tuna. Our luck held nearly every time we fished thereafter, with almost instant success landing mahimahi or tuna. We began to wonder if even a bare hook might produce results while trolling in the deep channels between the islands.

Leaving Vanua Levu, we made a relatively short passage to the nearby island of Namena, where my fiancée, Gayle, her daughter, Sarah, and her friend Adrian, who were crewing for us, wanted to do some scuba diving. Although the island was enclosed within a barrier reef system that gave the impression that it could offer some protection from northeast winds, we spent a very uncomfortable night bouncing about in a 4-foot chop. The island was nearly deserted and quite beautiful, and by the next morning the winds had eased and clocked to the southeast. This made for a leisurely but fairly long daysail down to the well-­protected harbor off the island of Makogai.

Makogai is one of the largest of the outlying islands off of Viti Levu’s east coast. The site of a leper colony for almost a hundred years, the once-deserted ruins are gradually being brought back to usefulness as the headquarters for a sea turtle nursery and giant clam sanctuary. We were the only boat in the anchorage, so we went ashore to ask the village chief for permission to stay there.

Because Fiji is a former British colony, most of the locals speak English well. We were soon met by a young man who called himself the village spokesman, and he agreed to introduce us to the village chief. Our gift of yagona root was accepted, and so, having been granted full access to the village, we spent the next couple of days hiking around the nearby hills and climbing through the leper colony’s ruins. A long dinghy ride and snorkeling expedition took us to one of the smaller nearby islands; once again, the rich sea life was incredible. Giant clams were virtually everywhere in the deeper water. Some were as large as bold Sarah, who dived down, swam right up to their open jaws, and peered inside.

With the continuing spell of calm weather, we took the opportunity to motorsail over to the old, frontierlike seaport of Levuka, on the island of Ovalau, a day’s sail across the Koro Sea. Situated on the windward side of the island with only an awash barrier reef to protect it from the easterly wave trains, the port was initially chosen for this site because square riggers could sail in, find a reasonable anchorage off the town, and then escape by sailing either north or south a couple of miles to large gaps in the reef. This allowed the ships to make their way off the lee shore of the big island of Viti Levu, to the west. Ovalau, because it is a good distance off Viti Levu, also offered a level of protection from raiding parties in those lawless days of the early 19th century. The town still looks much as it did back then, with many historic structures having been preserved or restored.

Having thoroughly enjoyed our brief stay on Ovalau, we sailed back out into the Koro Sea, still undecided about our next port of call. Under spinnaker and main, we headed south along the coast in light winds that gradually increased and shifted more to the east. Turning to the west, we decided to stop in at the port of Suva, Fiji’s main port and largest city.

With an election only a few days away, we’d been warned by several longtime cruisers that we should stay away from bustling Suva until things settled down. Fiji gained independence from Britain in 1970, but since 1987, the duly elected governments have been overthrown by coups four times. The most recent of these occurred in 2006. We’d been told that random violence directed toward foreigners might result if people weren’t happy with the election results.

Choosing a good place to anchor in the somewhat crowded commercial harbor took a little searching, but ultimately we found a nice spot in 20 feet of water, an easy dinghy ride away from the Royal Suva Yacht Club. Once ashore, we learned that for a nominal fee, we could become temporary members of the club and use the facilities, which included a restaurant, bar and nearby showers. The club’s location, on the main road to downtown, also made it easy to catch a bus or taxi into the central part of the city.

Suva is a crucial center of commerce for the entire southwest Pacific. Hundreds of commercial ships from all over the world converge on the port each year. We found the city to have an unhurried but decidedly cosmopolitan feel. Interesting shops and restaurants abound, and we were able to find computer repairs, marine supplies and a great open-air market, where fresh fruit and vegetables could be purchased at what seemed to us to be incredibly low prices. Gayle was often able to fill two large grocery bags in the market for about $20 in Fijian currency, or $10 USD.

