Cap d'Ambre - Humback Whale Alley

 Left Antsiranana, ahead of us was the feared rounding of Cap d'Ambre. All the fear-mongering was unjustified, and even though the rollers were easily 4-6 meters high it's a downwind leg fast and pleasant. Rounded the Cape the sea went smooth with the settled winds prevailing all around Madagascar. The sea went smooth and teeming with life, but it was the way leading up to it that was the real treat: hundreds of whales cavorting in the cobalt blue sea.

We had a near collision with a whale charging right into us

It was a glorious sail around the Cape, we rolled and sailed fast with the wind on the beam and a spectacle of hundreds of whales jumping, rolling, spouting and coming close to our keel...

I could have shot one hundred of these sequences, but this one was possible thanks to Ken's 300mm zoom

Ken got a chocolate cake for his thousandth mile

All the whales you can imagine in one day around Cap d'Ambre

She was beautiful.

Nearing Cap D'Ambre: desertic, desolate, lunar and absolutely stunning.

We never understood whether they wanted to sell us a parrot...they sure liked our candies!

Chagos, Jan.-April 2011

In front of the courthouse

After almost two and a half years Keturah has left South East Asia. It was strange leaving places by now familiar with all the comforts and reassurances (along with the squalls and sudden weather changes) of the Malacca strait. On January 20th pumped on enthusiasm and adrenaline we depart for Maldives. The sailing is quite slow and after four days, once far away from the intense cargo and oil carrier traffic around the northern tip of Sumatra, we are becalmed, leaving us no other occupation than bathing in 4000 meters deep waters, reading and waiting for wind on an oily flat ocean. Halfway the wind turns and we are forced to head NW, the wind dying and shifting all night long, until the bad weather builds up and one last swift turn of the wind rips the mainsail from mast to leach. Knowing that Sri Lanka is just 120 miles away we decide to head there: we've been twelve days at sea already and we have no desire to spend another six or eight days (the distance left for Gan in Maldives) struggling against raging seas and howling winds with a destroyed mainsail and damaged mizzen.

Galle sunset

 Two days later we enter Galle harbor. The authorities welcome us by coming aboard and grabbing whatever fancies them: chocolates, clothes, beer, whiskey, or expecting and bargaining outright their bribe. In two hours we spend over two hundred USD in “taxes” and to hire an "agent" that does nothing helpful but interfere in order to take a 25% surcharge on anything we may need. All for the privilege of sitting in a stinking harbor, even gorgeous Palau didn’t charge as much!

Chagos, absolutely no place like it

We head out into town hoping to see regular people being different than the authorities, but we soon are disappointed: from chicken to engine parts anything we ask in the shops is jacked up to be dearer than in Europe! Even the laundry comes back with a 1 Euro a piece tag (even laundry needed the agent's intervention and cut) which is preposterous, or even more rather insulting, do they think us stupid?! It is obvious we are our agent’s and port authorities’ hostages, and their only goal is to shamelessly squeeze every penny out of us by impeding any independent purchase or inquiry of our own. This is as bad to the point that when going to an shop to inquire for some sail stitching, they also tell us to speak to our agent first, they won't deal with us directly...later the agent of course coolly informs us that we must pay customs duty to "import" our sail into Sri Lanka in order to bring it in town to fix it, I practically tell them to go f**k themselves...Sometimes countries are poor for a reason and Sri Lankans' self defeating greed discourages us to spend any unnecessary penny here (we have better things to do than bargaining over basic groceries and tuk tuk rides); still at the fix price supermarket, we find really good and cheap parmesan, delicious locally made yoghurt and some special marmalades by a German lady “Kern & Hundt” which are to die for.

