Author: Atea

Posted on

Final Boarding Call for Flight 680

Link to published article: Underwater Oasis

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We have begun our descent. For your safety and the safety of those around you, please remain seated with your seatbelt fastened until we are parked at the gate.” The excitement was mounting. We were bound for a mid-Pacific holiday typical of most sun-seekers, with little on the agenda but to dip our toes in crystal-clear water and watch a dusky sun set on an aquatic horizon, rum punch in hand, and we were almost there.

There was one problem: Our destination was entirely submerged under a foot of water. There would be no shimmering black tarmac to provide safe landing or receiving gate for our pilot to taxi up to. There were no baggage handlers to reunite us with our possessions nor steward to wish us on our merry way. To get to our chosen holiday spot, a plane wouldn’t cut it as our mode of transportation. There was only one way in and one way out, and that was by sea. I would have to be pilot, crew and passenger combined to reach my port of call.

Regardless of these obstacles, I was determined to get there. Very few patches of submerged land hold the reputation of Minerva Reef. For South Pacific cruisers, it is the perfect break in a 1,200 mile passage between New Zealand and Tonga. The novelty of setting anchor in the middle of the ocean and watching the seas roll by as your boat remains in a fixed position was something I wanted to experience. There wouldn’t be anything to do but rest and relax in a still pond inside a rolling sea. A day or two would be all we would need before continuing the voyage onward, or so I believed.

Minerva Reef is the modern day Atlantis, if you stretch the facts a little. Its history could almost be the script for Timaeu, if it wasn’t for the fact that Plato’s dialogues occurred over 2,000 years before the events that unfolded on Minerva to draw the parallel. Cut to 1972 and bring forward the libertarian character, Michael Oliver, an American millionaire who decided that Minerva was the perfect location to establish his own sovereign nation. Following Socrates’ ideals, Oliver wanted to create an ideologically structured society, though this could arguably sit within the framework of a self-serving ideology. There was, however, a small kink in his plan. Laws relating to disputed territories state that land cannot be claimed unless it is a foot above sea level at high tide; this was not the case for either North or South Minerva. To claim it, he would have to build it.

The plan Oliver devised was bold. He would take the six-mile wide atoll, dredge its neighbour and fill the inner lagoon until a flat pan of land arose from the sea. A flag was erected, a president elected and money for the Republic of Minvera coined. King Taufa’ahau Tupou IV, Tonga’s monarch at the time, had no interest in forfeiting their access to a territory that had been established fishing grounds for generations. The problem was, Tonga had never laid a claim to it and therefore had no legal rights. Until this point, Minerva was not on the main trade routes and the prevailing winds were unpredictable. The only traffic the atolls received were the unfortunate ships that got blown off course by storms. In fact, it is only due to the reliability of GPS that mariners have recently made Minerva a destination of choice rather than one of disaster. The scattered metal bones of deceased ships are reminders of the hazards of these submerged atolls. Prior to laying a claim, no one had interest in laying a claim. Within five months of its creation, King Taufa’ahau Tupou IV dispatched 90 prisoners to tear down all man-made structures and disperse its 42 inhabitants. The Republic was no more.

All efforts to raise the atoll from the sea only resulted in its ultimate return to the sea. It was the destruction of Atlantis, or so it appeared. One peek below the surface and it is evident that the fabled lost city exists. The termination of human habitation on the atoll is exactly what saved it. As a result of ending life above the water, life below the surface was allowed to flourish. Thick walls of hard coral protect a soft limestone core, and the graceful, swaying arms of soft coral reach up towards the light cast down from above. Swirling and dancing around these graceful technicolored tentacles is the seemingly endless gridlock of marine life that surrounds them: Crustaceans, osteichthyes, selachimorpha and testudines, each resident and migratory group as Greek-sounding as the Grecian fable itself.

When the opportunity came for us to sail to Minerva, we chose Plato’s version of Atlantis over Oliver’s Republic: Rather than raising the land to create a village above the sea, we chose to drop down into a city beneath the surface. We shared the reef with six other cruisers, all of us running around filling our days with aquatic activity and our nights in shared stories and laughter. What would we do the following day? The options were plentiful. Should we stay in our current spot close to the pass so we could dive at dawn and avoid a longer dingy ride to the outer reef? Should we move across the lagoon to the navigation light erected by the Tongan navy to claim Minerva as their own, demolished in 2010 by the Fijian navy, repaired by the Tongan navy and destroyed again by the Fiji navy in 2011 to be replaced by Tonga to reassert claim to the atoll one more. The ping pong between the two countries is dizzying, but the dispute has done no more harm to the island than the defamation of a single steel structure. Should we move to the northeast corner of the lagoon where the rusted wrecks of past ships provide a sanctuary for the lobster that hide within them, and rich hunting grounds for us? A meal as easy to pluck as a tin off the grocery shelf; dinner would be a feast that night. The entire lagoon was a relatively flat plateau of fine, white sand at a depth of 10-20 meters which provided good holding for yachts throughout. We moved because of wind or desire, changing our location to suit the activities of the day. Prior to our visit, I assumed an indistinctive sameness of Minerva, a featureless place where the only change to our scene would be reflected in the movement of the arms of our clock and the transit of the sun around the earth. None in the group expected more than a short stop that, at most, provided a quiet mid-ocean reprieve to store up on sleep before resuming our passage. This notion couldn’t have been further from the truth.

When I imagined my pitstop in Minerva, I expected a silent, remote beauty above water. I didn’t expect to be so exhilarated and consumed by all the splendour beneath. All I wanted of my time in Minerva was to slip below the surface and watch the throng of finned and gilled tenants race by me, caught up in their own slipstream of hyperactivity.  This aquatic metropolis was more densely-populated and multifarious than Tokyo or Mumbai combined. Pacing the walls with us was a heathy population of shark: Grey, lemon, whitetip and even the fear-inducing tiger. Turtles rose to the surface for a breath of air as we descended down the reef, a small shoal of squid performing synchronised movements an arms-length away and octopus cautiously receding into their holes as we poked our heads into cracks in the reef. Leave us on Atlantis much longer, and we’d sprout our own gills.

When we needed a rest from diving the outer reef, we’d pop the tanks off and snorkel around the inner lagoon. The scattered metal ribcages of wrecks provide hides-holes for resting reef shark, crammed nose-to-tail in an effort to seek a coveted spot in their own mini-sanctuary. When the tide pulled out, we had the opportunity to go for a walk on the top of the reef, a two-hour window to put foot on land. We would send relaxed schools of brightly-coloured parrotfish lying side-up in small pockets of inch-deep pools into a flurry of panic, franticly peddling fins sending them into bumping disorganised chaos as they swam furiously in sideways circles. The gaping mouths of giant clam would snap their hinged shell shut, sucking in their vibrant blue, green, purple and orange lips as we cast our shadows down on their rocky holding. In the distance, the small black tip of a fin would zip erratically through the surface of the water, the juvenile shark it belonged to hunting in the tidal traps. Occasionally, we would catch sight of the tip of an olive-green flipper or the flip of a charcoal fin as turtle or ray bolted from lagoon to deep water. Even on an exposed, barren surface, Minerva was teaming with life.

Our short layover quickly turned into an impromptu settlement, the modern-day version of Oliver’s ocean community finally realised amongst mariners. The atoll is completely uninhabited without any formal jurisdiction or official process to follow, so entry to Minerva is as simple as showing up. There are no immigration or customs officials on site, so there is no one to issue a visa or dictate the number of days you can stay. You choose, or the weather will choose for you. As the reef is submerged or exposed depending on the tide, your comfort ebbs and flows with the change in this cycle. In calm weather, high tide becomes a gentle, swaying roll. Sit inside Minerva in a storm, however, and you’ll be holding onto handrails to keep yourself upright. That said, holding tight in this isolated landing may be preferable to taking a beating under sail, so mind the weather and tuck in before the storm hits and Minerva stands up to its reputation as a mid-ocean haven.

As the weeks rolled on, recognition of an error in planning hit all of us in staggered waves: We’d provisioned for a fast passage rather than a long holiday. Had I known, I would have hit Costco with a thousand dollars in my pocket and spent it all on food. Now that rations were running low, I was kicking myself. Why leave if not forced, and the only thing forcing us were cupboards that were thinning out. Begrudgingly, it was time to roll out. We did so with our heads turned backwards, looking towards nothing but an open ocean with a few bobbing masts marking the spot of the vibrant wonderland we were leaving behind.

I could never imagine someone pitching the idea of heading to such a remote location to spend my hard-won holiday time. “This this the final boarding call for Flight 680 to Nowhere. Please proceed to Gate 23.” Yet after several weeks on a submerged atoll I can think of few places that I rank as highly. There are a few qualifiers, however, for anyone looking to do the same: You have to like boats, as there is no other way to get there; you have to like water, as it will surround you for the duration of your stay; and you have to like wet, as all the magic of Minerva lays under the surface. I’d heard from so many other cruisers that I should drop into Minerva on the way past, but no one told me to pack my bags and stay awhile. Let me change the rhetoric. If you are transiting an ocean and a submerged atoll lays in your path, take this advice: Stop, and Stay.

“Good morning ladies and gentlemen. On behalf of myself and the flight crew, I would like to welcome you aboard Navis Ōceanus flight 680 bound for Minerva Reef. It will be a bumpy ride and a bumpier landing, so please fasten your seatbelt at this time and secure all baggage underneath your seat or in the overhead compartment. I hope you enjoy your flight.” While your flight attendant can’t guarantee an enjoyable in-transit experience, one thing I can promise: You will love your destination.