After a few days in the big city, we sailed southwest to a nearby mountainous island called Beqa. The isle is the top of an eroded but rugged and somewhat precipitous volcanic crater with one side blown out, so a yacht can sail well up inside into perfectly sheltered waters. Entering through a barrier reef, we skirted along the eastern coast and then set a course to enter the breathtakingly beautiful, steeply wooded channel leading into the depths of the harbor. About a mile in, we found a spot in 40 feet of water and dropped the hook, surrounded by the stark, natural beauty of a quintessential South Seas paradise.

There was a small village ashore near the mouth of the bay; after offering our bundle of yagona, we were warmly greeted by the chief and his wife, who were also hosting one of Fiji’s more popular singing groups. We were invited into the chief’s house, where a large, intricately carved bowl of kava was brought out, and we spent the next several hours getting to know our hosts, laughing and dancing.

Following several days exploring beautiful Beqa, we returned to Viti Levu and sought out an anchorage called the Bay of Islands, which is located between several small isles directly across from Suva’s large harbor. The well-protected anchorage featured free moorings, but we chose to drop the hook in the firm mud bottom. We left the boat there for a few days while we rented a car and explored ashore. As we drove along the eastern flank, we marveled at the broad, slow-moving rivers and brand-new highway that traversed valleys and wound over rolling hills. We eventually made our way around the somewhat desolate north shore to the sheltered west coast.

During this time the national elections took place, and yet, everywhere we went, we were greeted with smiles and waves and never felt even remotely threatened. In fact, the one thing we’ll always remember Fiji for is its friendly people. Everywhere we went, we were greeted with “Bula!” — which basically means “hello, friend,” “welcome” and “good day” all at the same time. If you are being greeted really effusively, you might hear “bulabula” or even “bulabulabula.”

For Sarah and Adrian, time was running short, so off they went to the airport and a flight home. Gayle and I continued west, gunkholing the reef anchorages along Viti Levu’s south coast before spending almost a month in the western islands, beachcombing, snorkeling and hiking. Our two months in Fiji had gone by all too quickly, and it is with wistful thoughts that we remember our wonderful adventures in such a friendly, unique and beautiful place in our small world.

Following his cruise to Fiji, Todd Duff hauled Small World II there and eventually sold it to a Canadian cruiser. After returning to the British Virgin Islands, he resumed his career as a yacht broker, and has purchased an Amel Super Maramu, aboard which he and his fiancée, Gayle Suhich, are looking forward to new adventures.

What to Know If You Go

While Fiji is not necessarily on the direct path across the Pacific, on what is sometimes referred to as the Coconut Milk Run, many cruisers elect to sail northwest from Tonga, or come up from New Zealand and make Fiji their stop on the way toward Vanuatu and/or the Torres Strait. Still others stay in the region for years, sailing triangles from New Zealand to Tonga to Fiji and back.

Shopping in Fiji is a refreshing break for the cruising kitty. After the exorbitant prices of French Polynesia and the Cook Islands, we found Fiji very affordable. Gayle regularly stocked up on food for an entire week for the equivalent of about $20 USD. All visiting yachts arriving in Fiji are subject to an 18-month limit on their stay; after that, they’re subject to a 15 percent import duty. For that reason, most cruisers who decide to make Fiji a semipermanent base for a few years will sail up to Futuna Island, about 300 miles north of Vanua Levu, once a year.

Although Fiji is in the heart of the South Pacific cyclone belt, there are innumerable decent hurricane holes, and excellent shelter is provided by Vuda Marina in cyclone pits. Many cruisers do in fact base their boats in Fijian waters for extended periods of time. Immigration allows for a four-month visa upon sailing into the country; it can be easily extended for up to six months. Further extensions require a visit to the immigration department and a legitimate reason for staying, which can range from doing work on the boat to writing a story about Fiji; it just needs to be valid and compelling.

The post Fabulous Fiji appeared first on Cruising World.

So Fijian society is much like Samoan society, in that outside the cities, communities are structured around autonomous villages on communal land. Even today, the villagers’ relationship to the land is best expressed in this paragraph I pulled from Wikipedia:

“The living soul or human manifestation of the physical environment which the members have since claimed to belong to them and to which they also belong. The land is the physical or geographical entity of the people, upon which their survival…as a group depends. Land is thus an extension of the self. Likewise the people are an extension of the land. Land becomes lifeless and useless without the people, and likewise the people are helpless and insecure without land to thrive upon.”

