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.
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.
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