Posted on

A World of Wonder

Link to published article: Cruising French Polynesia

That I have more than a sentence to say about the Society Islands speaks of how plans are so easily discarded. Our intention for French Polynesia this year was to pass on the known for the unknown. Having been to the Marquesas and the Society Islands in previous seasons, we would spend our time in the Gambier Islands and the Tuamotus. It was a solid plan that suited our desire to explore new places. Solid, that is, until we changed our plan.

Having spent the majority of the season exploring eastern French Polynesia, we sailed into Tahiti for our final week in country. Our time as tourists went by in an endless blur of landmarks, sightseeing, organised tours, choreographed dancers and a constant flow of fruity cocktails. It was very different than our typical slow-paced cruising lifestyle, but we’d been here before and were keen to pack it in and push out. Burnt out from the fast-paced tourist mode, we sailed across to Tahiti’s sister island to slow down the pace. Moorea’s beauty captured and held us — far longer than we intended. Perhaps it was the company. As we sailed the short distance between the two islands, we watched the slow crest and spout of humpback whales making their own inter-island transit. We sailed alongside two large whales for awhile until they dove in union to break surface on the other side of our yacht. To be in their proximity was a rush, and I knew a few days in their company wouldn’t be enough to satisfy me. Our intended short stay turned into four adventure-packed weeks.

There is a small picturesque anchorage just inside the inner lagoon of Moorea’s second largest inlet, ‘Ōpūnohu Bay. With our anchor set in pure white sand and our boat bobbing in shallow water, we were only a short swim to a shaded local beach with the mountainous peaks of Moorea’s lush interior as our backdrop. We were in a place of tranquil beauty. It was humpback season and we spent our days watching their movements from the anchorage. The bay provided a safe haven from natural predators and a mother and calf pair were regularly playing nearby, rolling and tale-slapping in a frisky, playful display. Having watched them from above the surface, I couldn’t miss the opportunity to see them below the surface as well. Joining a whale tour allowed me that opportunity, and swimming alongside these gentle giants was an unforgettable experience. Having learned the safety guidelines from the tour guides, we continued to swim with them in the weeks that followed by taking our own dinghy out and abiding by the rules. The experience of interacting with them in the water and watching their movements up close provided us some of our best wildlife encounters. Diving to whale song completed the euphoric experience.

There was more to our time in Moorea than whales, though they did dominate our attention. We visited a rum distillery and a fruit packaging plant, hiked high peaks for areal views of the island, swam with timid sharks and curious rays who circled our feet in wait for the next tourist to feed them. We snorkelled the inner lagoon and found submerged tikis, set out in commemoration to earlier times when missionaries banned Polynesian custom, worship and gods, and Tahitians responded by hiding these sacred stone symbols in the sea for safekeeping. In the evenings, we rafted our dinghy’s up behind a yacht set up with microphone, speaker system and lead singer to belt out a melodic farewell to another day in paradise, Hinano in hand. Moorea was a wildlife wonderland, a scenic beauty, a cultural education and a social extravaganza. Weeks could have turned into months, but we still had half an ocean to cross before the end of the season.

Reluctantly, we weighed anchor and sailed west toward Huahine, Raiatea, and Taha’a, guided by more whales as we entered Huahine’s tranquil inner lagoon. Once inside, spent relaxed days playing on the beach, sailing small dinghies, snorkelling the reef, paddle-boarding over calm crystal waters and enjoying sunset cocktails at happy-hour prices. We visited pearl farms in Raiatea to purchase pearlescent sea orbs, visited the stone structures of Taputapuātea and drove our dinghy deep upriver into the lush interior. In Taha’a, we snorkelled a fabulous coral garden with winding alleys of hard and soft corals, densely populated by brightly coloured fish and snuck into an opulent $2500-a-night luxury hotel to sip bright blue cocktails to pink-hued sunsets. These last few islands seemed a proper send-off to a full French Polynesian experience. We would make a quick stop in Maupiti and Maupiha’a and then, finally, be on our way.

Again, our plan was misinformed and our expected timeframe of little consequence. We didn’t know at the time that our two favourite islands lay ahead of us. A few days, once again, would pass quickly into weeks. Maupiti and Maupiha’a sit on the western edge of the French Polynesian archipelago and are often bypassed because of their difficult pass entrances. Having spent months in the Tuamotus where entry into the various atolls is precisely timed by the outgoing tide, having this to consider wasn’t new to us. However, having successfully entered Maupiti and Maupiha’a, I can say the eastern atolls don’t light a match to the intensity of these western island passes. Maupiti is famous for being narrow and rough since it faces the prevailing wind and waves. It can be impassable for weeks at a time. Maupiha’a is sheltered, but the pass is a very narrow 50-meter ebbing tide that never stops. Once committed, there is no turning back. One requires a steady nerve and the other requires a steady engine, but once in, you’ve found safe haven in some of the most beautiful, non-assuming islands where the hospitality of the isolated community is a outpouring as the tide.

Once inside Maupiti, the eye is drawn up toward its magnificent central cone peak. As the westernmost volcanic island in the archipelago, it is a smaller version of Bora Bora without the tourists or the price tag. The true gift of Maupiti, however, is found hovering below the surface of the water rather than looming over it: The oceanic manta ray. After spending time in the village, we moved out to a shallow sand patch near the pass entrance to find a manta cleaning station — a large rock swarming with small wrasse that clean the parasites off the manta as they hover close by. Having discovered how easy it was to find them, I quickly established a morning routine that included a morning coffee and a swim with these agile giants in solitude before the tourist-filled local boats descended on the spot. By mid-morning they would swim off to other parts of the lagoon, but every dawn they would return to receive their symbiotic salon treatment, both of our rituals resumed.

The manta were a powerful magnet for me, however it was time to push on as we had been tasked with delivering fresh supplies to family living on the next stop on our itinerary. The atolls at the furthest western reaches of French Polynesia don’t receive a regular supply boat. In fact, Maupiha’a receives one every two years when the quota of copra from the island’s eight inhabitants has been filled, an impressive 50 tons of dried coconut meat. As such, the island is a prime example of complete self-sufficiency. We met one of the island’s long-term residents, Pierre — a single man with a split flipflop — at our first anchorage. I dug up a spare pair, however he declined the offer and opted for a soggy mismatch that had drifted in on the tide. The next time we met him he offered us a coconut crab caught earlier that day for our evening meal, and from that day forward Pierre became our constant companion. He fed us coconut crab, reef fish, tern eggs and freshly-grated coconut and an endless supply of fresh coconut water to fill our bellies. Within no time, Pierre had taught us essential island survival skills: We could shave the inside of a coconut to make milk, collect bird eggs for breakfast, capture coconut crabs for dinner and hook a fish with a rusty wire. In exchange, we topped him up on an endless supply of mayonnaise and coffee. Having hosted many yachties but never been on a yacht, we took Pierre sailing across the lagoon to explored the outer cays and bird hatcheries together, learning how to test the viability of an egg by cracking a few onto the ground to see its stage in development. If there were no foetus in the initial test, all the eggs in the hatchery were ready to be consumed.

As the winds changed and made the other side of the atoll more comfortable, we said goodbye to our generous host and relocated to the other side of the atoll. Pierre’s hospitality was immediately matched by our new hostesses. We arrived to barking dogs, quacking ducks, grunting pigs and the offer of fresh fish from the mother and daughter who lived there. Once again, this kindly offer sealed a friendship and we enjoyed shared meals of fresh-caught fish, coconut crab, giant clam, green coconuts, chocolate cake. The laughter was hearty and the mood cheery, but I couldn’t help but feel we imposed on their time and generosity. A considerable amount of effort had been put forth at no cost to us, other than the reciprocal sharing of resources. In exchange for fuel and oil, Karina and Adrienne taught us how to rely on nature to survive. They took us to the smaller islets to walk among tern hatchlings perched in their nests, scavenge little brown-spotted eggs scattered in the sand and showed us how to hunt fierce coconut crab without loosing a digit. Having observed the mass graveyards of giant clams throughout the Atlantic and Pacific islands but never seen them being scavenged, Karina taught us how to pry the shell from the rock. I jammed a rod through the centre of a mollusc, damaging the foot to release its solid grip in the rock. I did this once for the experience but had no interest in removing any more of these beautiful creatures from the ocean. When Karina was done, I was quietly heartbroken to count forty lying at the bottom of the plastic tub, waiting to be served at the evening feast.

We passed our days in the generous and engaging company of Maupihaa’s tiny community. The eight inhabitants were spread out around the atoll, living an existence that is as isolated as it gets. The wreckage of the Seeadler, a WWI German sailing warship that grounded on the outer pass 100 years ago, is a reminder of this isolation. Snorkelling the scattered remains of the ship resting in 5 meters outside the pass, it is feasible to understand how the stranded crew were able to survive for months on this tiny atoll with the assistance of the three inhabitants that lived on the island at the time. To see its rusty bones scattered across the seafloor is a remarkable tribute to the fortitude and determination of the 111 sailors and the ingenuity and generosity of their local hosts who helped them survive on this mid-ocean oasis.