There is a chief of every village. This elder man has considerable power and influence. He is judge and jury in criminal matters, deciding who gets punished and how. He controls distribution of land assets and the manner in which people work and live among those assets.

Because there is no public space as we know it, entering a Fijian village (and this includes anchoring in the waters off a village) as an outsider—whether Fijian or not—demands adherence to protocols that have been a part of this culture for millennia. The first thing a visitor must do is to seek out the chief to present a sevusevu. This is a Fijian term for token of respect. As far as I know, the only acceptable token is kava, in its un-ground form. From what I’ve heard, it’s never difficult to find the chief to present sevusevu, anyone who sees you will recognize you as a stranger and take you to the chief. When you meet the chief, you don’t shake his hand or touch him, you sit before him and place your sevusevu in front of him. You politely state your business in the village and wait. When he picks up your sevusevu, you are golden. You may be asked to join the chief and others in drinking kava and it’s incumbent on you to accept that invitation.

“Over there, in the market, you can buy kava for your sevusevu before we leave.” Windy heeded our cab driver’s advice and walked across the busy bus terminal to buy a handful of dried sticks wrapped in newspaper like a bouquet.

Seriously? We just want to go to the waterfall to relax and cool off.

Arriving in the larger city of Savusavu, the village culture didn’t apply. This would be our first time venturing outside of Fijian city life. This would apparently be our first opportunity to present sevusevu. I wasn’t eager for this; I sensed touristy artifice.

Twenty minutes later, we left the main road and bounced along a pocked dirt road in a lush, steep-walled valley.

“We’re almost to the Vuadomo village. The waterfall is back that way,” our driver said pointing over his shoulder. “Once you present your sevusevu, I’ll bring you to the trailhead.”

“Everyone take off your hat and sunglasses,” Windy announced from the back seat. I looked over at our Indian driver, my eyebrows raised in a question. He nodded at me.

“Are we going to sit in a kava circle?” I asked him.

“No, you’ll just present your sevusevu and ask permission to visit the falls.”

“Might he say no?” I asked.

“No. And when you’re done, you’ll need to pay a fee to use the fall; it’s eight dollars per person.”

Hmmm.

The fall guy. The old Toyota sedan stopped and I squinted into the sunlight. Several women sat in the shade, each before a pile of touristy trinkets, ashtrays and shot glasses with “Bula!” printed in bold letters, for sale among shell necklaces and other things I was pretty sure nobody in this village produced.

“Bula!” we called out warmly. They motioned us over to survey their wares. We all decided on the most practical thing we could buy: an 8-ounce plastic bottle of coconut oil that was pressed locally. Then Eleanor bought a pair of earrings. Then someone said the chief was coming and told us to sit on a nearby bench. A woman took our kava bouquet from Windy.

The chief was small, old, dark-skinned, and wrinkled. He sat quietly on a mat about 10 feet from us and nobody made a peep. The woman who’d taken our kava placed it gently before him and backed away. He didn’t pick up our sevusevu. He didn’t look at us. He sat quietly for a minute. Then he started talking in Fijian, eyes closed. The seated women nodded. At some point he picked up our sevusevu and regarded it carefully, like it was something he’d not seen before, all the while talking to himself in Fijian. During this, the half-dozen women periodically clapped in unison, obviously in response to the chief. Then, he set the kava back down, stood, and walked, stooping heavily, back to the village house he’d come from. One of the women picked up the kava and followed him.

“Are we good?”

“All good.” One of the women said.

Then we paid the fee, got back into the cab, and drove to the trailhead.

“I’ll be back to pick you up at 3:00 p.m.” Our cab driver said.