Soon we stitch our mainsail by hand, fill our water and diesel tanks, dodge some last attempts to get “gifts for the good service” and with deep, great relief (it is nice not to feel like a hostage anymore) we depart for Gan, Maldives. We are again plagues by weak breezes and dead calms and we sail about 50% of the time. We see dolphins almost daily and the last morning before arrival even whales show up, the sound of their breath is ever startling; with a flip and wave of their tailfins they regain the deep. We enter Addu atoll at 3 am since it is easily navigable. In the morning we understand what paradise we're in: countless turtles, rays, mantas and other fish are all around us, right in the middle of the harbor!

The Maldivian authorities are correct and pleasant, though any permanence over 72 hours means having to buy a 300 Euros cruising permit (even though we don't want to go anywhere), so we figure that we'll hurry and resupply and leave for Chagos within that timeframe. We still manage to see Gan and meet its people: stunning expanses of turquoise waters and sleepy island pace, a nice coffee and a chat at someone’s home. We are sad to leave so soon.

Oddly, we manage to have a perfect sail down to Peros Banhos, steady light breezes and autopilot: the boat practically steers herself already. We enter the northern pass by Ile Diamant late in the afternoon (25/02/’11), attracting the attention of a million sea birds and a flock of excited dolphins.

Think different

There are only two other boats at the other end of the island, but we remain only one night at Ile Diamant to motor the ten miles down to Ile du Coin the day after. In minutes a small tuna is on the trolling line, I catch one, while the second gets snapped by a shark that will follow us until anchored. The island is perfect and more so because it is all ours, not one soul in sight. For one week we explore the ruins of the settlement, all of them in the last stages of decay. The main well near the old manager's house is perfect for showers (icy water!) and laundry, still evident is the church, what must have been a little "power station", the copra processing area with its cart tracks still in place. There are few more houses, one of which shaped like a little castle, many clogged wells, ruins and rusty steel roofing and at the far end of the island a cemetery. Besides birds and fish little else seems to live in the island: enormous coconut crabs, millions on hermit crabs (very big ones), little mice that outright ignore us, boobies and frigates and one donkey -a survivor from the Chagos exodus- easily spotted when the lone soul goes looking at the sunset from the immaculate-white sand spit (such a romantic donkey!).

You would not expect to find this between your toes

Among the crumbling dock rubble baby sharks find their playground along schools of sapphire-green parrot fishes, while inland typical atoll vegetables are still present: a Taro patch, breadfruit trees, the very sour fruit “Blim blim” and a trillion coconuts. As days go by time seems to slow down, and our Thai mattresses in the cockpit make it a true lounge from which to snooze, read, watch the sunset and birds going by, dinner by candlelight and the brightest stars above. In the water a myriad of fish of all colors and types, along with several large sharks, all of them not at all scared to come close to see what we “are”. The coral slope along the island is a bounty for the eyes: coral fans and umbrellas, underwater cathedrals of coral which, without man’s ever destructive action, have grown to all shapes and sizes. About a week goes by immersed in this absolutely breathtaking heaven on earth, until the weather breaks bad and we return at Ile Diamant for better shelter. We are surprised that in the meantime a whole flock of

Strolling at 7am

French boats has arrived, and after enduring a whole week of 20/40 knots gusts and pouring rain we meet them and also begin to snorkel the area. We have a nice dinner aboard with French guests (they seem terrified by the sharks), then an afternoon BBQ on the beach. The sandy area is quite stunning and many coral patches surrounded by white sand bottom make both snorkeling and sailing the dinghy an absolute delight. The sand attracts many giant sting rays, a few turtles, massive trevallis (jacks), when uncovered at the lowest tide it is a soccer field of white sand dunes and coral rubble, exalting even more the surrounding turquoise waters. We sail the dinghy to the nearby islands for many little excursions, while a French boat lends me a spear gun so I also can claim a fish for ourselves (a big coral trout). Still during the bad weather we receive the BIOT’s patrol visit checking on permits: seeing some young people like ourselves we offer them all a coffee, and we spend a pleasant half hour chatting away, the guys are very relaxed only concerned really with illegal fishing (Sri Lankan, Indonesian or even sometimes Korean) that sometimes reach the marine park area. After being social in Diamant we long for the isolation of Ile du Coin, and soon we move back to complete our explorations above and below the water, although just a few days later some other boats begin to show up, but at least we got the best anchoring spot ahead of everyone.