Departing Maupiha’a was our farewell to French Polynesia. Our aim had been to focus on areas we’d not previously explored, however revisiting previous destinations was just as rewarding, like an unexpected reunion with an old friend. Certainly, the welcome we received created an instant connection that is rare to receive amongst strangers. Perhaps it is the reason roughly 80 yachts visit Maupiha’a each season, bringing provisions from other islands when they come. In exchange, cruisers get to enjoy being a part of an established tradition of welcoming passing visitors with open arms. While no money is asked for, few take without reciprocating so the underlying dynamic is one of sharing what you have and accepting what is offered. Maupiha’a is the world’s best example of this genuine generosity. It is classic mid-western hospitality typical of close neighbours, offered to complete strangers. So, if sailing to the far reaches of an expansive ocean, don’t balk at the thought of the miles of solitude that lay ahead of you. Think of the friends waiting for you at the other end. When you get there, you will know you’ve arrived home. 

Posted on

Pacific Panama: More Than You Expect

Follow link to read the published article: Cruising the Pacific Islands of Panama

Hamilton, New Zealand’s largest inland city, comes up short on creativity when choosing its town slogan, “Hamilton: More than You Expect!” It’s like laying a wet rag on a destination. Rather than boasting great claims to harbouring the country’s most pristine landscapes or its greatest historical landmarks, Hamilton’s “more than you expect” leaves a prospective visitor with very little to draw them in. We adopted Hamilton’s slogan for our time in Panama—a country which already holds a reputation for offering a lot. It offers the San Blas islands, home to one of the world’s most intact ancient cultures and it offers the Panama Canal, one of the Seven Wonder’s of the Modern World. My expectations were already sky high when arriving in country to see these famous sites myself. Panama, more than you expect… what “more” could there possibly be?

The San Blas islands had long been on my A-list of destinations. Who wouldn’t get that excited jittery buzz from the thought of transiting the Panama Canal? Cruisers we’d spoken to who had made the passage from the Atlantic to the Pacific all rated the canal as one of their top maritime experiences, and I was about to follow in their footsteps. We spent the majority of our time in the Caribbean, travelling up the coast from southeast to northwest through the San Blas islands. We soaked up the tropical sun on palm-fringed white sand cays, bought intricately-stitched molas from traditionally-dressed women with nose piercings and facial tattoos and traded for hand-lined fish caught by men in basic wooden canoes. Bellies full and molas stowed, we left the Caribbean Sea and passed through a succession of five locks spread across the Gatun Lake to pop out on the Pacific Ocean, the famous seventh wonder ticked off our list. When the last lock opened its gate and spat us out into Pacific waters, we felt our tour of Panama was complete. All we had left was to prep and provision for French Polynesia and we’d be on our way.

This was when I realised my naivety. Of expectations, mine had been firmly set: Panama was San Blas and the Canal. Nothing else registered. No one in the cruising circuit talked about the country in any other terms, so it was with great surprise that we discovered the sweet rewards that awaited us on Panama’s west coast. Names started to crop up: Tobago, Las Perlas, Coiba, Las Secas, not to mention Panama City itself. We were chanting, “Panama: More than You Expect” with each new place that cropped up. I had missed the obvious. Panama has a rich and fascinating history and a diverse and vibrant present that spans both sides of the country. I had blindly missed the fact that there was still so much left to see. 

We wouldn’t be looking at weather and we wouldn’t be stocking up on food for the boat. As soon as the obvious dawned on me, we shot out of the anchorage and headed out to explore. Our first stop was Tobago, a small island five miles from Panama City and historically a holiday destination for those in need of a weekend respite from the bustle of the big city. During the French and American canal years, foreign diplomats and expatriates would take a short ferry ride over to enjoy the clean water, white sand beaches and relaxed island vibe. It felt only suitable that we would follow this historical flow to Tobago to enjoy the same pleasures as all those that had gone before us. The small town reminded me of a sleepy Portuguese seaside village, as quaint as it is quiet. Christian shrines line doorways, curb-sides, backend alleyways, beaches and rocky outcrops in numbers to match the island’s resident population, denoting an island for the pious. A walk through town takes you up winding dirt tracks to views across the sea to Panama City’s dramatic skyline. A walk in the other direction takes you to a small sand-spit crowded with beach umbrellas and stalls selling rum-filled pineapples and spiked coconut concoctions. We enjoyed the quiet, relaxed isolation offered midweek. The serene atmosphere was obliterated on weekends when Tobago is transformed into a pumping party zone to rival Miami Beach on Cinco de Mayo, the statues of sainthood all but forgotten.

The cacophony of competing ghetto blasters, the moving mass of beach bums and the endless battle for a place in line for a rum cocktail were enough to turn us toward quieter anchorages. We sailed for Las Perlas, a collection of 200 predominately uninhabited islands located fifty miles south from Panama City in the Gulf of Panama. The distance brought us into a completely different side of Panama: Remote, isolated and pristine — weekends included. Rather than the palm-fringed white sand beaches on the Caribbean side, the islands off Panama’s Pacific coast are covered in dense jungle that crowded a shoreline of black sand beaches that offered an unparalleled rugged, wild beauty. As stunning the natural beauty was, there was nothing more splendid than sailing through the boiling water created by a frenzy of mobular rays with a sky full of swooping seabirds overhead. As we dropped anchor, a juvenile whale shark swam under our bowsprit and moments later we were in the water swimming alongside this gentle giant, the most memorable welcome to the beautiful Pearl Islands. We’d come at the right time as the bloom of plankton that filled our bay brought with it the animals that fed off them: Humpback whales, whale shark and rays. We spent our days in the water surrounded by large schools of mobula and cownose rays and the solitary whale shark or humpback that swam with them, our bodies wrapped up in the middle of their feeding frenzy, their dizzying speed and aerodynamic displays an amazing force to behold. When we finally turned our attention away from the sea we were spoiled by an equal beauty ashore. A copse of dead trees nestled into the dense jungle that lined the beachfront provided a perfect nook for a large flock of resident macaws. Their bright red, yellow and blue feathers were a stunning shock of colour against the bleached wood they were perched atop. Below, the beach was blackened by a thick cluster of cormorants, with no one other than ourselves to witness the amazing wildlife that surrounded us both on land and at sea. These islands were, without a doubt, true to their name: The Pearl of Panama.

It was near impossible to pull ourselves away from our secluded oasis and our indulgent self-sought isolation, but a cruising boat is always on a timeframe and it was time to un-velcro ourselves from the soft fuzzy hold that so effortlessly held us. We set our sights on our our next destination: Coiba Island, the largest island in Central America. Coiba fascinated us with its dark history. It had been a penal colony, akin to America’s Alcatraz or South Africa’s Robin Island, where the hardest criminals were vanquished between 1919 to 2004; a place of such harsh conditions that the guards of the time locked themselves in at night to keep themselves safe, rather than the other way around. Prior to that, the island’s last known inhabitants had been removed in the 1500s, leaving the island completely untouched by human interference for 700 years. Coiba is now an uninhabited marine reserve, having been declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2005. With a scatter of buildings left to ruin and access to the island limited, the island and the ecosystem within and surrounding it holds some of the greatest biological diversity in the world. Going ashore is off-limits to visitors so we spent our time exploring its impressive biodiversity at depth. The coral reef is the second-largest in the eastern Pacific and supports a rich underwater biodiversity, and our dives brought us in close proximity to white-tip and hammerhead shark, eagle and devil rays, turtles and schools of jack, snapper and the illusive merlin. Coiba is the Galapagos of Central America’s underwater world and, true to reputation, has the best diving that Panama has to offer.

We continued north of Coiba to the small archipelago of Islas Secas with the best intentions of continuing our exploration of the Gulf of Chiriquí’s rich marine environment, but we were drawn to the raw, untouched natural beauty above sea instead. Of the 14 volcanic islands that make up this small island group, only one has been turned into a luxury 24-guest eco-adventure resort. Other than this single development, this small cluster of islands have been left uninhabited for over 600 years, allowing for the preservation of some of the most pristine conditions both ashore and under water. We stayed clear of the exclusive resort and visited a few of the smaller islets, enjoying the complete solitude. The soft rustle of dense, green bush and slow lap of rolling water was the only outside sound in our small universe, other than the occasional rumble of a passing fishing boat. Outside this periodic and distant disruption, the tranquility inside this serene, remote setting was absolute. We matched the pace of our days to nature’s slow, gentle melody and enjoyed the feeling that Las Secas was ours, and ours alone.

As we wound up our cruise through Panama’s Pacific islands, we grasped how extraordinary this corner of the world truly was. The adventures we’d had far surpassed our ability to count them on our collective fingers and toes and with each new island our chant, “Panama: More than you Expect“ grew louder and more earnest. Our time in country was closing down and we decided to pull out of our isolation and serenity to head for chaos and noise. We needed to move for practical reasons, such as provisioning and clearance, as well as for personal reasons and there was nowhere in Central America better suited to this than the bustle of Panama City.