Our first sevusevu presentation was probably different from what Captain Cook likely experienced. Seeing as how hundreds and hundreds of tourists visit this particular waterfall every year, it was probably nothing like what we would have experienced in communities a bit farther off the beaten path. But neither did I get the impression these folks were doing a song and dance for the tourists before retreating to their homes, pulling the iPhone 6 out of a hidden pocket, and resuming a Facebook dialog. Fiji is among the most affluent and developed of the Pacific Island nations—in comparison, way beyond Tonga by these measures—but the traditional culture is by no means completely diffused.

We’ve not yet experienced the outer island culture, but where we’ve been, it feels like we’re in a country with a healthy social dynamic. The vibe here is good. People seem content. I’m sure it’s not nirvana, and we’ve been here only just over a month, but there’s a warmth and genuineness and kindness that we get from nearly every interaction with a Fijian (and this from an eternal skeptic). It’s an easygoing politeness that strikes us.

Bulla

Damn, I thought to myself when we first arrived in Fiji, how do all these people get stuck wearing the wrong size flip-flops? Men, women, and children alike all wear flip-flops, always the cheapest thinnest-soled kind—the ones they sell in the drug store for $1.99. But on Fijian feet—and I remember seeing the same thing in the Samoas—every pair is just way too small. The tips of toes hang over the flip-flop fronts and soles disappear under bare heels. A size 7 shoe is the same price as a size 9, so it can’t be a money thing.

The other day, walking down Savusavu’s waterfront street in the rain, wearing my generous-sized Tahitian flip-flops, I felt the little water droplets filled with street grime flicking up onto the backs of my calves with every step. My questions disappeared. All the calves of the Fijians around me were clean. Damn, I gotta trim my flip flops.

Fiji is turning out to be an interesting place (for more reasons than the flip-flop conundrum). We’re rather enjoying it. The population seems to be an equal mix of afro-haired Melanesians and Indians. But they’re all Fijian. The Indians arrived generations ago and one man I spoke with said he is no more familiar with India then I am with Ireland/Sweden. But the difference between the Fijian Indians and melting-pot Americans like me, is that the Indian culture is preserved here among Fijian Indians who have never been to India and have no plans to go. Religion, language, and dress are all unmistakably Indian. I can choose from several brands and sizes of ghee in every store and turmeric and masala is sold by the kilo. We ride on buses owned by a company called Vishnu and the pirated-DVD stores are filled with Bollywood titles.

I asked the same Indian gentleman about relations between the Indians and native Fijians. Contrary to my limited understanding of politics here, he said there are no problems. He said that inter-racial relationships are not unheard of, but that they aren’t common. I asked if either group is relegated to a lower class. He said no. Then he said that native Fijians don’t keep their houses clean like the Indians keep their houses.

Fiji is inexpensive for cruising sailors, and not just compared to the rest of the South Pacific. We’re currently sitting on a mooring in front of a plush resort. The mooring is free and we have full access to all of the resort amenities. We got our 10-gallon propane tank filled in Savusavu for US$6.50. There were a dozen Indian food restaurants around Savusavu and the plates are a great value. The four of us enjoyed one excellent sit-down Indian dinner with rice, curries, roti, and drinks for US$15–total. At the awesome Waitui Marina in Savusavu, we twice stuffed ourselves on the all-you-can-eat Indian buffet for US$7.50 per person (cheaper for the girls). The pumpkin curry and dahl and roti were out of this world.

Remarkably, I can say that every person we’ve met in three weeks in Fiji has been genuinely friendly and welcoming and accommodating. Parts of this country were devastated by Cyclone Winston this past season, and the effects are still evident, all around. Rebuilding is in full swing and from an arriving visitor’s perspective, among a people of an economy that depends on tourism, I have the sense everyone is sincerely pleased that we are here, that they recognize the import of ensuring the few visitors who are here, return home with positive reports from Fiji.

