To The Philippines - June '08

The time has come, we're ready to go. We leave in tandem again after the Solomons with our friends of Hamamas ('Happy' in Papua New Guinean language). Tom had a heavy bout of malaria fever, brought about by maybe fatigue or stress. For Fran, his wife, we have acted as surrogate family, helping her as best we could (and as best as she would let us), with hugs, advice, company and encouragement whenever Tom was conscious. He didn't look good, but in true Ozzie fashion he recovered quickly after the wrong diagnosis of Yellow fever was overruled and he was treated to massive doses of quinine.
It is a very felt time, as this signs off the end of a trip started over two years ago from New Zealand, a trip that brought me through several adventures and turns of luck, friendly islands and peoples and ominous ones, forests, volcanoes, ancient rituals, modern decay, military coups. Over two years without seeing a land that looks like land and not like an island, that feels firm, massive and therefore secure from raging elements.
All of this is spelled over there, over the horizon. It looks almost to good to be true...The End.
The forecasts are good, the weather fair, and after the last goodbyes and a lot of preparatory cooking we are on our way, exiting from Palau's western passage (off Arumaten point). Motoring out is a breeze, with the sunny day and Hamamas company we clear the reefs without an hitch. Wanting to sail badly, we raise all up, but in less than an hour the five knots breeze dies completely. Not wanting to lose Hamamas like we did last time (although we did for entirely different reasons), I give up bobbing for hours at dangerous reach of the reef, and we get motoring at slow pace. Soon only the mainsail is up, dampening our nonexistent roll, left up waiting in hope...but hope won't help us much, seeing the sea as calm as in the most sheltered windless anchorage...well, more than a calm anchorage, a sealed crystal ball of oil. Day after day we swelter under the sun, obsessed by the thump-thump of the diesel, autopilot finally at significant use, us unemployed during the watches except for a lazy lookout and the occasional check on oil pressure and water temperature. Thump-tump, one day, two days, three days, Hamamas in sight at different distances until we suspect being fed up they must have cranked the engine up and disappeared. No matter, we keep the slow, quieter pace. The calmness is simply unreal, like no sea I've ever seen.
Unexpected by the Pacific, not even in the so called doldrums. I fear the usual thrashing is hiding over the horizon, but all around flat calm and not a cloud for shade. Hours seem endless, and we are silent playing cards, sudoku, reading, whatever to ease the ennui. At the fourth day of navigation the first signs of human presence: a fish aggregating device, then later a fishing boat coming close at full speed for which I prepared a crowbar, but veering off at the last second, among our bafflement and the friendly waving of the fishermen. Later again we are approached by a group of ridiculous little speed boats, just big enough to contain their drivers and a basked of lines and bait. While we stare amazed at them, they stare amazed at us, like we are the ones in the middle of nowhere riding some homemade plywood jet-skis!
They circle us for a long time, we had managed to sail a little and take a break from the noise, and they wonder with signs where is our engine...they also ask for water and cigarettes, which we gladly hand out. After a while we can spot the mother ships laying on the horizon, relieved that a) Filipinos are not that crazy b) we won't be forced to give them shelter as they're not stranded. Soon they run off toward the ships with their noisy single-cylinder engines, leaving us again in or loneliness, but land is nearby. At last, five days later, we sight it, tall green mountains. I feel a drop of heart, every minute feels unreal. At last, we pass Lajanosa, Anajauan, enter the pass between Mindanao and Bucas Grande, Dahakit point. We're in. Just as my hidden emotions peak, back to reality: the first tank of diesel is gone and I must sweat my heart out priming the engine on the second tank...perfect timing. Following a large cargo ship, taking the long turn around Hinatuan Island (completely clear cut), we pass by beautiful Talavera, the first thatch-roofed village we see built right over the spotless white sandbar. The usual alarmists had warned me against doing the Hinatuan Passage, since its tides and currents range over five knots in random directions at almost any given time, but the saving in miles is too advantageous and besides, if cargoes do it, so can I. Two cargoes in fact turn around to try the pasage at a later time, but I can't afford such luxury, as uneventful as it was, this passage has been tiring as much as any other. The sea is ripped in all directions by the currents, and the large fast eddies swing Keturah around like a leaf ove the water, I fear a change of plan. Several tugs with their barges give up as well, but I am convinced it can be done, and in-fact I spot another tug that is not giving up, and with its' barge being swept left and right is managing to do some headway. I cross the channel quickly in order to imitate its course, caressing the south-western side of Nonoc Island. Once aligned I see the great advantage of our position, away from the main currents and slowly moving in the desired direction. Shortly I consider short-cutting by Doot Island, but it would be the classic mistake brought about by tiredness desiring haste to get to an anchorage. Rounded the reefy island, we can see Surigao, and in renewed joy I turn the radio on to hear what's on air. Amazingly, it's a Jazz only radio station, broadcasting old tunes by a famous redhead Italian singer, Ornella Vanoni. The situation is hilarious, almost an unplanned welcome to me as an Italian, music my parents would have been fond of, as they will be when I'll be able to communicate that yes, a chunk of their and my original dream has been realized. But we haven't anchored yet, the sun is waning and visibility is slowly diminishing, and I must endure one last surprise before stopping. I hate noises, and motoring in particular, after over five days of enduring the noise my brain starts playing tricks on me. I hear the engine, then I hear nothing and panick that it may have given up while we're still in pretty sanguine currents. I open the engine room hatches and it's all running, but I can only hear at at intervals. Gone back to steer, I hear it sputtering, but it's not.
At last, we come close to Sumilon Island, we have good clear water and a bit of reef to look at. The anchor drops, a swim, a meal, and some whiskey, and after, silence, only silence under the stars.