Panama City was a relatively low-key central hub until the early 2000s when a development boom started transforming the older colonial homes into larger multi-story houses and high-rise condominiums. Trouble in the Middle East and strain on shipping through the Suez Canal led to an increased demand on the Panama Canal and port facilities in Balboa. As a result of the influx of shipping and trade and the resulting multibillion dollar expansion of the Canal, development boomed and the city expanded into what it is today: A vibrant “two-in-one” city that offers a perfect blend of quaint-old and glittery-new. Depending on where you are in the city, it can feel like you are either standing in the centre of a mini-Dubai or looking down the tunnel of time at a centuries-old seaside fishing village. The financial district, or Area Bancária, is built-up and gleaming, with skyscrapers crowding the skyline and the billowing puff and honk of a thousand cars jammed into a square-mile block. The area is filled with modern office towers and banks, high-end hotels, fancy restaurants and name-brand retail stores. Casco Viejo, on the other hand, is located in the historic district and offers a quaint pedestrian-only area filled with winding cobblestone streets flanked by 1600’s buildings-turned-trinket shops. Throughout the old quarter are sprawling plazas surrounded by numerous museums and churches, open to tourist throughout the day. We spent time wandering around the streets of the historic district, enjoying the bustle of activity. We spent hours getting history lessons on the building of the Panama Canal, of life during the Spanish colonial period, the impact of gold and the impact of money to the region. We spent our evenings in less educational but equally valuable ways, sipping margaritas on barstools in draughty rooftop bars and eating some of the the juiciest carne asada from the best restaurants in the city. We filled our time dancing between the new and the old, our days a flurry of activity that was juxtaposed to our relaxed Gulf of Chiriquí experience.

When reflecting on our Panamanian battlecry, there is no way I could have prepared myself for the amount of “more” we got. I assume many cruisers are like us, making the erroneous assumption that Panama is no more than a direct route from the Atlantic to the Pacific, a conduit for the adventure in one ocean to the adventure that lay ahead in the next. What I hadn’t expected was that the Pacific side of Panama is a rich destination in itself. The two sides of the country are dramatically different from each other, yet equally rewarding. When I reflect on our time in Panama, one word sums it up perfectly: More. San Blas is more, the Canal is more, and the Pacific side is far, far more. I’m not sure when the Hamilton theme popped into my head but the more we saw, the more “more than you expect” held true.

Posted on

The Great Polynesian Gift

Link to published article: The Hidden Gift

There is a small island in French Polynesia that reminds me of that last gift left abandoned under the Christmas tree, passed over for all the other larger bow-tied, red-and-green wrapped packages. When the party is over and all the extended family have made their way home, a tired eye spots a small paper bag bound in scotch tape left half buried beneath the fallen pine needles and discarded wrapping paper. It is picked up, casually unwrapped and the holiday’s greatest surprise lays unexpectedly in hand.

Maupiha’a is this modest little treasure. After spending time in French Polynesia’s larger, more well-known islands, few have time remaining on their visa or in the season to tuck into Maupiha’a on their way west. With a total landmass of 2km2, sailing right past is certainly an easy thing to do. For those who choose to visit, they may need to abort due to the small island’s even smaller pass. With a circular lagoon surrounded by one main islet, several smaller motus and a continuous outer reef, all the water that floods into the lagoon at high tide must exit through the single passage on the western side of the atoll. This fast out-flowing water can cause currents up to 9 knots, so timing entry is essential. The best time to enter is at high water with the engine at full speed. The current will still be against you at about 4 knots but you can at least make slow progress. Once committed, there is no turning around inside the narrow 18 meter-wide pass. Those who succeed, however, soon discover what a hidden gift Maupiha’a really is. Unassuming on the outside, a rare treasure on the inside: Maupiha’a is that lost gift hidden under the Christmas tree.

Located on the western edge of the French Polynesian archipelago, Maupiha’a is the epitome of isolation, its residents a model of self-sufficiency. It is 100 miles from its nearest populated neighbour and there is no supply ship that comes to deliver food and staples as exists in other French Polynesian islands. The locals on Maupiha’a raise pigs and chicken, collect tern and booby eggs and hunt for fish, shellfish and turtle. They maintain their own small gardens and drinking water is collected by catchment or cracked from a coconut. What isn’t grown, raised or hunted is brought in by a seasonal convoy of willing international cruisers who come laden with flour, rice, sugar, seasonal fruit and a myriad of other staples during the dry season. When the flow of cruisers ends, life returns to a self-sustaining isolation until the Pacific fleet resumes the following year.

I sailed into Maupiha’a in 2006 carrying fresh fruit and vegetables donated by family in distant islands, however this time we were behind a group that had already done the same. Back then the lagoon had been a minefield of oyster beds, but a hurricane wiped out the buoys and killed the industry since my last visit. While Maupiha’a had a short period in pearl farming, it has primarily been used over the past century as a copra plantation. Starting with a workforce of three in 1917, the influx of workers shifted from several hundred at the height of the industry to the handful that now remain. For a scheduled ship to make the trip to the island, the residents must collect a minimum of 50 tons of copra — an amount that takes the current eight inhabitants about two years to harvest. It is a long time to wait for a replenishment of supplies, so visiting yachts are both a welcome and necessary part of survival on the island.

As such, cruising boats are met with open arms when they enter this small mid-Pacific sanctuary. We sailed across the four-mile wide lagoon to the southern side of Motu Maupiha’a and dropped our anchor through crystal clear water into fine white sand, as picturesque as any holiday postcard. We wandered ashore to take a stroll on the palm-fringed beach and soon ran into one of the island’s locals. Pierre was warm and gregarious, inviting us to make ourselves at home on his island. I offered a pair of flip-flops to replace his broken one, but he insisted on scavenging a lone replacement from the windward side of the outer reef where the supply was plentiful. We passed him again the next day, and he waved us over and offered us fresh fish for our meal that night. I accepted on the agreement that he join us, and that first meal set the foundation for communal living for the rest of our time together. Pierre showed us how to live off the island’s resources, turning us into prime contestants for Survivor Island. He taught us how to hunt, kill and clean meat off a coconut crab, how to determine if a tern egg was embryo-free, how to pluck a coconut from a tree and make fresh milk, how to catch a fish on a un-baited lure (in 5 seconds, guaranteed). By the time he was finished with us, we could be cast ashore on any mid-Pacific island and feed like royalty if given a rubber band and a rusty hook. In exchange, we supplied Pierre with a regular dose of coffee, his drink of choice, and took him on his first sailing trip since his arrival seven years earlier. We also left him with a six month supply of mayonnaise, the “magic sauce” to accompany smoked coconut crab. Pierre was happy to live in the present and take each day as it comes — and that lesson was the greatest gift of all.

After a week of exploring Maupiha’a natural resources with Pierre, we departed with the change in wind to find a more settled holding on the northern side of the atoll. We reluctantly said our farewells, feeling we’d never find such unbridled generosity and hospitality anywhere else, only to find it replicated by our hosts in our new location. As soon as we landed our dinghy ashore, a mother-and-daughter pair came out to greet us.  They had been in the middle of burning coconut husks in a fire, and they took a break from this sweaty work to extended a warm welcome and escorted us around the area, showing us their small garden, a motley collection of animals, and their home. We were offered that day’s catch and I accepted on the grounds that we share the fresh-caught spoils. I came ashore that evening expecting to be given a fish that I would cook over an open fire, and packed a number of side dishes, plates, and a bottle of wine to accompany the meal. When we arrived, the table was set and a full five course meal was already prepared, a green coconut waiting on a plate for each of us. I offered the wine but it was rejected as a slightly fermented coconut was the “champagne” of choice. I humbly accepted the one-sided extravagance that was offered us, knowing that they put aside that day’s work to provide us with such a lavish meal: We had fresh grilled fish, tuna sashimi, coconut crab “pate,” stewed giant clam, and a freshly baked chocolate cake. The night was chatty and festive, and evenings of shared meals remained throughout the duration of our stay.

As with Pierre, Adrienne and Karina invited us to join them in their daily routines and taught us about life on the island, and how to survive on it. We were taken out out to one of the smaller islets to walk among booby hatchlings, their downy heads straining to get a look and size us up as a threat. We were shown how to hunt for coconut crab in the night, Karina’s strong, deft hands a stark contrast to my timid, blundering fingers. I would willingly survive on bird eggs, but only desperation would force me to tackle one of those Hulk-sized pinching terrors. Having witnessed the mass graveyards of giant clams throughout the Caribbean, we went on a snorkelling exhibition to learn how to pry the shell from the rock. I massacred one of these vibrant purple beauties with a flathead screwdriver but had no interest in removing any more of these vibrant creatures from the ocean. Forty clams were harvested for a single meal, served as a delicacy that night and it was, indeed, a tasty one. However, I felt guilty eating something that I know to be endangered. I was only playing “stranded” on the island for a short period of time, and with an estimated eighty boats passing through in a season there would be an incredible demand put on the clam population. Hopefully a balance is reached during the off-period to let the population recover in time for the next season’s fleet.

Karina also took us out to snorkel the pass, a popular gathering spot for grey, white and blacktip shark. The site was my only instance of aggression by shark on my earlier visit and I was nervous to get back into the water with an even larger group patrolling the seafloor. They were curious but not aggressive, so we enjoyed being swept along with their darting silver forms following underneath us through the pass. Laying in five meters of water outside the pass was the highlight of the tour: Seeing the scattered remains of the Seeadler, a WWI German sailing warship that had grounded on the outer pass 100 years ago, taking the island’s population of three and turning it into an instant settlement of 111. The mixed group of crew and prisoners of war were stranded on the island for several months, building the “Seeadlerburg Settlement” out of the broken wreckage of the ship. The history of the ship and the story of its crew is as rich following the wreck as before it grounded, and to see its rusty bones scattered across the scarred earth was a poignant moment for us all.