So what’s bad about this place? Well, it’s the dead of winter and we’ve had very few clear, sunny days since we arrived. (I feel badly for the few fly-in tourists we’ve seen who’ve spent their 10-day resort vacations in the rain and drizzle.) But apparently, this spat of inclement weather is unusual. I can report that the check-in fees are steep (just under US$200) and the process was more demanding than most countries we’ve visited. In fact, a week before we arrived, we were required to fill out a dozen-page form and send a copy of it—along with a photo of Del Viento and a photocopy of my passport—to Fijian Customs. Then, upon arriving, we had Customs, Immigration, Health, and Bio-Security officials aboard before we could go ashore. Then we had to later rendezvous in town at the offices of all but immigration to pay. Additionally, we are technically required to report our whereabouts weekly. But we’re used to the paper chase and we take it in stride.

We’ll be here for a spell, so stay tuned for reports and photos from Fiji. It’s a good place to be.

The post A Gift to See the Fall appeared first on Cruising World.

Little did I know that my planned destination of American Samoa wasn’t in the cards. But something better was.

During the course of the voyage that did unfold, I would also experience an important anniversary. Precisely 10 years earlier, serving in the U.S. Marine Corps near Fallujah, Iraq, I’d nearly lost my life in a rocket-propelled grenade blast aimed directly at my Humvee. It put me into a medically induced coma and very nearly cost me everything. It was probably the reason I was here, alone, in the middle of an ocean — and very much alive.

Once underway, reaching south across stiff and consistent east-to-northeast trades was a wet and ­uncomfortable proposition. My small, dodgerless boat’s companionway leaked prodigiously every time a wave broke against the hull, spraying water all around the cabin and dousing ­everything below. In stark contrast to the mostly downwind sailing from Seattle to San Diego, and to cruising to and around the Hawaiian Islands, Mongo was now forced to put the bow up whenever possible to counteract the strong easterly wind and current set, and in anticipation of a big southeast wind shift, or header, once we crossed the equator and entered the South Pacific. Deeply reefed and with my Navik windvane, named Francois, engaged, the small Lapworth-designed sloop threw down consistent 120-mile days in challenging conditions as we descended south.

I frequently looked up at my shiny, refurbished mast and wondered when something was going to fail. Three months earlier, I’d dropped my previous spar — and nearly lost the boat on a lee shore — when a five-month-old rigging component failed. My “new” mast had been lying in a field, where it had spent the past decade after being salvaged from a Morgan 27 that had broken free from its mooring and been destroyed on a reef in Maui. Now the spar was pounding its way south in its first grueling bluewater test. Every time I looked up from my bunk in dread, to see the rig pump and the leeward shrouds go slack as we slammed off a wave, I recalled actor Kurt Russell’s mantra in the title role of the movie Captain Ron: “If it’s going to happen, it’s going to happen out there.”

I couldn’t stop thinking about what would happen if I dismasted again. It was a constant psychological struggle; the thought consumed me. Dropping a rig on the way to Hawaii or in the South Pacific generally means setting a jury rig and sailing somewhere accessible while getting blown downwind. Doing so between Hawaii and the Samoas would mean traveling literally thousands of miles to nowhere at 2 knots.

If I was lucky.

Like Mongo’s new mast, a decade ago I too had been salvaged, after a firefight that I barely survived. Before going lights out, I had been a .50-caliber machine gunner, a Marine Corps infantryman based near Fallujah, at the time the world’s deadliest place. Business was booming, but so was everything else, and as a result, the rate of turnover in my line of work was high.

On June 28, 2004, a new Iraqi constitution was signed, two days ahead of schedule, to secure the nation’s sovereignty and signal that the U.S.-led coalition had won the war. The very next day, insurgent leader Muqtada al-Sadr put a bounty on all our heads, and several of the bloodiest days in the Iraq War ensued. The day after that, while providing convoy security down the main supply route, called “Tampa,” the normally dark tree line became illuminated with a flurry of small-arms, rocket and mortar fire. “Contact right!” someone yelled. I swung my .50 around and engaged the enemy as a volley of three rockets closed in on my Humvee. The first two missed the mark — one went high, the other low — but the third struck near enough to its target that my war was over.

