Navire's blog

13 Kadavu passage Date July 21 (several months ago!) Janet At last, I get to sit and write. We are out beyond the reefs that fringe the entrance to Vunasea Bay, with a ten hour sail ahead of us to get to Suva.
*** Rising at 5.30, a bit of an effort for our somewhat indolent systems, I ran through our usual pattern of securing things. Drawers, hatches, musical instruments, and padding the booze cupboard with teatowels. Shipping the anchor we headed out past the first of several layers of coral reefs.
"I'm going to head up there," I said, pointing at a clear spot on the paper chart laid on the deck, "then I'll turn around into the wind and head back towards the wharf. That should give us plenty of room to hoist the main." David nodded, and donning his headset went forward.
As the sail reaches the top of the mast I gun the engine to quickly turn 180 degrees, making for the gap in the next reef.
"I'm going up the mast," said David. He climbed the mast-rungs like a 35 year-old.
In my headphones he directs me quietly. "Starboard 5 degrees, port 10..." "David I need to go to the loo," I said urgently. I'd been hanging on hoping to get through all the reefs but couldn't wait any longer.
"All right I'll come down." I glance at the chart and calculate we have just under a mile to the next reef pass, and race to the head.
Back on the helm feeling a lot more comfortable, I look ahead over the wide clear vista. It looked like you could sail in any direction but in reality it was cruelly strewn with submerged coral.
David had climbed back up the mast. "Can you see the waves breaking at about 11 o'clock?" he asked.
I watch the horizon closely and sure enough I see the telltale line of the white foam of breaking waves.
Glancing to starboard I ask, "Can you see the waves breaking at 2.30?" "Yup, we are dead on target for going through the last pass." He lithely descends the mast.
Clear of the reef David looks back and wistfully says "Goodbye Kadavu." We smile at each other, knowing we just had a very special five weeks in that place. Now as I write this months later we still reflect on this part of our trip and consider it the highlight of our Fijian experience so far.
*** "What's our speed?" David asks.
"6.5 knots." I answer from the chart table.
"Time to go?" "Seven and a half hours," I read from the GPS screen.
"I don't know if we'll make it in time," said David, "that's only to the waypoint at the Suva Harbour entrance. We'll need another hour of daylight to get in and anchor." "Maybe we will have to heave to for the night," I suggest.
"Let's make the call in an hour's time and keep motoring till then." As we moved further into the ocean the wind rose.
*** 0930 "Wind is 16 knots and steady," I said to David, watching the windspeed instrument.
"Okay, put her neutral and we'll see what happens to the boat speed." I watch the number on the screen drop a little then steady. "Speed's good." "Engine off then." We sit and enjoy the silence for a moment before putting Robert Earl on the stereo. The sun is out, no three metre swells and rough sea, like on our passage down to Kadavu.
"Champagne sailing," I said.
"You know what would make today perfect," I said, gazing at the two lures that we have towed for thousands of miles, "A fish." "We'll get two!" said David. And you can tell how the rest of that story goes.
*** Navire rocks gently on her anchor. The sun's just disappeared behind the hills west of Suva.
"May we have many more sailing days like this," I say to David, and raise my glass.

Back on the road - Kavala to Vunasea Monday July 13 Janet I feel a twinge of anxiety; How windy would it be out there? Will I feel seasick? Shall I take a pill or not? Images of the rough passage from Suva to Kadavu are still fresh in my mind. We are on the cusp of leaving the sheltered womb of Kavala Bay to head to Tavuki.
In Fiji we are almost always in unfamiliar waters. Most of our cruising in New Zealand is in familiar places, so if the wind in wrong direction we know where we can go to find shelter. The trip to Tavuki holds lots of unknown factors; the wind could go to the north (it has three times already and most of the anchorages around here are exposed to it), the anchorage may be too deep, there could be too much coral for safe anchoring, or rain may obliterate coral visibility.
"Now Janet, nine times out of ten you get out there and you love it." I reassure myself. "For now just breathe deeply, in and out, in and out." My anxiety eases a little.
Then suddenly there's no time to worry. Motor gently forward, anchor up. It's grey and raining as David hoists the main and eases the headsail out.
We hand-steer for a while. The wind is from behind making it tricky. I don't want the it to back the sails but can't go further to port because of the invisible coral shelves jutting hundreds of metres out from the coast.
I look back at Kavala cloaked in cloud. We are in bright sunlight now, feeling relieved we may not to have to navigate the coral of Tavuki Bay, our destination, in dull conditions. My mood lifts. I love the thrill of being at sea again, being challenged by the elements. Excited and anxious at the same time, it's a fine line.
I look at the land. It looks familiar, reminding me of cruising along the east coast of Northland. Then I remember there are no roads, no power wires, no shops, not much reception, and the people speak a different language. It feels remote again.
Now there is enough wind on the beam to put the auto-pilot on the tiller. We are racing along at seven knots in 28 knots of wind.
"Fine sailing," I say to David.