Little did we expect our days and nights to be so richly filled with new-found companionship when we drove our yacht through the daunting pass into this little mid-Pacific refuge. If there ever was a place that time forgot, it is Maupiha’a, where living off the land — and sea, for that matter — is true to the word. While the modern world has settled into much of French Polynesia, Maupiha’a remains a little slice of ancient Polynesian past. There is no bi-monthly supply ship, no church or school, no medical facility or governmental office. There isn’t an airport, cruise terminal or tourist centre. Definitely forget your Marriott or Four Seasons. Whoever visits, whether permanent or transient, must come fully self-sufficient. According to Pierre, this is part of the attraction: Life is simple, needs are basic and demands are minimal.

As an outsider, our hosts showed us that Maupiha’a is, above all, the epitome of selfless generosity. With copra to process, small livestock to raise, a garden and home to maintain and fish to hunt, life is not idle on this little island. But regardless of everything it takes to maintain an existence on the island, routines shifts when visitors come a’calling. Daily chores become tourist expeditions, meals become banquets, strangers become friends. We could not have guessed from the outside the treasures that lie within. Maupiha’a is that forgotten gift, which once unwrapped holds a value far greater than all the other presents put together. It is proof that, sometimes, the best things do come in the smallest packages.

Posted on

Tiptoe through the Graveyard

Link to Published Article: South African Adventure

My husband, John Daubeny, and I have been cruising through the Pacific, Southeast Asia and the Indian Ocean over the past decade onboard our 50-foot cutter-rigged sloop, Ātea, choosing to explore the world by boat with our two children, age 7 and 9. Having just spent three years in the Indian Ocean, it was time for us to move on to new cruising grounds and we set our sights on the Atlantic by way of South Africa. Given the 40,000 nautical miles we’ve clocked behind us, you’d think the 1,500 miles we had in front of us would be another casual stroll through our aquatic playground, made easier as land would be visible all the way: We’d be watching the baobab trees of Tanzania, the pistachio plantations of Mozambique and the thorn bushes of South Africa slip past just five miles to starboard. With no wide open stretches of water to cross, we were in for a leisurely coastal jaunt with plenty of stops en-route. Easy, right?  

Wrong. We would be travelling along the Wild Coast to round the Cape of Storms to reach the Skeleton Coast. These names given by ancient mariners reflected the hazards ahead of us. Africa’s south coast has a high occurrence of weather anomalies and coastal hazards. With storms that build quickly and fog that rolls in blinding the coast from view, hidden shoals and reefs become death-traps for unsuspecting vessels. The South African coastline is notorious for its long list of maritime disasters: We would pass through the Graveyard of Ships where more than 2,500 vessels before us have been claimed by the sea, and countless more simply disappeared without a trace. If we were going to navigate Atea successfully through this aquatic catacomb, we needed to know what was hammering the nails into those old timber coffins. 

Rusty Nails and Failing Sails

This is where the Agulhas Current – the largest western boundary current in the world – plays a crucial role. This narrow band of fast moving water races along the eastern coast of Africa, pulling warm water from the Indian Ocean across the continental shelf before dropping south into the Southern Ocean. Pop into that stream and you race along the coast at whooping 10 knots. Timed poorly, however, that same slipstream turns into violent overfalls that have ripped apart the steel frame of 500-ton ships. How do you avoid the same disastrous fate? The key is knowing the answer to “How long do I have to reach my next safe harbour?” There is an established weather pattern that repeats: A nor-easterly wind slowly builds from a calm high pressure system as the next low approaches. A window of stable weather opens up, providing anywhere from a twelve-hour to four-day gap to shoot through before the pressure bottoms out, the next low arrives and the window slams shut with a vicious south-westerly buster that sweeps up the coast making conditions miserable for anyone who has stayed out too long. Understand that safe window and you should enjoy a safe trip around the southern tip of Africa.

To further complicate things, the 1,500 NM stretch of coastline has very few natural harbours. Once the skipper makes the call to head out to sea, ship and crew are committed to make the run between safe harbours within the weather window, a window that turns quickly and closes fast. Make a wrong decision and, at best, you are in for a very rough ride. If we were to transit successfully – and by that I mean with our ship and our souls intact – we would need a solid boat, a good plan and a reliable weather information. In our opinion, this was done by taking short hops within a very wide window of calm weather. Usually, you wait for wind. Along the South African coast, you wait for the pockets of calm between the wind.

You also wait until you can guarantee all critical systems are in working order. Our area of greatest concern was our 1965 Lister HRW4 diesel engine. Our last full service had been in Thailand three years prior and our stop-gap measures since then could only last so long; the saltwater pump needed priming at every start and the belts were stretched and on their final hours. Through love, luck and lube oil we’d kept her kicking but she could fail us at any moment. If this happened, we would be relying on the next two items on our maintenance list: A broken genoa roller fuller and a leaky hydraulic rudder ram. We were well aware that we were in some of the toughest cruising grounds with failing systems. As our engine belts stretched and broke and air seeped into the water pump, we placed bandage upon bandage hoping none of the calamities that had claimed so many others would fall upon us. Issues aside, we had to cover 1,500 nautical miles on a boat that moved at an average of six knots within three months – the clock was ticking and regardless of our issues we needed to get moving.

Tiptoe through the Ports

Understanding that our situation was less than ideal and being of mind that things never are, we shot out on our transit around the South African coast with two out of three conditions satisfied: A safe weather window and a good plan. A fail-safe boat would have to wait. We would hop marina to marina, visiting Richards Bay, East London, Port Elizabeth, Knysna and Simons Town along the way. Each stop offered a different slice of the African pie. I got sample-sized bites at each port, leaving me at the end of our transit with an un-satiated appetite and a craving for more.

Richards Bay

Richards Bay is the perfect base to explore the national parks and game reserves of South Africa, with a half dozen within a half hour drive from the marina. For the first time in a long time, our existence wasn’t defined by boats. When we pulled into Richards Bay, we took every opportunity we could to get as far away from the ocean as possible – into the interior, and into the game parks. Richards Bay is the perfect location to explore the many national parks and game reserves, and if you are in South Africa not scouting for The Big Five, you might as well go home and watch Netflix. Preferring the real thing, we spent almost all the time we were based in Richards Bay outside of Richards Bay. It was such an amazing experience for all of us, full of cheetah encounters, sparing giraffe, stampeding elephant, and territorial rhino. For the kids it was the novelty of watching zoo animals wander in mixed company free from restrictive enclosures. For John it was being able to get so close to some of the world’s most hostile creatures and survive to tell the stories. For me it was a return to my own childhood when Kenyan game parks were my playground. Richards Bay gave us the best of Africa in concentrate. 

Durban

Durban was never our plan. It was too short a hop from Richards Bay to make a transit worthwhile, and South African immigration were so difficult that the effort to clear in and out wasn’t worth the hassle. However, sensibility has never been my strong suit. I had a good friend there and I was determined to make a house call. In addition to a week of social reconnections, we got a chance to see a foreign town through local eyes – an opportunity worth taking in any instance. We got to play with locals in public pubs and private clubs. We got to play with pet horses and wild monkey and even wilder dogs. And the highlight, we got to play in the Drakensburg Mountains. “The Drake” rises above the eastern edge of the Southern African plateau and is the highest mountain range in South Africa, an escarpment that stretches 1000km along KwaZulu-Natal with impressive 3000m peaks, stunning river valleys and rugged cliffs. It was once home to the indigenous San’s people who lived in the valleys and foothills during the Stone Ages, and they left their mark through 2,500-year old rock paintings that remain to this day. We wandered through these caves and gazed at red and yellow stick-figures of age-old elephant and antelope. We gaped up at Giant’s Castle and Cathedral Peak, and we drove through the most intense lightening storm I’ve ever experienced. As the rain swamped the dirt roads and pelted the windscreen of the car blinding our surroundings from view, we were fearful for our safety as thunderbolts cracked through the sky and struck the earth around us. Fortunately, our tiny tin can of a car didn’t have a 50-foot high mast sticking into the air as a target and we survived the wrath of the angry gods.

East London

East London is a no-man’s stop where foreigners are warned against the high level of violence in the region and tourists are recommended not to visit under any condition, this was unfortunately not an option for us. We had a condition – and not just just any condition – we had an engine-critical condition that could jeopardise the safety of ship and crew if not sorted in an entirely different down to the graveyard kind of way. With our stretched engine belts flopping about like over-sized jandals, we motored slowly up the river and tied stern-to-stern with a small huddle of resident boats. We tucked up into a spot up the river that was beautiful and quaint , far from the reputation one the town just beyond.  What I can confirm is that East London is indeed not a place for outsiders. Unfortunately, “outsiders” was exactly what we were – and we weren’t just outsiders sitting on the outside. We were outsiders that needed to be on the inside — we needed to wander through the back streets of an unfamiliar, run-down, hostile town in search of good quality engine belts – something not stocked as a regular consumer item on the shelves of most supply stores. We were looking for a specific needle in a high-risk haystack. But it was a hunt we had to take on, as we couldn’t move Atea without it. Fortunately, the prize was secured and after a full day wandering around the dubious back alleys of East London, we were in possession of two new high-quality engine belts. As the saying goes, “when the going gets tough, the tough get going.” After our time as outside-insiders in one of the most impoverished and violent parts of South Africa, we decided to heed Joe Kennedy’s advice and got going.