A little over a year earlier — on March 19, 2003, to be precise — I was a high school senior in Atlanta, Georgia, working the dinner shift as a waiter at a family steakhouse. Things were slow that night. The United States had begun its invasion of Iraq, and most Americans were home glued to their television sets, not thinking about T-bones. Eight weeks from graduation, I too watched as America went to war, ignorant of the ramifications that the offensive would have on my life and my country.

I’d skipped the SATs to race a triathlon. Chasing trophies meant more to me than college acceptance letters; I hadn’t given much thought to what I would do after high school. At 18, raised in a conservative household in a deeply red region with a war hero grandfather, I was still pissed off about 9/11 and fully believed in the cause of the Iraq War. So when George W. Bush offered me the chance to pick up a gun and travel halfway around the world to fight in a desert to defend the homeland, I bought it hook, line and sinker, and signed up the next day. I wasn’t messing around, either; I was going to war. Semper fi: I’d joined the Marine Corps infantry.

Nine days after high school graduation, I shipped off to boot camp in Parris Island and the intense heat of a South Carolina summer. Eighty-nine grueling days later, I had earned the title of U.S. Marine. After attending the School of Infantry in North Carolina and becoming an 0351 Assaultman specializing in shooting anti-tank missiles and rockets and rigging explosive charges, in November I shipped off to “the fleet” and was assigned to the 2nd Battalion, 2nd Marines in Camp Lejeune. The battalion had been deployed during the invasion earlier in the year, and was nearly stripped bare before returning. After coming home, many had chosen not to re-enlist and immediately got out. In came a few hundred fresh, young and willing bodies, mine included. Soon enough, we had our ­orders: “2/2” was headed back to the desert. In late February 2004, a week after my 19th birthday, we deployed. In just over nine months, my journey from a Georgia high school senior to a combat Marine in Iraq was complete.

Iraq was a twisted, nonstop adventure every single day. Like ­long-distance sailing, it often involved long periods of calm accentuated by moments of sheer terror. But it was never boring. My CAAT Red platoon operated “outside the wire” almost daily in a group of seven Humvees: on patrol, chasing bad guys, providing security, running important people around and trying to help out the ­community.

At the outset we’d seen significant combat in Al Mahmudiyah, and when things got bad in Fallujah in April, we relocated. Shortly after playing a key role in the first Battle of Fallujah, we were moved back out into the countryside and proceeded to almost completely clean up a small town, Al Zaidan, in the month of May. Things were happening almost too fast to process, until the country imploded again in late June.

Which is when I got hurt.

On June 30, 2004, I lay in a coma in Iraq, my prospects and future very much uncertain. Looking back, it all seems so distant, foreign, wrong. On June 30, 2014, Mongo and I continued our South Seas voyage. All I could think now was, give me war or give me sailing; I’ll take the boat every time.

Making 6 knots in steady easterly trades, Mongo raced along on a fast reach on a course heading almost perfectly due south. A large, nearly black squall system quickly developed and overtook us, blanketing the sky from horizon to horizon as it began to rain. We’d entered the intertopical convergence zone, or ITCZ. One of this voyage’s biggest unknowns was about to be revealed.

Sailing across the doldrums was something I had both feared and been fascinated by since I’d discovered the sport. When following round-the-world races like the Vendée Globe, it’s not uncommon to watch boats ­separated by mere miles experience entirely different conditions; some boats slip past untouched, while others get stuck in a vicious cycle of frequent, violent squalls with sail-shredding gusts, followed by little to no breeze whatsoever. Getting parked in the ITCZ as I approached the equator was one of my greatest fears; the sooner I escaped, the better.

As it happened, in just one exhilarating night in the doldrums, I got a taste of everything, from being fully becalmed to ripping along in 25 knots, from a slight drizzle to a heavy downpour. I worked hard and put in a good night of sailing, quickly reacting to every change in the breeze with the constant shaking out and tucking in of reefs, and multiple headsail changes. Ignoring my daily ration of two beers, I turned up the stereo and hand-steered Mongo naked through the hot and humid night. Witnessing one of nature’s greatest displays, I watched in amazement as frequent lightning strikes illuminated both sky and sea, though none seemed to actually strike near our position. Exactly a decade after being comatose, I was as alive as I’d ever been.