Palau - May '08

Nearing Palau the winds die, and a couple days later we arrive in Babelthuab. The rock formations typical of Palau are immediately evident from afar, and already in the pass we marvel at the lush greenery, the vertical cliffs (after endlessly flat atolls) and the crystal waters all the way into the commercial harbor. I have written to the RBYC in advance to warn of our arrival, but we circle around for an hour or so before being granted permission to dock and receive the authorities. We welcome the lack of fuss over papers, quarantine and customs, and by mid morning we're anchored in front of the Royal Belau Yacht Club, where we are warmly welcomed by Dermot, the manager.
Hot showers, cold drinks, meat and variety of foods, and real supermarkets seem all new to us, aside from Honiara and Chuuk this is the first fully civilized places we've seen in over six months. Even traffic and noise are more amusing than annoying. Palau is truly Americanized, there is no public transportation, everyone's driving their own car (resulting in a very small city with a big traffic problem), the main shops are from American chains, luckily along heaps and heaps of junk-food there is also selection of regular food, not already cooked, preserved, processed or frozen. At long last we can take advantage of an actual nightlife in town. Mexican, Korean, Japanese, Vietnamese restaurants are all there, while the real nightlife (for westerners) revolves around Kramer's, a German's bar-restaurant where the party atmosphere is seldom lacking, especially when we're around (see video).
The windlass which we repaired already in the Solomons worked only once, and we came all the way here hauling the tackle by hand, easy though never pleasant. I decide to give it another shot before facing the deep anchorages of the Philippines ahead, while Michela poking around as usual found some fresh areas of rot in the superstructure. The windlass goes to a local machine shop, but it will work again only after shuttling it back and forth a few times -and it IS heavy!-. The electric motor was toast, but luckily I had an identical one taken off an electric winch I removed since quite useless. Stripping off the rot and filling it with beams of Fijian ironwood means stripping off quite a bit of paint, and what starts as a quick repair (nothing is quick on boats ever, except the hemorrhage of money!) becomes a new paint job for the whole deck superstructure. We start in the harbor, then we decide to get the permits to visit the Rock Islands and do some more work in more pleasant settings, since we're here, why not. We tuck in a perfect little lagoon of turquoise water, too small to swing, I secure a line to a tree. There we are able to start with the primers, swim around, collect mussels (big shells, lots of work picking and cleaning them and very little meat inside). Then just four days later we discover we're running out of smokes and seeing the weather above turning sour decide to head back into town. We drop anchor there just to find out that a typhoon is forming right over our heads, though in the little hole we've been we hardly noticed and would have been plenty safe.
No matter, we remain by the yacht club (since returning to the islands would have meant renewing the costly permit), seeing day after day of pouring rain and mounting winds, but without having to take any special precaution (just plenty of chain) the storm moves away in a few days. One after another, several US Navy ships have called into the harbor, crowding it with loud and yet orderly sailors. Returning from the cursed war, or hurrying to some other related mission, or patrolling endlessly the Pacific, faces are happy or sad, depending, moods joyful or somber, but in most cases it is evident the desire to let loose, break free from the floating prison if only for a few hours. One night though, me and Miki decided to have a "fancy" dinner to the only Indian restaurant. Being one of the more expensive venues, we expect an evening full of courtesy and relaxation, after another long day sweating under the merciless sun. As we enter, two black guys are sitting, one (the bigger meaner looking one) obviously inebriated, no matter to us, so we just pick a table not too close and bury our faces in the menu. Time a few seconds , and the big mean one comes to our table, looking for a reason to chat, maybe to fight, and acting all around obnoxiously. I don't bite his provocations -the guy is young, drunk, furious, repressed and incredibly pumped chain-gang style- and I manage to mutter a simple and very bourgeois "we're trying to have dinner...do you mind?". If I only stood up that would have been the end of me...while his buddy tries to wrestle him away he breaks into full on shouting that I'm a racist and it's time to fight, he wants to fight, whoever is there: he needs to fight. By then the owner (a big Rajastani fellow) is finally out, and the two combined manage to push him out of the venue. The day after we hear that the guy did indeed end up in a riotous rumble, spent the night in jail, and after that of all the following ships only the officers got to take night leave ashore. One up for discipline: a whole fleet paid for one single idiot, so, if you decide to be a soldier, you better stick to what you subscribed to.