Port Elizabeth 

Port Elizabeth was said to offer a marina with a reputation for warmth and hospitality, so we made the PE Yacht Club our next port of call. In fact, it offered neither but served up cold beer and a good roast and that was enough to appease our cravings while we sheltered for the week. When the weather finally turned and settled, we were looking at a much shorter weather window, with only 48-hours to progress the 160 miles to Mossel Bay before the next SW winds came through. By then we’d discovered where to find the Agulhas Current and we would rely on it to cover the distance in time. Atea was showing the strain of the passage and near breaking point: The bearings in the genoa furler were too unreliable to risk putting out and the headsail pole was broken so we couldn’t hold the jib out to balance the mainsail and assist. The rust coming through the bolts on the headstay made putting any load on the wire a risk, as a break there would mean the mast would collapse. A small leak on the steering hydraulics meant that our steering could go at any time, and we had no backup. Atea was a wounded warhorse; at 34° south and moving along the southernmost edge of Africa with nothing but the Southern Ocean on our port side and the boat a state of disrepair, we felt exposed. The temperatures had dropped, leaving our maladjusted bodies cold and shivering. Having spent all of our previous years cruising in the tropics, we were unprepared and under-provisioned. We had none of the required gear to make sailing a boat in 10° degree temperatures a cosy affair: We had no foul weather gear, no long underwear, no beanies and no blankets. But we had whiskey and hot chocolate. For the alcoholic and the optimist in me, that was enough. For the kids, days filled with chocolate turned our hectic existence into heavenly bliss. 

Knysna

In the most supreme irony, we motored over 30 miles in a rush to cover the distance from PE to Mossel Bay to get in before the weather turned, then abandon our plans 25 miles short of our intended destination. At dawn, just as the wind arrived, we hove-to at the entrance to Knysna in order to wait five hours for slack tide. We knew that Knsyna needed to be approached with care but we were blissfully unaware that the entrance is classified by many as “the most dangerous harbour entrance in the world.” It’s easy to see the merit of this claim with a channel only two hundred yards wide with an extended bar, strong tidal flow, cross swells, and a large rock smack dab in the middle of the channel. After a restful morning bobbing around in flat seas waiting for the tide, we had the misfortune of experiencing first-hand how quickly the weather conditions change. Within the span of an hour, a flat, windless day morphed into harsh 25 knot winds with building seas. By the time we turned our bows towards the Knysna Heads, waves were breaking across the entrance. Given worse weather was on its way, we decided we would time the sets and make a mad dash through the gap. 

We kicked the engine into gear and drove forward, knowing once committed there would be no turning around. Two more giant waves built behind us and pushed the stern up and the boat heaved forward as they rolled under us. “Please don’t surf!” I cried out as we felt the boat heave forward with each wave. We fought to keep the boat on the transit line and her stern to the waves – if we turned side-on we’d be done for. A final giant wave passed beneath us and broke like thunder only yards ahead. “This is it!” John hollered out as he pushed the throttle forward to maximum speed as we raced to get through before the next set. The burning smell of a hot engine and hot exhaust filled the air and we cursed Atea’s spongy steering and dodgy engine belts. If our systems failed… if the boat broached… if we misjudged the set… if anything went wrong at that point we would have ended up on the rocks. White water foamed on the boulders just yards off our port side. With Lucy roaring a deafening battle cry, we charged past the turbulent seas into the foamy calm beyond. The next set broke behind us as John eased back on the throttle and we looked at each other wild-eyed, hearts racing. “Hot damn! We made it!” It was the scariest crap-my-pants five minutes I’d ever experienced. It made Los Vegas’ thrill ride Insanity seem like a kids swing at a play park. 

Having travelled from the distinctly poor and rural province of KwaZulu Natal and the Eastern Cape, we had arrived at one of the richest province in the Western Cape where 6.5 million inhabitants maintain a stronghold for the privileged white upper-class. The town of Knysna is situated on the country’s largest estuary, National Lake, and protected by the surrounding Outeniqua Mountian range. It is one of a collection of beautiful little villages along a modern and prosperous coastal highway, the well-known Garden Route, and a trip to the region isn’t complete without a drive down this beautiful corridor. It winds through dramatic scenery to wine lands, nature parks, forest trails, game reserves, and into the Karoo, a semi-desert where you can watch ostriches roam the plains by the thousands. It is a microcosm of decadence and indulgence where money oozed from the open wallets of its white inhabitants and the problems that beset the rest of the country were forgotten. After running about in our rental car “doing” all the things that you “do” in Knysna, we settled into the quaint yacht club with our hands on pints of beer waiting – as you do on a transit around the coast of South Africa – for the next weather window. Having passed through the Heads once, we were not going to budge until we had The Perfect Calm – when slack tide coincided with a blue cloudless sky, no wind and no swell. Just when the club was about to offer permanent membership (we were unsure if it was because we’d paid for it through the quantity of beer consumed or because customers started regarding us as staff), we got our three out of three. There was no weather window – conditions coming toward us weren’t ideal – but if we didn’t get out the gap when we could we’d be locked in again for the unforeseeable future. 

Simons Town

Our local weather forecast had advised us to expect winds building up to 35 knots on the approach to Cape Agulhas and suggested it was better to battle those conditions in the open ocean rather than on the approach to Simons Town. There are fearsome wind acceleration zones that roll down the Hottentots Holland Mountains which funnel the winds off the Cape Peninsula into storm force gusts at the exact moment a skipper is least able to manage it. Earlier in the season a fleet of highly-experienced international cruisers stretched their weather window too far and were caught in hurricane force winds on their final approach into the harbour. Crew from three separate boats had to be rescued by the local lifeboat. This was not a coast to push boundaries, regardless of how many oceans you have crossed.

As we made our way through increasingly grey and windy conditions, we maintained a conservative sailing plan and kept Atea reefed down to staysail only. The sinister and low lying Cape Agulhas extended into our path, pointing a spectral finger at us from under a dark cape – a beckoning command that has lured many ships to their doom. Cape Agulhas is the very southernmost point of South Africa, lying thirty miles further south than the more commonly-known Cape of Good Hope, but receiving less world-wide acclaim. While it is to the Cape of Good Hope where all international travellers head to in order to click their pics at the spot where “the two great oceans meet,” locally it is Cape Agulhas that is more feared. As the true southernmost corner of the continent, it is here that the Indian Ocean and the South Atlantic meet – often enraged and hostile. We were nostalgic as we transited from one ocean to the other in steep seas and 35 knots of wind behind us, marking the end of our three-year Indian Ocean voyage and the the beginning of our Atlantic experience. Early the following morning, our weather plan having paid off, we watched the wind drop away as we motored the last 50 miles through a thick fog into False Bay. As we entered our final stretch, the fog lifted and the sun came out, and a pod of pilot whales guided us towards our final destination. With high spirits, we pulled alongside the dock at the False Bay Yacht Club and concluding our hopscotch through the graveyard of ships with a successful transit of The Wild Coast.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
Posted on

First and Last

Link to published article: First and Last

Tonga is, for both John and I, the first and the last of our great big adventure. Tonga in 2011 was our testing ground, to see if what we’d enjoyed separately would be something we enjoyed together. Tonga in 2022 is proof of that mutual passion, and all that lay between those years lies a rich tapestry of countless expeditions and unquantifiable experiences. Our new boat became our permanent home and into that existence we brought two children, a son and daughter, and over eleven years we visited 36 countries and transited three great oceans. Our Tongan trial had turned out to be a great success. 

We feel very fortunate that our very first country is also our last. Tonga was a busy tourist destination in 2011, both by land and by sea. It is a popular stop for cruisers on the route across the Pacific and it is a part of the Western Pacific loop. In typical years it also has an established tourist and charter industry, so sailing around the islands is often a bustle of movement and  crowded anchorages. This is how we remember our first visit all those years ago. In 2022, however, Tonga is a very changed place. Due to the pandemic in 2020 and a tsunami in 2021, Tonga sealed its borders to the outside world for the past three years. October brought big changes: Land and sea borders opened and international tourism resumed. For most cruising yachts, the timing was too late in the season to take advantage of the change in policy. For stragglers like us travelling toward the South Pacific later in the season, however, the timing was ideal.

We sailed into Tonga on the 4th of October, the fourth boat in three years. Rather than being one obscure yacht of many, this year we were one of few. Opposite to blending into the crowd, our AIS had been picked up and our arrival known before we even laid sight of land on the horizon. From that moment the effusive welcome began. “Ātea, Ātea. This is Vava’u Radio. Welcome to Tonga!” As we pulled into the customs dock, locals came out to greet us and as we cleared and set anchor, calls from the expatriate community were welcoming us in. The few fellow cruisers who proceeded us popped over to say hello. Tonga was a real homecoming amongst total strangers.

Tonga is a relatively small country, broken up into three regions: The lush limestone islands of Vava’u in the north, the picturesque low-lying coral islands of central Haapai’is, and the densely populated southern capital island of Tongatapu. Yachts typically go to Tongatapu for no more than clearance and the Haapai’is are generally under-rated and ignored, which leaves Vava’u as the popular destination of choice for tourists and cruisers alike; and there’s sense in this. Vava’u offers dozens of small islands to explore in a large sailing area protected from the ocean swell by a surrounding offshore reef. The deep water between lush limestone islands bring a stark contrast of colour in deep blues and greens, and moorings are available in designated anchorages for a small fee. What isn’t available is the more tropical setting of rich coral gardens and clear aqua waters; this is what the Haapai’is offer and a trip to this neglected central group is well worth the effort. In a normal season, the anchorages around Vava’u are crowded with tour boats, local charters and cruising yachts, all vying for an available mooring. The yachting season runs from May through to October, which fortunately coincides with the whale season when pregnant females come to deliver their calves and suitors follow to continue the cycle of birth for the next year.