By the next morning a light easterly breeze had filled, and I could re-engage the tiller pilot to begin napping after the long, intense and sleepless night. Powerful but brief, in retrospect our doldrums adventure was little more than a long overnight squall. By afternoon the skies cleared entirely, and I was again reaching at hull speed, now with the windvane steering, efficiently cranking out the miles made good to Samoa. Slowing down to just one sub-100-mile day of 93 miles made good, Mongo barely missed a beat and was back up to a steady 120 miles per day in no time, closing fast on the tiny central Pacific atoll of Palmyra, with Samoa another 1,300 miles away. If my luck held, I thought, I could do the entire passage in 18 days.

Ten years earlier, after 18 days in my medically induced coma, I came to — in Texas. For the next 40 days, in intensive care and through several surgeries, my body began getting its individual systems up and going again, one by one. Ultimately, from a physical standpoint, I escaped with a few burns and permanent eye damage (I can’t legally drive a car), and I’m down half a lung. Most of my friends would also suggest that my traumatic head injuries had grave impact and made me a crazy solo sailor. Jokes aside, between my experiences in Iraq and the sudden death of my father four months later, the intense stress of it all made 2004 a pretty hectic year for me. I had some issues that needed resolving.

Three years later, that hadn’t changed. I was still living in Texas, but I needed out. Unfulfilled in life, I was rolling the dice in ways they should not be rolled. Then, one night, I discovered sailing on the Internet. Within 90 days I’d dropped out of college, quit my job, sold my house and, for $30,000, bought a 41-foot bluewater cruising boat in San Diego and moved aboard. I was 23 and had never before set foot on a sailboat, but I was resolved to sail around the world.

Six months later, I set off singlehanded for Hawaii, and sailed into some pretty severe weather on the outskirts of an October hurricane. After breaking my rudder, I was rescued 800 miles offshore. (Yes, I am that dumbass you may have read about in the online cruising forums.) A freighter dropped me off in Shanghai; I quickly moved to Hong Kong to regroup and find another boat, but with just $5,000 to my name, I settled on a bicycle.

I rode that bike through more than 20 countries in Asia and Europe before returning home to San Diego. During my journey, I began following the legendary Vendée Globe race and spent 9,000 miles in the saddle reflecting on life, collecting experiences and contemplating future goals that centered around solo ocean racing.

I returned from my adventures a bit older and wiser, but with far less money. With just $88 left by the time I arrived in California, I crashed on a friend’s couch and started working construction. Within two weeks, for a thousand bucks I’d acquired a Cal 25 that I planned to campaign in the 2010 Singlehanded Transpac Race from San Francisco to the Hawaiian island of Kauai. Sailing website Sailing Anarchy ran a story about me, and I was contacted by a Vietnam veteran who offered the use of his 30-foot racing boat for the event, and the support of a wounded-veteran nonprofit group called Hope for the Warriors.

Eight months later, I was indeed on the starting line of the solo Transpac Race, which I completed in 15 days, 6 hours to secure second in my class. Further inspired to one day sail in the Vendée Globe, I worked as a rigger and mounted another campaign for the 2012 Singlehanded Transpac, this time on a Moore 24, aboard which I won a very competitive division by just an hour and a half. As part of the effort, I helped found a program in San Francisco to teach wounded ­veterans to sail, and hosted four clinics in 2012 and 2013, which I plan to continue in the future.

I had sold my 28-foot liveaboard cruising boat just days before the start of the 2012 race to help finance the project, and began living aboard the Moore 24 once in Kauai, which was not a sustainable situation. A month later, I skippered an Island Packet 380 from Kauai to Seattle. After 23 days at sea, I arrived on a Sunday, got paid $5,000 on Monday, and on Tuesday purchased a Cal 2-27 from Craigslist Seattle for $4,000.

Enter Mongo.