I borrow the spear gun again, but instead of fish (lame!) I manage to get three delicious lobsters, plus squid at any time for pasta or even fried rings. Slowly the anchorage swells to over ten boats, and with the return of the flock of children on them we see that it’s time to move on to Ile Fouquet.

Ile Fouquet is another slice of perfection. The island itself with a little shaded BBQ camp, surrounding sandy areas and the reef in separate long patches each hosting its own particular multitude of life. The underwater photo safari goes on, and also the lobster catching!

We see more giant groupers and trout, an octopus looking at us without any fear, lobsters freely strolling on the coral, giant moray eels, turtles, sharks, giant clams etc. etc.

By the time the French “colony” reaches us we are ready once again to move on and also to start meeting some people, isolation even partial gets quite alienating in the long run.

One morning then after the customary 7:00 AM snorkel (that’s when more fish is seen around) we set off for Saloman Atoll.

In accordance with the sailor’s unwritten rule, the wind is on the nose, and the engine comes to the rescue once again. We enter the only pass in good light and accompanied by a school of the biggest bottlenose dolphins: a particularly enormous one swims alongside; we nickname it the “grandfather”. The coral bommies in the lagoon are easily spotted, the water gets murky so we cross on the eastern side where the patches are more spread apart and the navigation easier. There are over fifteen boats already anchored or moored by Boddam, many reefs are marked by a little floater as the closer spots to the island are literally surrounded by coral. We notice one vacant mooring quite near the island and we go for it. While in Peros Banhos one anchors deep and then swims to the coral wall, Boddam’s anchorage is one evenly deep (5 to 8 meters) and pristine coral garden, making it a delight to snorkel right off the boat, but also a crime to drop anchor anywhere. So the disused mooring is a blessing for our peace of mind and clean conscience!

The yachters coming to reside in Boddam for several months at a time have in fact reused the wrist thick fishing lines who drifted on the island to fashion moorings attached to the base of bommies, a nice trick, good for the boats and good for the corals!

This year though the permits have been shortened to 28 days, and we are the last batch to enjoy the three months permit. So we get to meet quite a bunch of Boddams’ old timers: people who through the years have come to the island for sometimes six or more months at a time, doing a fine job at keeping the paths clear, the moorings checked, and preventing the total decay of a few structures, all the while keeping an “eye” on undisciplined yachters too keen on feeding off the islands every comestible item or too lazy, say, to separate their garbage for collection by the BIOT.

Unluckily, for the record, we have witnessed in Peros Banhos quite a destructive attitude from many yachters: digging for turtle eggs/birds eggs for an omelets, making pate’ out of the protected coconut crabs, gathering for food the few giant clams who did manage to get giant, spear fishing way more than the necessary, leaving behind dirty fuel and spent engine oil and in one case apparently chopping down a coconut tree in order to get at the coconuts (?!?!?!?!?!?!?).

Will we EVER learn to respect nature (at least just a tiny bit)?!

I often deluded myself that people choosing the cruisers’ lifestyle do it out of love for freedom & nature, I was wrong: way more often is out of vanity and sometimes lack of other options in the “real” world.

After the roughness of Peros Banhos, Boddam feels like a small town: there’s always a small group of people ashore either doing the laundry, baking bread on the fire, filleting fish from trolling outside the reef, collecting/cleaning coconuts, or simply sitting around the table for a chat.