It is for the whales that we made Tonga our destination this year, more so than the sentimental appeal of “closing the loop.” I knew that all our other cruising friends were in Fiji and the reunions and parties would be continuous, but Tonga held the chance of sighting whales. Choosing between nature or social, I chose the experience that would, for me, be irreplaceable. Tonga is one of the few places in the world where you can swim with these gentle giants and the opportunity to be alongside them in the water is a rare one. We were late in the season so the chance of seeing whales was low, but I wanted to make the effort if the possibility was there. I was well rewarded. There were a few mother and calf pairs and escorts remaining in the protection of the sheltered waters. We could hear their calls as we snorkelled and watched them breech, roll and fin slap from our anchorage. To swim next to them was a beautiful experience: Tender, graceful, curious and relaxed. Mother guided calf to her side with the nudge of a fin, calf rolling over and around her mother’s bulk, a small body tucked under the massive head of its mother, and the intimate sight of a calf nursing as the two swam slowly in union. To be next to them, observer and observed, offered more than could ever be imagined.

When we weren’t with the whales, we were with the small community of cruisers that had quickly become good friends. Given the few boats visiting Tonga this year, every new arrival was celebrated by both cruiser, expatriate and local community. We joined church service on Sundays to listen to the wonderful booming song that marks a central part of the service, and we were invited to community meals that followed. We developed a warm rapport with the local expatriates whose businesses had been closed for years, and were taken under wing by a few who took us on a complimentary tour of the island and its landmarks. We joined forces as a cruising community, getting together for morning exercise, an early coffee, a lazy lunch and social dinners. We gate crashed private parties, where the hushed word of “pālangi…. pālangi… pālangi…” was whispered, labelling us in the Tonga language as white foreigners, before the doors opened to let us in. Apparently, as outsiders we weren’t on the invite list but warm hospitality had us quickly included.

The main town of Neiafu is a small strip that runs one vertical street and one horizontal street along the waterfront. By the end of the first day you’ve seen everything the town has to offer and know half the shopkeepers by name. Outside the village, everything is a spread of simple houses and rural properties. There is Kilikilitefua, the “wall of rocks” which was the product of a census that used to record the birth of the firstborn son of everyone family by adding a volcanic rock to the pile. There is the remnants of an old fort, protection for the community from attack by the waring tribes in the Haapai’is and Tonga Tapu. There are fresh water caves which supplied previous generations with drinkable water and there are ocean-facing caves where livestock were kept and sheltered, pinned in by the high tide, and there are saltwater caves that provide some exhilarating deep underwater entrances to enter through. A trip around the island is both an education on current culture and a lesson on its rich history. While the cruising grounds make Tonga a fantastic destination, the rich cultural heritage and shoreside services also offer much to explore.

We sailed into Tonga for the first time as a new couple on a new boat, and this year we sail out with a decade behind us and two kids in tow. The country symbolises the first and the last destination of our great adventure, but I should clarify: Tonga is the first and the last of this great adventure. A big change lays ahead of us as we pull into New Zealand and move ashore, and Ātea gets a long break from all the continuous miles she has carried us over. While Tonga symbolises the end of our time as long-term cruisers on Ātea, the adventure is definitely not at its conclusion. If Tonga teaches us anything, it is that the world is both behind us and ahead of us, and we are only turning a page in this great big adventure called life.

Link to Images: <a href="http://<iframe src="https://www.facebook.com/plugins/post.php?href=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2Fsvatea%2Fposts%2Fpfbid02pcHewN7eJ49J4J95Ex4ECTdPwXtFApXzdmuKZwZWJQMPSah64gutWbJw9X5fpcR9l&show_text=true&width=500&quot; width="500" height="695" style="border:none;overflow:hidden" scrolling="no" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen="true" allow="autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; picture-in-picture; web-share">Tonga

Posted on

San Blas: A Taste of the Pacific

Link to published article: An Authentic Experience

Temperate, crystal clear waters to swim in. Palm-fringed, white sand beaches to stroll. An archipelago of over 300 unspoiled islands to explore. The painted face and bangled-arm of a tribeswoman selling the intricate stitched artwork of her ancestors and an indigenous community that repelled colonisation, banned international development and restricted mass tourism, people who hold firmly to their traditional roots. The San Blas islands are a living history, a preserved native culture, a protected archipelago; they are a different world from the remainder of the Caribbean cruising grounds and are as close as you can get to experiencing the Pacific islands without leaving the Atlantic Ocean.

Laying along the Caribbean coast of northern Panama, the San Blas islands stretch 100 miles along the southern Caribbean Sea between the border of Colombian and the Gulf of San Blas. Officially renamed Guna Yala by the Panamanian government in 2011, the majority of islands are small uninhabited islets and cays, and the 49 islands that are inhabited are generally occupied by no more than a family or two living on land passed down to them through the generations. Traditions runs deep within the Kuna Yala culture, and it would be fair to say it is the best preserved indigenous South American culture to this day. Subsistence fishing and coconut cultivation is the generate the main income, and sale of the unique layered fabric panels made by the Kuna women, the Mola, is also a large part of the economy.

The San Blas islands had long been on my A-list of destinations. Having lived there in the mid-seventies, I was far too young at the time to hold onto my childhood experiences of Panama, but my parents remembered our time there with great fondness. Stories of crash landings in Kuna territory on a broken bi-wing and semi-permanent face markings painted down my mom’s nose were two of my parents many stories. They’d sailed through the remote San Blas islands long before it became a popular cruising destination, where they were greeted by men in dugouts who offered fish, lobster and coconuts and woman who displayed their intricately woven Molas. They retold the stories with such vivid detail, making me yearn to seek out similar adventures. When Panama finally lay in front of us, I knew exactly where I’d be spending my time. The question was, what remained? Had the authenticity of the islands been wiped into the past, or had the Kuna truly succeeded in holding onto their tribal heritage? Would I walk in my parents footsteps, or would the adventure only live through their stories?

My turn was up the morning we sailed into the San Blas Islands and laid the anchor down in front of the Swimming Pool, a popular anchorage in the Eastern Holandes. Given the name, I knew I wouldn’t be experiencing the San Blas of my parent’s day. We shared the anchorage with one other boat, however, and that was a popularity I could accept. The water was still a clear, transparent aqua blue. The tiny islet in front of us had one traditional palm-built shack sitting under a crowd of palm trees. Out on the water a man sat in his wooden dugout fishing off the edge of the reef. “Mom, Dad,” I thought, “I walk in your footsteps!”

I strung the hammock on the aft deck and eased myself in, set to soak up every morsel of my quiet, idyllic paradise. Tilting my head back to top it off with a sip of cold rum, I spotted a yacht headed our way. Behind that yacht, another, and another beyond that. My paren’t footprints were disappearing with every sail that popped up on the horizon. Within a few hours the anchorage turned into a crowded parking lot, my beautiful sandy island barely visible through the bimini of the boat that dropped anchor on top of us. Just before sunset a small dugout with a Kuna family slowly paddled towards us. Salvation. My dream had been altered but was still intact. I knew that the Kuna Indians held firmly to their traditional ways and had refused assimilation into the Panamanian culture. As the dugout pulled alongside I smiled broadly knowing my Spanish wouldn’t help but searching for a fish in the hold as our common goal. My smile was returned by an equally enthusiastic grin and, in clear and concise unbroken English, he asked for a $5 anchoring fee. Between my English-speaking Kuna host, my island view through the backend of another yacht and the keel-hung traffic jam around us, my hopes of experiencing my parent’s version of the San Blas were dashed. I would have to set my own footprints in the sand.

Shifting expectations didn’t take long, however, as there was plenty on offer within the San Blas regardless of its increased popularity. While there are many islands within the archipelago, there is a concentrated group of islands where most of the cruising happens. Follow the popular cruising guide, the Bowhouse Guide, and you will enjoy a social hub within a defined cruising circuit; tread out of that area and you have can experience a far more remote San Blas. There are still areas throughout the archipelago where time continues to stand still.

We were rarely alone as we sailed a clockwise course through the San Blas, as the islands are now an extension of the Atlantic cruising circuit. Charter and cruising yachts fill the anchorages throughout the archipelago and local tour operators run day trips for tourists out to the inshore islands. Panamanians have adjusted to the increase in tourism by running skiffs to many of the popular islands, offering a range of provisions from fruit and veg to beer and wine. Many of the Kuna have integrated with mainland Panama and now speak Spanish, and English to a lesser degree, allowing us to share a language and bridge the linguistic barrier. While forty years has brought many changes to the San Blas, some of those have made cruising the islands a more convenient and comfortable experience.

That said, while tourism has come to the San Blas, it is still very low-key. The Kuna have refused any large-scale development and the options for over-night accommodation are rustic, some as basic a hammock strung between palm trees. In addition, the handful of islands that offer this option are close to the mainland, restricting tourism to the majority of the islands. We had the unique opportunity to spend an afternoon with the ex-President of Panama, Ricardo Martinelli, when his helicopter landed on a small uninhabited cay near where our anchorage in the Eastern Holandes, providing us insight to some of the politics of the recent past. The ex-president discussed his campaign to turn the San Blas into “the next Maldives.” The Kuna, however, hold sovereign independence throughout the islands and have rejected attempts to develop resorts throughout the islands. It was not progress the Kuna wanted, and I realised then what a privilege it was for us to be able to travel throughout an area that had fundamentally remained so unaltered by outside influence. It may not be exactly what my parents had experienced, but it wasn’t far off it.