From her humble beginnings as a weekend daysailer in Tacoma, Washington, Mongo was slowly and ­methodically prepared for a trip across the Pacific. In Seattle, she was rigged with a tiller pilot and spinnaker. Off the Olympic Peninsula, her diesel engine blew up and was later sold and discarded. A windvane and solar panel were added in Oregon, followed by more refits in San Francisco and San Diego, by which time she was ready for some serious ocean sailing on a very small budget. When $2 million for a used 60-foot Vendée racing yacht in France began to seem highly unrealistic, I got itchy feet and untied the dock lines of my engineless Cal 2-27. I was ready to go for a long sail.

As I glanced at my mast, my heart sank. The new spar I had installed in Maui had been moving slightly on its step, and was now broken in two places at its base. Three hundred miles of sailing in the Hawaiian Islands and a thousand-mile reach to Palmyra hadn’t exposed any weaknesses, but the windy 500-mile beat across the equator had. Two large stainless-steel hose clamps from my onboard spares kit would provide additional support for the cracked spar and hopefully prevent further damage. With a bit of luck, fair weather and smart sailing, I reasoned, I could get Mongo to Samoa in two more days — just two days before my girlfriend, Rebekah, was to fly in from Kauai.

The forecast didn’t hold: 200 miles north of Samoa and beating into gale-force southeasterlies, Mongo charged into and over the rapidly building seas under triple-reefed main and storm jib, seemingly motivated by a safe harbor just 48 hours off the bow. In these appalling conditions, I sat by the mast with one hand on the deck-stepped spar to feel for movement, meanwhile gazing aloft to watch for the rig pump. Each time the boat landed with a bang, I shut my eyes and held my breath, convinced that the mast was about to come down. It was too much to bear. I had to do something, I reasoned, to improve my odds of keeping the rig standing. Inaction was not an option.

Down came the storm jib to dampen the pace and ease the pounding. With our boat speed cut in half and our l­eeway doubled, Mongo was pointed farther west, well to leeward of the Samoas. Mother Nature had forced our hand.

Cracking off for Fiji and now sailing under storm jib alone, Mongo recorded her two fastest days of the passage — 135 and 136 miles — wildly surfing down huge quartering swells as she broad-reached and ran before the strong winds. With small turns of a knob on the self-steering gear, Francois steered Mongo through the South Pacific like a slot car, sailing within sight of Samoa’s tall peaks and just south of Wallis and Futuna, eventually putting Fiji on the bow. With strong, consistent southeast trades, even under greatly reduced sail, Mongo knocked out the extra 800 miles to Fiji in under a week, sailing north and to leeward of the expansive island nation and its many reefs. Turning the corner and heading south again past the Yasawa Islands off northwest Fiji, I began lining up our approach for land.

As I sailed toward the pass in early morning, Fiji’s largest and most populous island of Viti Levu lay before me, silhouetted by a brilliant rising sun. All the questions and doubts that had consumed me a short week ago, while still north of Samoa, suddenly seemed to have answers. The satisfaction and raw elation of making landfall after an epic 28-day solo passage far outweighed the negatives. The journey revealed far more to me than the small engineering defects in a new mast; in fact, it had confirmed and reinforced why I live my life the way I do.

A decade after trading my name for a service number and becoming the property of a government that’s happy to habitually sacrifice its young for the continued perpetuation of the military industrial complex, I have chosen to escape the madness — taking the world in at 5 knots. Today, Fallujah has again fallen, ISIS has risen, and the bang of the war drum can be heard even from tiny Pacific atolls. The machine continues running.

As a veteran from a war-weary ­nation where 22 of my brothers and sisters commit suicide every single day, perhaps more in my generation could benefit from the ultimate freedom and profound healing that come from setting full sail across the endless ocean. This dream of sailing my own boat to the South Pacific has now become a reality and a life-affirming experience that I will cherish forever, though the goal to sail farther will always remain. What lies over that next horizon? I fully intend to find out.

Following his voyage to Fiji, Ronnie Simpson sailed Mongo onward to New Zealand, where he sold the boat and then returned to the U.S. He’s since purchased a Cal 2-29 called Loophole and is living aboard in San Francisco

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