At last after the long snorkeling sessions we can have some extra distraction to keep us busy and entertained: planning and cooking for potluck dinners, getting yellow-fin tuna from the committed fishermen for delicious sashimi, going for walks on the long marked paths in the island, having a beer in company in the evening before retiring to our boat. On Boddam the active vigilance of yachters has been indeed a bounty to the local nature: sea turtles abound and even in one occasion let us touch them, hermit crabs are ever bigger and coconut crabs are so abundant that they stroll between our legs by day or night.

We make some good friends, party on the beach, collect some clams for a pasta, snorkel on the outer reef, eat sashimi until we burst, visit other boats, sail the dinghy, see more ruins (the jail, the church, the infirmary, the shop, another cemetery), then we move on to Takamaka and Fouquet.

We anchor on the infamous sand spit without a problem and spend some more nice days there (yacht wrecks) doing the usual. The usual is in-fact starting to get a little repetitive, and we long for the trappings of civilization (such as a proper hot shower etc.) and a few more stimuli than endless reading books, walking and swimming.

After one week of preparing in Takamaka we say enough and one bright day (April 30th) we leave for Rodrigues, Mascarene Islands…

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.

Ifalik - March '08

Easter

89 miles of slow sailing later we are in front of the passage, right on time to catch the thunderstorm killing all visibility. The pass once again is very different than what the chart shows, but being 3pm, at the first breach in the rain we must head in. The pass is definitely getting overgrown with reef, luckily along it and not across, leaving a narrow guess of what "gate" is safer. By sticking to the south side only two narrow passages between coral heads are needed, and under a steady drizzle we come to rest in the lagoon. As usual the whole atoll seems to be staring from the beach, many cheering and waving, and it's not long before the canoes are in the water with the first visitors. The cockpit is swarmed and coffee is offered all around, coffee being a passion in all the Pacific. Knowing the custom we assure of our immediate visit to the paramount chief, only following a quick boat clean up. I haul out the second broken Genoa, all the rest of the black netting, tobacco and few other niceties, being warned already that some anchoring fees will be expected. Chief Manu likes talking, after a long sermon on customs and tradition (how come everyone's chuckling?) he comes down to business, and without even thanking for the gifts, comes up with a preposterous 'price-list'. I reason with him and we are mercifully spared the 'swimming and snorkeling fee' and other absurdities applying to rare 'adventure cruises' visits (twice a year). The first few days chief Manu installs himself aboard, freeloading and bumming anything that catches his attention. After three days we must shut down the supply of coffee, cigarettes and the abundant helpings from our tight alcohol store (alcohol also being forbidden in the island by Manu himself). He gets the message and is never to be seen aboard once understood that the well had 'dried up'.
Now we can actually get to know people and walk around in peace. According to the islanders it is Easter (I haven't a clue), and we must attend the catholic service. The whole island is shrouded in flower decorations, children to octogenarians, and everyone is strictly wearing only the lavalavas, so it's boobs in church. The priest is missing, and a chief officiates with the aid of two gracious helpers. Lots of singing goes on in English and the native language in between a sermon or two. Nice detail is the altar being a brightly painted canoe...
Service over, there is an atoll-wide feast on the lawn. On one side the chiefs, the general public sprawled about, and us in another bunch. Fried Taro puree, smoked fishes in banana leaf, fresh coconuts and bananas (not quite a novelty!). The feast however is just symbolic, sure that back home a real feast of rice, pork and turtle awaits.
Free of the chief but not free from visitors of course, and the stream of children and new friends goes by, canoe after canoe sailing around us and off to fish in the open water. By the lee of the atoll water is flat as always, while the occasional bullet of wind only stirs the palm trees' heads, while on the outer north-west side the giant rollers come inesorable and merciless. In Ifalik there aren't many places to go unlike Puluwat where lots of small wooded formations give lots of chances to sneak 'away'. According to the chief the unlived-in side is now infested by some new breed of biting flies, a small garden strip at the entrance is the only other land. Nobina in-fact falls ill with a swinging fever, though she is often the most high spirited of the lot. Michela nurtures her while all I can do is worry that it's nothing serious.