We settle in to tea and Christmas cake. Cake baked months ago in another lifetime in Bay of Islands. Neil Young's Take a Look at Yourself belts out from the stereo. Fine indeed.
*** I let my thoughts drift back to our three weeks in Kavala, two lunches with the chief coming to mind. Sharing food is so integral to forming relationships for me.
Lunch is the main meal of the day in Fijian village life. As Seru, the chief's wife, prepared the food I asked her what she was cooking, and all about each ingredient. She seemed to enjoy my interest.
Another meal that stood out was our second lovo. This time we accompanied the lovo baskets to the local school and ended up sharing ours with the head-teacher and his family. What a country this is when you can rock up to the house of a stranger and be welcomed in to share a meal, then sent on your way with armloads of produce from their garden. Lunch guests are rare and treasured here it seems. We went back another day with a banana cake and a jar of Kavala Bay orange marmalade to say thank you.
*** "Just as well we left those reefs in the sail," I say to David, as another gust blasts out of a valley, heeling Navire over. It feels like sailing along the vicious Wairarapa Coast. We are well off the land. I measure the distance from the unseen rock shelf to our plotted course, 200m. I measure distance to our destination. 16 miles. Less than three hours at this speed.
"I can see the reef," David points ahead at a line of turqoiuse water, waves breaking, stretching well out to sea. We head out around it.
As we pass the bay where Kadavu's main town, Vunasea, is the wind speed increases and white caps abound. Boat speed 7.4 knots.
"Visualise the cloud lifting," says David.
I look ahead and the land is hidden by rain. Mmmm, not good coral-spotting visibility. As we turn into Tavuki Bay the wind heads so we roll up the genoa and turn on the engine. It's howling. This isn't what we signed up for. What would we do if we couldn't anchor at Tavuki? We have plans but still a little of my anxiety returns.
"Ten degrees to starboard," calls David from the cabin where he is watching our progress on the laptop. Up top there appears to be miles of room but most of it is actually too shallow. I push the tiller across and duck another blast of spray.
"I think I'll stay down here," David jokes, "It's much better." We get as far as we can into the bay before the coral shelf prevents us getting into the lee of the land. The wind is howling. The anchorage is too deep and exposed.
"It's not going to happen," says David, pushing the tiller hard to the side and gunning the engine to turn Navire quickly. "Let's go and look at Vunasea." I radio a yacht we passed earlier and ask about the bay. We'd been concerned it could be gusty there as it was on the lee side of a narrow piece of land.
"Good anchorage," they assured us.
I go down below and stare at the computer. "Go to port," I keep telling David.
I feel the boat lurch hard to port and go topside.
"We just missed a rock by inches," said David, "The trip could have been over." I go back and look at the chart. There should have been a beacon there, more often than not beacons that show on our charts just aren't there.
Heading out of Tavuki Bay I pass David a bowl of unheated leftovers.
Vunasea Bay is a myriad of shallow coral patches that we have to weave our way through. Finally we reach a small clear area near the shore.
"What's the depth?" David calls from the bow.
"Seven metres.
"Yahoo!" A shallow anchorage is a good anchorage.
I lick my lips. I touch my face and hair. Caked with salt. In the galley I sluice my face again and again till I can't taste any more salt.
"Beer?" David offers.
"Yes please."

Kavala Church Day Janet Mid July "Bula, bula, bring your dinghy over here." Jovesa gestured to a little beach off the end of the seawall.
We'd come in to the village early Sunday morning, to help fix Jovesa's outboard pull-chord, before going to church. While the men communed down at the boats Joe's oldest daughter Lusia invited me up to their house. It was a typical village house, a kitchen, living room and two bedrooms, no internal doors. Lusia gestured for me to sit on couch.
I pointed at some lemons on the kitchen table in the other room.
"Could I gather some of those?" I'd come with a list of local produce to procure.
"Veronika," Lusia called. Her 10 year-old sister came running inside. "Go and get Janet some lemons," she ordered in rapid Fijian.
"Last week I picked some basil at a house near here, could we go and get some more?" I asked.
"What is basil?" Lusi asked.
"It has a strong sweet smell and Fijians use it in a tea for coughs." "Ahh," she nodded. "Come." We gathered sprigs of basil and a bunch of bele, a green leaf used like spinach. As we passed a baigani bush, eggplant, Lusia picked half a dozen small black fruit and added them to my bag.
*** Down at the seawall David and Joe had made good progress on repairing the pull-chord.
David looked up "Time to go?" I nodded. He went up to the house to put on his Sunday best. Laughter rang from inside as David modeled his clothes for the women, and consulted about what was most appropriate to wear to church. Trousers not sulu, Shirt tucked in, and not out was the verdict.
We arrived at the other side of the bay at the same time as Jean Pierre and Dana.
They had done sevusevu here so proudly showed us around "their village". We'd come across to Kavala Village to attend a combined church service. On the first Sunday of each month Methodists from the several villages in the bay gather at one or other of the villages in turn.
