“Copra Shed Marina, Copra Shed Marina, this is Bob the Cat.” David lowers the VHF and squints into the sunlight.
“Copycat, this is Copra Shed Marina,” says a pleasant female voice.
“Copra Shed Marina, this is Bob the Cat,” says David. “We are arriving from New Zealand, will be with you at 1400 hours and will be ready to check in with Customs then.”
“Copy that, Copycat. That is fine. They will be ready for you.”
“OK. Bob the Cat says thanks for that.”
“Copycat, we need to know: did anyone die onboard the vessel since leaving New Zealand?”
David holds the VHF out in front of him, squinting at it quizzically. “Erm, no, all onboard Bob the Cat are alive,” he answers, raising his eyebrows at me. “And well. We are all well. I can confirm that all crew survived the trip.”
I laugh. It’s a weird question. There is a boat called Copycat – we left them behind in Opua. They were headed for Tonga I think. And why are they asking if anyone died? Maybe they are required to ask about death onboard – but, I mean, how often does it happen that a boat is trying to gloss over the loss of a crew member, deciding not to mention their absence when reaching the destination? I guess it happens.
“Oh, those kids we checked out of New Zealand? Well, they decided not to come in the end…” Meanwhile, couple furiously looking for a good, deep bit of ocean to dump the bodies.
Not us. We are well. The sun is beating down, the humid air is about 30 degrees C, and the number of coconuts floating in the water has been steadily increasing for hours. We can see little green islands in all directions, barricaded by white surf.
It’s been 12 days since we left New Zealand, 12 days since we last saw land. As we draw closer to Savu Savu, our port of entry in Fiji, we can make out the coconut palms, hear the roar of chainsaws and smell cooking fires. Little cars are visible, driving along a coastal road. Small buoys mark a coral reef. Resort huts sit unobtrusively amidst coconut palms, just off the yellow sandy beaches.
I breathe out and stretch. Oh, how wonderful to have arrived.
It’s been a good trip.
The sail from New Zealand to Minerva Reef went well. Out and onwards we flew, the wind filling our sails, the waves banging and crashing, shaking and stirring us. The ocean is a world of perpetual motion, of heaving seas and changing winds, and after a couple of days, it was hard to fathom a still existence, a stable platform, a quiet space. A tiny white dot on a huge blue sea, we were propelled onwards, surfing down the steep waves, rocking and rolling in the heavy swell. It took us six days to reach Minerva, daylight worlds of blue on blue, grey on grey and nights of silvery black.
The seas were reasonably heavy and so I suffered from relentless malaise: seasickness blending with fatigue into a permanent low-lying nausea impossible to shake. An all-day sickness only somewhat suppressed despite the promises of SeaLegs Prevent Travel Sickness, May Cause Drowsiness, Avoid Driving or Operating Machinery, a directive we can’t exactly follow although the autopilot did the lion’s share of the driving.
We fell into a pattern of David watching from 6 pm to 1 am, me from 1 to 7 am, with shorter daytime stints. During my night watch I swallowed endless cups of bitter instant coffee and savoured the powerful effect of caffeine for the unseasoned user: instant alertness, uplifted spirits, optimism, and a feeling akin to happiness and love spreading as the magic black fluid flowed through my veins.
The nights were amazing. Our passage was illuminated by a full moon spreading cool light and spawning ghostly luminous moonbows arcing over the silvery sea, kissing the undulating horizon, backed by blackness and the fizzy whizz of shooting stars.
Night watches are always painful for a committed sleeper like myself. On the nights when it is busy, where sails need constant adjustment, and the wind is quickening and waning as rainstorms darken the horizon, I wish for calm seas and light winds, space to read. But on the quiet nights fatigue threatens to overwhelm, and I resort to pacing the deck to stay awake, longing for sense-sharpening action to invigorate my sleepy mind.
After five long nights, on the sixth morning after leaving New Zealand we found ourselves at both ends of the rainbow, with colours transparently overlaying the rough sea, going almost full circle, beginning and end converging on our boat. Finally, we could see Minerva Reef in the distance – a barely perceptible thin line of white foam grazing the sea surface. As we got closer we could faintly make out the roar and see the turquoise lagoon water, a sandwich of light blue on white.
Minerva is an incredible place. A calm crater lake within a turbulent ocean, a near-perfect circle of ragged reef enclosing light blue waters fading to turquoise in the shallows along the edges. The depths rapidly rose from thousands of metres to 50, 40, 30 as we approached the pass, and we made out way through to the shallow lagoon against the swift outflowing currents.
We anchored up near the light-blue edge and had our first calm lunch in the sunshine. Three other yachts were already there, gently lolling on the still blue waters. Being on anchor was wonderfully calm, the nausea dissipating instantly, and Matias had his first full meal since we left New Zealand.
We stayed at Minerva for four days, sitting out some heavy weather approaching from the north.
During our time there we braved the low-tide reef flats, through the two-foot-tall waterfall created by the surrounding ocean spilling over the edges into the lagoon at low tide. The kids played in the shallow pools, hands and feet pushing hard, stilling their bodies towards the powerful inward surge.
A Japanese fishing boat wreck is shattered in many pieces just inside the reef, and on our snorkels, we found corals, colourful fish, and reef sharks. David picked up crayfish after crayfish, and in the evenings, we had crayfish every which way before retiring to blissful 10-hour stretches of uninterrupted sleep.
After two days in Minerva the violent storm we wanted to avoid shook up the water and we felt like we were on passage again – the wind howling, the waves rushing past the boat. As the storm raged on, the New Zealand to Tonga rally boats that left Opua two days after us started dripping in, wet, pale, and beaten after braving gale-force head-on winds.
When the rain stopped we left, hoping to make it to Fiji before the next patch of heavy rain.
And as usual, David got the weather just right. The trip from Minerva to Fiji was wind- and rainless, the Pacific living up to its name, ocean and sky converging into one grey mass, oily seas with a slow-rolling large swell gently lifting and lowering us. It was a calm trip, devoid of action, involving only little sailing.
As we moved further north we moulted, shedding sleeping bags and heavy-weather gear first, then blankets, and long-sleeves, and last t-shirts. Finally, we’re back in the tropics, the kids just wearing board shorts and sunscreen, David bare-chested on night watch.
And now we are close to Savu Savu. I lean back in my seat, letting the sun’s rays warm my skin, the light wind only adding a slight cooling effect.
As trips from New Zealand go, this one has been quite good – mainly downwind and with a calmish anchorage in the middle to sit out a storm. Still, it feels like an achievement to reach Fiji, and as I sit basking in the hot sun, I ponder the value of contrasts and of overcoming obstacles. On a boat, you live day to day, and the getting there is much of the journey, an essential part of the trip. Being on anchor wouldn’t be as sweet if we hadn’t just spent days at sea. Sleeping wouldn’t be as glorious if we hadn’t been wakeful for so long. Calm weather wouldn’t be as sharp a relief if we hadn’t just been through a storm. Reaching the searing heat of the tropics wouldn’t be as comforting if we hadn’t escaped the cold. The contrasts somehow sharpen the image, enhance the joys of everyday existence.
I hope the crew of Copycat are alive and feeling joy too.
SV Bob The Cat 