Marc is Ifalikese, but has fished on Japanese ships, so he can actually speaks Japanese. He is welcome aboard, someone articulate, polite and curious about things is always a pleasure. We hear the old story of the youths going to work abroad but magically always opting to go back to their remote island...stories of navigators and their magic powers, customs, and even a little gossip on island politics. Chief Manu apparently fell from a cocoanut tree and was never the same since, so other chiefs keep him a bit in check.
At last, after a lot of beating around the bush and 'yes, sure, maybe, sometimes', I manage to convince him that really, if I don't get a go on the big canoes the whole point of coming all the way here is ruined for me. And after so many false starts one morning he comes pick me up (me ready and checking the clock since 5:30 am) and we take off on a mid-size canoe (video). The boat is very swift, and just a couple tacks we are out of the atoll with many more canoes following. Immediately the lines go out, two each side, I brought my own. Of course I cannot pretend to know about fishing than these guys, so I am more than happy to take care of the sailing instead, while my lures are game if considered good enough. There are no nails, screws or blocks, only wood and rope, though with minimal steering and trimming the canoe takes whatever course desired, as upwind as it can get or roaring down waves with a reef on at (estimated) 7 to 10 knots.
We coast the reef up and down, a big wahoo is on the line, and the kids (me and Marc are the oldest) haul it in among singing shouting and laughing. We follow groups of birds, logs, patches of flotsam to better the chances of swooping a fish from the sea, but for the rest of the day is just sailing as fast as possible, criss crossing with the larger canoes encrusted precariously with whole singing families and bundles of lines. One old man still fishing with the aid of a kite is the lone master of the forgotten technique, and we see him pulling in decent sized catches. I manage to film most of this thanks to Michela's "waterproof" camera which luckily pretended to be well long enough after the experience, to clear me of any responsibility...at least was used for something worthwhile. Days go on with Nobina's fever going on and off, but will be alright. We bathe every evening at a public well, eat, snorkel, deal with the visitors. With a file I resharpen a saw, and with epoxy I fix one of the canoes' pointed bow, which earns me a highly valued meal of boiled chicken in the canoe house with another clan chief and his family. At some point a medium sized cruise ship anchors outside the atoll, and we fear our pace might be shattered. The cruise director is though very nice, paying us a visit right away, inviting us to attend the traditional dances paid for and in honor of the cruise ship clients. Luckily, this sort of cruise ship is a relatively "rough" one: it follows alternative routes through the Pacific with a penance for cultural contact and exploration rather than pointless lascivious luxury. This makes it so that the elderly clients aren't just the average cruise ship gambling fat wobbler, but a special breed of nice old farts that the least are trying their best to get into something a bit unique rather than being just packages to be shipped around. Seeing that they're trying their best at an age where in no way they could get to something like this on their own, we can't hold the stinkpot over there in too much antipathy, also considering that we'd expected to be ignored as a spoiling nuisance, while instead everyone was really courteous and cordial. So much so that we also get invited to have lunch on the cruise ship! (after all ourselves are an unexpected diversion/addition to the 'experience'). We get a quick tour of the ship, us and the chiefs' delegation (still carrying trinkets in the hope of a few last minute sales), but only after a lavish meal with delicacies such as cold soft rinks, fresh salad and tomatoes, hamburgers and even chocolate cake! Pretty fun and interesting experience, even though I wasn't shown the engine room which could have been a true highlight for me. Cecilia also gets to play on a full sized piano (in her sarong and flowery crown), while we get some printouts of the latest weeks worth of world news, a very generic weather forecast, some new sudokus. The day after the ship is gone. Thanks bye bye!
Days go by in a bliss (although sometimes a very crowded busy bliss) that we'd like never to end, but end it must and after a final exchange of gifts (Marc comes by with shells, necklaces after I tried hard to fix a couple hand-held GPSs) we're leaving for Yap, where Andrew and Nobina will catch a flight to the US to go work again on super yachts while Cecilia will strike another mark on her list of historic diving destinations.

