A gag-inducing passage to Fiji.
More adventurous catamaran sailors, who had hit the waves a couple of days before we took off, reported back that Moana Nui had been trying for days to convert their double-hulled vessel into two separate monohulls. We admired their sense of humor, but we preferred to sit this one out.
But oh, the pull of distant shores! The very moment the biblical storms abated and the wind settled to a reasonable average of just over 20 knots, with gusts up to 30, we took off like a greyhound in pursuit of its white rabbit, the rabbit in our case being the white sands of Fijian tropical beaches. Only for the biblical storms to reappear, of course.
Ah children, don’t do what we have done. Namely to grow impatient because of a schedule. We wanted to arrive in Fiji in time to live the tropical dream with our son and our family who had already booked their flights. According to the weather charts, if we didn’t leave by May 4th, we wouldn’t be able to leave before the end of the month. So we left. Bad, bad, very BAD decision.
By now, we know how chaotic the
Ocean can be, how menacingly the wind can howl, how relentlessly the waves can smash, and how powerfully the rain can lash. But this time, it was worse. We weren’t much in the mood for picture taking. All we could do was brace ourselves.
Just the other week, I had proudly boasted I’d never felt seasick on O2 in all of our 5.5 years at sea. But now, I was back on the dry crackers and cold potatoes diet, while the freezer was stocked with spaghetti sauce, goulash, coconut curry chicken, vol-au-vent, pork & lamb ribs, and creamy tomato soup. The thought alone was enough to make me gag.
The weather updates we received from our weather router, Chris Parker, were as gag-inducing as the ocean already was. He gradually upgraded the vocabulary from an impulse – “a small-scale disturbance or short-lived area of energy moving through the atmosphere” – over a trough –“responsible for shifting winds, rough seas, or squalls” – to finally a gale – “producing rough seas, high waves, and hazardous conditions for vessels, especially small craft”. And although she does look regal at times, that’s what O2 is: a small craft. In one of the updates about the looming gale, there was even mention of a ‘heave-to’ maneuver—setting the sails in such a way that they stop the boat from moving forward, as you are acting like a lame duck while you wait for the gale to pass. Another suggestion was to abort arrival in Fiji altogether and divert to Vanuatu or New Caledonia instead. Djeez! These updates tied a knot in my stomach, already in a state of shock from the relentless waves. So, with an ever-expanding weather vocabulary that only heightened my anxiety, we ploughed on, close to the wind, in the general direction of a potential impulse, trough, or gale…or nothing.
Every morning, we communicated with SV Sunrise and her Captain, Johnathan , about the hairy situation, which he called “a slog.” He had crew flown in to help him sail Sunrise from New Zealand to Fiji, meaning he was also sailing on a schedule. The crew couldn’t stick around to wait for a better weather window, so off they went. It was comforting to know we had a buddy boat – be it 100 miles ahead of us- to share weather info and lift each other’s spirits. Another big positive was the online encouragement from our friends both in Belgium and in New Zealand. In the meantime, O2 behaved as if none of it was such a big deal. That really helped tone down the drama a bit. There were three panicky moments, though, that got my heart racing just as fast as the waves were racing across the ocean. The first came when the port engine bilge pump suddenly started up with an alarming, shrill beep, alerting us that it was busy pumping out water that had somehow made its way into the port engine bilge. Au secours, au secours! We’re taking on water! SMASH, SPLASH, BAM ! But we weren’t. Amid all the commotion, my Captain geared up for a look, only to confirm that it was just some leftover cleaning water. It had sloshed from side to side, triggering the pump each time it touched the sensor.
The second scare happened when an unusually large wave lifted O2 into the air, and when she came diving down, the navigation lights at the bow went dead. As a result, we had to keep the blue courtesy light on for the remaining part of the “slog” to be seen at night and to avoid being mistaken for a drug courier vessel. We did put on the allure of a dance club.
The third alarm occurred when, out of nowhere, the navigation system suggested with a loud alarm that recalibrating the rudder would be a good idea if we wanted the autopilot to keep functioning properly. Of course, rudder calibration requires flat water, and we were on a roller coaster.
Fortunately, it turned out to be just a suggestion, and we decided to postpone the recalibration until we reached a calm, Fijian blue lagoon. As it turned out, the autopilot kept doing just fine. Thank god it did!
Each morning and evening, my Captain downloaded the latest weather update from PredictWind. Every time there was a change in the forecast . Ah, the storm will be dissipating by the time we get there. Oh, the storm is popping up again. Now it is predicted to stay east of Fiji, then south of Fiji, above and below Fiji. On Saturday, May 10th, the Fijian impulse had finally decided to come into full bloom, bringing wind speeds of 50 knots, with thunderstorms on the side.
Run O2, run ! We turned her around and motor-sailed 120 nautical miles back to where we had come from. There, we more or less parked O2 in the middle of the ocean, using our “sea anchor,” since the heave-to manoeuver suits a monohull better than it does a catamaran. Moreover, we weren’t keen on having our sails shredded—like our New Zealand courtesy flag already was.
This sea anchor proved to be a marvel of simple engineering! It worked impressively well. When all hell broke loose, – the “impulse” turned “gale” reached with its purple tentacles further south than expected – it held its ground, or rather, its water, and kept O2 more or less in position.As 4-meter waves came crashing down around us and wind speeds peaked at 58 knots, O2 drifted at a mere 2 knots in an amazingly controlled manner. She’s quite the cool lady really—unlike me. All night long, I kept imagining sea anchor lines snapping and rogue waves assaulting us. But the popular saying proves to be true once again: 90% of the things I worry about never happen. Worrying works. We made it through the hellish night without a major heart attack and with only minor breakage: a torn lazy jack and a shredded anchor bridle because of the chafing. SV Lucky Jonny on the other hand, a German monohull a couple of days ahead of us, was caught in that same storm and was indeed lucky enough to be rescued by the Australian Defence Vessel Reliant when they lost their rudder only 100 miles away from Fijian shores.
By 7 AM the next morning, conditions had calmed enough for us to retrieve our spectacular sea anchor – whose bundle of steel wires were contorted and torn apart in one spot – with the attached tripping line. We hurriedly resumed our voyage toward Fiji, moving out of the danger zone but still closely skirting the storm as it continued to whirl clockwise toward the East and Tonga.
The final four days were marked by boisterous cruising on a brilliant blue ocean that regularly turned dark grey as it got flogged down by yet another squall that came galloping through. We’ve finally arrived in Port Denarau, on the western coast of Viti Levu, Fiji’s largest island. Our impulse now is to jump ship, but we have to stay onboard until the authorities officially clear us in. So, as My Captain is sinking into a mild coma, I’m having my first cup of coffee in 10 days to help me upload this post. Bula!
❤️
Thanks Claire. Happy to be alive and well.