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'.

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.

Olimarao

Another short sail (one and a half days) bring us to Olimarao, an uninhabited atoll. The pass again is not as straightforward as the charts suggest, but with Michela as by now seasoned reef spotter we have no troubles getting in, just the usual stroke of anxiety when seeing bright rocks in the clear water slide under the hull. While motoring up to the beach a loud pop and smell of exhaust...I look at the temperature gauge and it's shooting up to 90 degrees Celsius!
Great, some kind of serious failure right in the middle of nowhere.
The engine holds on until we anchor, but I'm too tired to dig right into the problem, I give myself a day's rest. The snorkeling is superb, with the bulk of the island in front ant its sand dunes extending from the extremities giving us shelter and amazing colors. Off the candid beach isolated reef formations nurture clouds of fish, live cowery shells (amazing how fast they actually get around), turtles and Nobina finds also two lobsters hiding in a hole. I manage to spear one for aperitif, taken on the bow while listening to the absence of human noises. The day after I must face it, and me and Andrew proceed to disassemble the heat exchanger, since I suspect it's pretty clogged and is what caused the overheating. The impeller is grinded to mush from our "way up" through the doldrums. After quite a sweat and few scratches I and Andrew get it out and take it apart. As I suspected years and years of broken impellers, melted zinc, stray algae and build up are making a mess of it all. During the day just about every corrosive product available on the boat has been run through the lines and it looks pretty clean at last. Another small sweat and the cooling flow is restored.

We spend four idyllic days stunned minute by minute the whole time by the absolute purity of everything around us, the overwhelming sense of remoteness. I walk around the island, noticing the many pits in the sand where turtles lay their eggs, mountains of shells, coconuts (almost) at arm's reach. It is a crime to leave, but time urges us on, and I really wanted to spend some quality time in Ifalik, want to get on one of those big canoes real bad!