Puluwat

Two days of pleasant sailing bring us to Puluwat's reef entrance just a tad too late. We have a try but light is too faint and there are quite a lot of breakers hiding the path into the lagoon. We attempt to anchor somewhere outside but everywhere the reef slopes are too deep for that, drifting all night and motoring up to the entrance again in the morning. As we've been cautioned the pass isn't the straightforward breeze described on cruising guides: The calm waters marking the entrance are concealed by the breakers and on the way into it several black patches suggest shallow rocks.
As we approach the atoll some imposing sailing outriggers seem to get ready to go, we imagine they might be coming to guide us in. One pops out without us being able to observe its path. The canoe is about 30 feet long, loaded with people singing and waving. Through shouting we discover they're bound for Pikelot, 130 miles NNW. So many people, 130 miles...on that thing?
The second and third canoe stops in the lagoon as waiting for us to come in.
I hold on steady, boats enter here and this is the passage after all. Gone the rocks and "rounded" the breakers I see it. By hugging the reef and then the beach well to starboard we are in!
The lagoon is nearly circular, all around 4/7 meters with all-white sand bottom...we are plunged onto a calm perfect turquoise mirror, an idyllic sight beyond any picture, video or writing could ever describe. The other canoes go by under full sail, I am exhilarated at the sight of so rough and yet elegant (and fast) sailing machines. This is what I came for: peoples who still brave the ocean on the same canoes that originally brought them here, reading the stars and waves for direction, without compasses or GPS.
I anchor in front of a big thatched roof hut, among swimming children and with swaying emerald palms almost overhead. Soon we are boarded by some of the villagers, eager to know our story. They are very polite and leave us soon to do our chores, after we promise to visit the chief ASAP. We do, delivering our gifts: One of the broken jibs to be re adapted for an outrigger, a large measure of the black netting we got in Noro (Solomons) and some canned foods. The gifts are much appreciated though we still have to pay a one time anchoring fee of 25 USD, no big deal. The chief is young and seems quite educated, he reassures us that we are very welcome to stay as long as we want and that anything we might need to ask him. Ali', another young bright guy takes us around the village for a first look around. We walk up to the internal lagoon, another circular jewel on which children sail their tiny canoes back and forth. How funny to be in a place where sailing is a daily past-time and occupation. We pass a home where people are gathered, someone is very sick, while the only doctor in the island has been sick himself for the last three months back in Weno (Chuuk). So there is a small empty clinic, a SSB radio no-one seems to know how to operate (what good can it do anyway so far from everything), basically the island is fending for itself. We have some blissful days of rest and snorkeling, having Ali' over for dinner almost every day...after months and months of taro, banana, coconut and fish on white rice our pastas must seem incredible treats. The chief is dead set on fishing a turtle to eat for us. We follow them around the lagoon with their weird contraption. The canoes who left in-fact left for uninhabited atolls to stock up on the delicacy, more appreciated here than pig or chicken. A turtle is finally caught, and we assist powerless to its' slaughter and cooking for our and everyone's culinary enjoyment. It tastes like neither cicken nor fish, but it's chewy and firm, slightly stringy. The big treat is the fat lining the groove in the uper shell, good but not exactly that delicious to us. I am begging daily to Ali' to take me sailing on one of their canoes. At last one day we go on his small one, quite tricky!
We even capsize a few times and swamp the canoe, but it's a lot of fun. Getting friendly with Ali' is a great experience. He is very proud of his culture and history, and is never shy of explaining the various customs and stories from Puluwat and surrounding atolls. For instance we learn that star navigators, due to their closeness to nature have magical powers, thunder and lightning is used to send messages to other islands...everyone seriously confirms us that it is the truth, better not get on a navigator's wrong side. All of this is told in one of the canoe houses (also known as men's houses) by the inner lagoon, when me alone was invited to drink Tuba (fermented palm wine) with Ali's male relatives and friends. I would never leave, but Nobina and Andrew have a set date for their flight out of Yap, so we must rationalize the time in each island.