Painfully slow, the work proceeds, and many days and trips to the hardware store later the first coats of paint are on, followed by the antiskid. We spent so much money in Palau, that we actually won a small lottery where one gets points every time shopping at certain venues. I never won anything of the sort before. So all in all a whole month goes by, with Cecilia and Miki and myself working hard in order to get ready for the last Pacific leg to the Philippines. We have one wonderful night partying at Kramer's, after rocking the place until it shut, we move on to the only available venue that late: a disco karaoke that's really a club with brothel.
The girls are very nice to us, maybe because we're definitely not there for them, except the Palauan bartender (a blast of a guy), and they take care of our drinks religiously, making sure we're extra pampered. At Kramer's we also picked up last people standing: some diving dude and an american young guy who sailed from Yap with a traditional canoe. He's white, but grew up in the Marshalls, and it's funny to see a westerner with a westerner's mind behaving like a local and speaking a local language, his job is to dive deep in order to catalogue new species of the deep...surprisingly for a young man, he doesn't miss the teptatbustle of the US, rather stick to his betel nuts cocoanut juice and the slow pace of emerald and turquoise atolls I guess. The girls other than (sadly) practicing the old trade, are also hostesses and entertainers, doing a few well coreographed and rehearsed ballets. As the evening seems to die down (or we simply had enough), we decide to leave just as a massive downpour breaks off. Taken by a sudden fellinian inspiration, I drag the girls under the rain, and decide that strolling leisurely and unconcerned under heavy tropical rain is a good idea. The fresh water clears the streets, our heads, and the stale smell of club from our clothes. I felt it like one of those momentous, hilarious and yet almost spiritual moments, elated in the idea that since we were going to get wet, might as well do it in style (with the calm night all around us). I am still not sure the girls saw it that way. The day after, the Palauan bartender tells us that while he was passing around the pipe, our neighbour, the chief of Police, was eyeing us maliciously, but being all of us (him and us) in what was obviously a brothel he couldn't really do much. In between paint coats I also managed to sneak on a weekend sail aboard a superclassic sailboat belonging to an american old-timer skipper: "Anthea", built in late 1800's. A beautiful old lady built for racing without lifelines, with running backstays and minimal interior furnishing. Moving with no breeze at all, with shiny varnish and brass and the solid feel of wood under the feet. Gary, the owner, is a character known across the Pacific, not only sailing across it in a boat absolutely not designed (but obviously capable of) for it, but also for delivering just about anything over long distances, all the while cracking jokes endlessly at lightning speed. The paint job really is coming to the final touches, the windlass is back in its' position and working (halle-fuckin'-luya!), and only the ordinary preparations are left for the final stretch that will put the word end to a journey of over two years through the marvellous, terrible, gorgeous, scary, mean, sweet, pleasant Pacific.

Yap - April '08

Another slow event less sail, we reach the well marked pass (for once!) in broad daylight into Kolonia harbor, Yap state. We're the only yacht present. Entry formalities are done sitting on the ground of an outdoor veranda, the officials more curios than anything and pushing us to chew a bit of betel nut. A few shuffling of papers later we're all ashore back into 'civilization' (at this point for us defined as a place with a fridge and a telephone) heading straight for the cold drinks section of the supermarket. While in other islands women might be conscious of being bare breasted in front of westerners, in Yap ladies of all ages (and all sizes!) walk around unconcerned from store to store, while a much larger majority of men is traditionally dresses at all times. Kolonia is barely a village, more of a trading post with basic necessities (post, telecommunications, supermarket, government offices etc.) and a few venues dedicated to diving tourism. If the atmosphere is Micronesia is generally slow and relaxed, Yap seems more comatose, with baskets for spitting the red betel juice everywhere (a definite improvement compared to the Solomons where red spit stains every wall and sidewalk). However, the crew gets to tour around and have fun, while on the boat a bit of quiet returns. We say goodbye to our friends Andrew and Nobina and after a hell of a lot of sashimi and trips to the supermarket we leave Yap, nice, but not very interesting place except for seasoned divers, WWII remnants and 'stone money'.