We were seated in the front row of the high roofed, whitewashed, plaster house of God. The first bars of the choir's opening song resonated in my chest. When the base came in I felt it down to my toes. The sopranos followed and lifted my soul up to the rafters.
"I can see how gospel music helps people find God," I thought. Two hours soon passed with song after song of stunning choral music.
We'd been invited to join the Solotavui Village contingent for lunch afterwards.
"The host village puts on the food," Luisa explained, "and each village eats in a separate house." Just as we were heading for the 'Solotavui' house we got invited by the pastor to what turned out to be the VIP lunch. He led us through the village, stopping for us to shake hands and say hello to half the congregation.
Taking our shoes off we entered the village community hall where a long cloth lay across the floor, set with crockery and cutlery, and groaning with plates of food.
"Please sit," the pastor gestured to the floor at one end of the 'table'. Once we were seated everyone else sat. One of the pastors said grace and indicated for us to start. The food vibrated with freshness. No food miles incurred here. First, fried fish and rourou (taro leaf). It swam in coconut cream, probably grated and squeezed less than an hour ago. So succulent and sweet, melt in the mouth. I finely chopped a red chili and added it to my bowl with a squeeze of lemon, as I'd learned to do at lunch at the chief's. A few people nodded approvingly. My neighbour sawed off a hunk of taro for me to dip into the juices. Next I tried the ota. This is a fern similar to baby punga fern fronds in New Zealand. Crisp and crunchy it was served raw in coconut cream with tinned mackerel. I went back for more.
"What's that?" I pointed to some dark meat on a saucer.
"Wild pork," my neighbour told me.
"From up there?" I pointed at the hills behind the village. "With a gun?" "No, with a spear." Other bowls were laden with chop suey and curry, but teeming with the ubiquitous noodle, so I passed on those.
Over the course of the meal a number of other people wandered in the room and sat down behind the diners. Most people got up when they had finished so others could take their place but we were told to stay put.
When we had finished eating the food was moved to one end of the cloth and the ladies from the kitchen brought us tea and large chunks of cake topped with pumpkin custard.
Finally the cooks sat down and ate what was left of the main course. We lingered much of the afternoon and motored back to the boat replete.

4A Lovo for lunch Kavala Janet Jully 26 "What's the menu for?" I asked gesturing out the door. Taped to the wall at the shop entrance was a notice, mostly written in Fijian, including 'menu' and '$20'.
"It's for a lovo," the girl behind the counter said, "food cooked in the ground." Her mother told us "Whole chicken, fish, palusami, and raw fish, at noon on Friday." *** We were at the local bread shop in Kavala Bay. We'd motored along the edge of a bank of seemingly impenetrable mangroves when an opening appeared suddenly. Peering into the muddy water we monitored the depth to make sure we didn't catch the outboard propeller on the bottom. After paddling the last few metres we tied the dinghy to a tree, and asked the first person we saw where the shop was.
"Up there," said the woman, "blue house." She pointed to a muddy track.
The locating of shops here is very different to how we do it in New Zealand. Foot traffic - not a consideration. The shop in the bay near where Navire is anchored is a 15-minute walk from the nearest village.
"Is the shop over there because it has a wharf?" I had asked Luisa, our local host.
"No, that is where their family land is." She said matter of factly.
Same with the bread shop, up the back of three other houses and no signage down on the road to say its there. I guess everyone knows where it is.
*** On Friday our French-Canadian neighbours, from yacht Vanille, motored over to join us for the lunch outing. On the way across the bay we stopped in at Solotaviu Village to deliver a chocolate cake to Luisa and her family, a gift to say thank you for their help. This village seemed moderately prosperous (from yaqona production) and giving basic food items like tinned corned beef didn't seem appropriate. But a cake, we thought, is a treat because most people don't have conventional ovens.
Luisa was out so we gave the cake to her mother. Within seconds ten small children materialized. They sat on the mat in two rows like they were at school, eyes glued to the cake the whole time we were there. Later we heard that almost every child in the village had a piece.
Motoring on we arrived at the rocky inlet near the shop. We guided Jean-Pierre and Dana up the muddy path to the blue house. Paying our $20 we sat outside on a concrete slab we discussing where we would eat the food. Two women emerged from the shop with our 'lovo', two baskets woven from coconut palms loaded with foil wrapped food, each topped with a pink hibiscus flower.
Before we'd had a chance to unload our plates and cutlery and set up our picnic on the concrete the women said "Wait!", and dashed inside. Moments later they came out carrying a table between them and proceeded to set it up under a little shelter on the edge of the platform. Then out came four chairs and a tablecloth.
They understood kaivlangi needs.
Table set, I undid the foil bundles releasing smoky meaty flavours. A whole chicken, a piece of rather well done tuna, the best palusami (taro leaves cooked in coconut) I've ever had, a whole breadfruit, and two separate containers, one with kokoda, marinated fish, and the other cassava in caramel sauce. As we were packing up one of the women came to chat. It transpired that the lovo was a fundraiser. Each family with children at the school had to contribute $480 for various repairs. So much for Bainamrama's free education policy.