Micronesia, at last!

We anchor at the first possible spot, by Ta island. Reception is very warm, thanks also to the interpolation of the local Peace Corp guy. I bring down some hammocks scavenged in Noro for nearly nothing, some sticks of tobacco. Sea stories are soon the talk of the village, we find people supernice, although the anchorage is quite exposed. We have a good rolly sleep, the day after we go deliver some more hammocks. These guys haven't seen a supply ship in ages, and their lust for tobacco and coffee is unlimited. So much so that they offer to pay for some coffee and tobacco sticks. It is quite disconcerting after all the treachery to bum everything possible off me since Vanuatu and all the way here. I am touched, and of course I will spare some of the stuff for free. But before the guys can come collect I see another squall coming fast, and before half an hour the anchorage has become untenable and we are forced to move to Satawan proper. We just can't believe the shelter we've been missing. The water is flat, the bottom sloping white sand and the island is beachy and a shield from the NE squalls ripping the rest of the atoll.
We feel that for the time being we've given out enough hammocks and tobacco, so Michela prepares a trayful of fried rice balls italian style. We land again, and soon we are taken to the Mayor which spends most of his time playing chess at a table under a corrugated verandah-cum-bedroom. We expose our case and the rice balls are a smashing success! Which means we can stay as long as we want. Mr Samson was immigration officer before, so his consensus is a guarantee. Soon we are hooked p with our "guides", the smart guys in town. We are shown around, offered plenty cocoanuts. We arrange for the day after to go touring the other side of the island to se all the japanese WWII remnants. During the war the japanese moved in en masse, bringing small tanks, cannons, building an airstrip, buildings etc. The locals were evacuated to the northern islets, short of space, food, homes and everything else, they starved and didn't have it easy, though some islanders show Japanese features, so there might have been also cases of intermarriage (or likely, rape). Satawan also has its' Peace Corp volunteer, and we befriend him, as he looks like he could use some 'western' company after almost two years of atoll living. We have several dinners together, but the locals are very protective of him and never leave him alone anywhere...so the chances to talk about the "real island" remain scarce.
In the ensuing days we get to see a group of little tanks being stripped piece by piece to make canoe carving tools -considering the perfect blades they make, this steel must be of superior quality- mottainai!. Lying around are also plenty carcasses of bombers and zeros, though most of them only the rusty engines remain. The beach is wonderful, the locals beautiful, although some developed the habit of sniffing gasoline and live in a semi-permanent state of numbness. For courtesy I play some chess games, being whipped every time, even by the gasoline sniffer...I guess they have plenty time to practice.
We see cannons, bunkers that by the effect of land erosion are now in the water, giant holes in the bush where bombs fell. Apparently plenty explosives and ammo have been hidden away, but I'm not shown them.
Nearly a week goes by, we've been spolied by the locals and in return bought some local skirts (for the girls), and given away small gifts to friends. Time to go again. The last stretch to Chuuk follows a by now common scenario: departed on a nice sunny day, soon the weather deteriorated to give us some more of the usual...but it's only 170 miles...
We dream and talk endlessly of a real shower, a cold dink, a hamburger, laundry, communication etc.
We arrive at Chuuk's Nort Eastern Pass at night, and to top it up, the lighthouse marking the passage isn't working...for once after a long time, I decide to trust C-Map, but we proceed very carefully and doing our best to see what's ahead of us. The sea suddenly goes calm, a sign that we are indeed in the shelter of the passage. About half an hour of anxiety and we're in. We celebrate with some instant noodles while rounding Moen by the airport side, anchoring well away from shore right behind some liveaboard dive boat.