That afternoon showed me that my first assessment of a lost culture hadn’t been entirely on the mark. Clearly there were changes, but this two-hundred year old culture still had firm roots. Many of the dugouts had outboards, but square-rigged wooden canoes still sail throughout the islands. Kuna men still row up with their bilges filled with fish and coconuts, often accompanied by their wife and child selling molas for $40 a pane. To sit with these woman and look through the intricate stitch-work made me appreciate how much of the Kuna traditions were still very much a part of everyday life; molas are hand-stitched exclusively by women in their spare time between rearing children and household demands, and each meter-square piece can take up to a month or two to complete. While men have moved towards modern clothing, most women dress traditionally in a cotton wrap and mola blouse, a colourful headscarf worn to deter evil spirits. Their wrists and ankles are wrapped in multi-coloured beads and married women still wore the traditional gold nose ring and thin black line painted down their nose. Huts ashore we still very much replicas of the housing of their forefathers, and families still live on land that has been passed down to them through the generations. Some islands are no longer inhabited, but many are still run exactly as they have been for centuries.

We’d been warmly welcomed by all the Kuna we’d met, and a few of them allowed us a closer insight into their daily lives. One particular interaction stands out as we were invited to spend the evening with a Kuna family in their home. When we arrived, the head of house stoked the embers of the fire-pit and we were invited to cook with them. Their lodging was built as three separate huts, all made of palm fronds laid over a wooden frame and set on a sand floor. Hammocks were strung up inside the huts for sleeping, the kitchen was set up inside a lean-to and the sink was open air. Their companionship was relaxed and casual, and the evening thoroughly enjoyable. I didn’t leave with a piercing or painted strip down my nose as my mother had during her time with the Kuna, but I generously wrapped in beaded wrist and ankle bracelets which made me feel that I could experience an authenticity that is still inherent in the culture forty years on.

Nowhere in the Atlantic had I felt so close to an island nation with such a true sense of cultural identity; slightly modified but inherently intact. The key factors that made us draw the comparison to the Pacific is that the Kuna culture is completely different from that of the rest of the Caribbean, where islands have become either first world nations or are trying to become one. That development has been wholly rejected by the Kuna. As in the Pacific, you are guests to their island, and you come into a community that is largely unchanged for hundreds of years. They are both a substance culture, with strong family ties, adhere to tribal ways and obey the rules laid down by the chief. In comparison to the Caribbean, there are fewer boats, fewer charters and fewer tourists. For Atlantic cruisers who want a slice of the Pacific Islands, the San Blas offers the very experience on a small scale in the southwestern corner of the Caribbean.

Link to Images: <a href="http://<iframe src="https://www.facebook.com/plugins/post.php?href=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2Fsvatea%2Fposts%2Fpfbid0zosydCmrsFBxemg2SVBCGzKeie6CuV9fDqqd88D1YkDBtpu3Xiv3zS6tva9sTk9cl&show_text=true&width=500&quot; width="500" height="676" style="border:none;overflow:hidden" scrolling="no" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen="true" allow="autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; picture-in-picture; web-share">San Blas

Posted on

Ey Ey Brother Shackleton 

Link to published article: Ey Ey Brother Shackleton

I’ve spent a notable time on the sea but don’t consider myself much of a seaman. Not in the nostalgic sense of the word – weathered old souls with salt-imbued rags who sit in old bars scratching their matted hair telling tales of their conquests and mishaps. Of course, I’ve had my share of adventures worth telling over a cold pint, but somehow I don’t feel I fit the mould. I sail a boat. I live on a boat. I raise my kids on a boat. I transit oceans by boat. But seasoned seaman? I don’t think so.

As I sat sipping a frothy pint in Peter’s Bar, with decade upon decade of captain’s hat (and the occasional captain’s bra) above my head, I felt like I’d finally earned that right. Peter’s Bar is as old as the volcano it is built on, currently run by its third generation of Sr. Azevedo, who continues to supply transiting mariners with more than just ale: for generations Peter’s Bar has been the sole support for ships and people passing through, supplying provisions and parts, mail collection and delivery, medical supply and local gossip. It might’ve taken me ten years, 55,000 miles and a few dozen ocean crossings, but I finally got it — that feeling of what it is like to be an old saltwort worth her lick.

Of course, having just completed a two-month passage was a factor. I didn’t really feel the gravity of what that meant until we pulled into Horta at the conclusion of our 60,000 mile trip from South Africa to the Azores and people gave their congratulations as we sailed in. We shook hands ashore with locals who already knew about us and were impressed by our recent time at sea. So, when I sauntered into Peter’s Bar and ordered a pint and sat down amongst the painted faces of patronage from generations past — Chichester, Montessier, Knox-Johnson — I felt that welling of pride. Yeah Shackleton, I gotcha bro.

After two weeks swaggering around the streets of Horta en simpatico with those cruising legends, it was time to refocus on the reason I spend all this time on a boat: To explore. For me the beauty of boats isn’t weather routing, reefing sails and clocking ocean miles. I like all that — particularly the ocean miles surrounded by the beautiful silence of that endless, endless sea. What I like most, above and beyond it all, is what lays at the other end. I like charting the destination and then rolling in and discovering the truth of a place beyond my ignorant expectation. Or often, my lack of expectation. Maybe my high school history told me more than just its geography, or perhaps the news has revealed some current catastrophe. But often a country means no more to me than a name on the map. Then I draw a line between where I am and where it lies. I point my boat in that direction and spend weeks watching the miles tick away as it gets closer. And then one morning, bam!, I am there on her shores — everything new and unknown and waiting to be discovered.

The Azores was like this for me. I’d heard of the Azores. Perhaps in the news. Perhaps in a lesson given by my 11th grade teacher. But I hadn’t learned about the Azores. I didn’t have any current knowledge of the Azores when I arrived but everything I was hearing on arrival had me itching to explore: volcanic craters, black lava pools, lava tubes, lava rock vineyards, the barren exterior, the lush interior, the bulls and the bull fights. Highlight after highlight — it was time to bring my modern-day explorer into action. I marched my kids around the streets and the countryside, to the museums and the cactus gardens and into every rocky lava-created attraction offered. They were as gobsmacked about its rich history at seven and nine as I was at forty-six: The sordid plight of the Sperm Whale and the island’s involvement in the near decimation of the species, its longtime influence in maritime history and its significance as a trade hub between Europe and the Americas, its ever bubbling and exploding volcanoes. How did I miss all that fascinating history? How cool to be learning about all of it now.

We focused our time in the seven islands that make up the Azores on four islands: Faial, Pico, Sao George and Terceira. Faial was a highlight in its volcanic highlights. We anchored in the main harbour and took day trips throughout the island from there. The north was wet, lush and tropical with dense forest, high altitude lakes and fantastic views of the island. The south was dry and developed, with the capital Horta as the economic and social centre. Town was a twist of small winding streets that led from the town basin to the hills with a fantastic botanical garden at the top of it. The architecture had the look of a quintessential small European mountain village with uniform architecture and colour, a mix of well-maintained homesteads and dilapidated ruins. The most recent volcanic eruption in the 1950s sent most of the population to America; many of the residents returned but a significant number of people had permanently resettled, leaving their family homes abandoned. The west was dominated by the dramatic Capelinhos volcanic crater and to the east the caldera. Running all around the island was a succession of volcanic lava pools, unique in structure and stunning in appearance.

Pico is a singular vocalic cone that juts out from the sea with cooled lava flow visible down its sides. There is a small harbour with a busy ferry terminal and swinging room for a yacht or two within. The island is know for its local wine production and tourists flock to the island to see its unique method of growing grapes: individual plants separated by a square fence made from intricately stacked lava rocks, protecting the hard earth from erosion and the plants from wind burn. We spent our day measuring 32,000 steps with the periodic pinch of grape and dip in the sea. Given two of our team have legs that measure 75cm in length, the fact that we marched around a volcano in the heat all day is something to commend them for.

From Faial we sailed for the long southern stretch of Sao George’s dramatic coastline. Hunkering down in a tiny one-boat harbour, we enjoyed crystal clear waters, a small local village and a forested mountainside that came alive with the sound of birdlife at dawn and dusk. There was very little to do in the five-shop village and so we spent our days away from the business that had defined our experience in Horta and enjoyed the quaint solitude of our little spot. We took a holiday and treated the boat as a pleasure craft and not a mobile home. We enjoyed slow mornings and midday swims, spent the afternoon amidst toys and tonic and ate our meals as picnics on deck. Life as a live-aboard cruiser can often be fraught with boat jobs and normal life requirements that leave little of the idyllic lifestyle. So it was with great pleasure that we put all tasks on hold and enjoyed the quiet, simple life for a change.

Our last main anchorage was off the southeast corner of Terceira. This became quite a social hub for us, reconnecting with several yachties we’d hung out with along the way and meeting several new ones in harbor. We rented a car and toured the island, wandering again down lava tubes below the earth and getting lost in the labyrinth of caverns of old extinguished volcanoes. The villagers throughout the island were clearly bull-centric, as each village had a central bull ring and many private estates had bullfighting training rinks and stables. This time of year would usually see half of Europe flocking to Terceira to experience the daily bull fights, done village by village and fought on the streets and beaches amid amateur bull enthusiasts and intimated observer. But this year brought only one professional show, done to bring funds into the Catholic Church and appease the demands for this centuries-old tradition. We were fortunate to be able to see the only fight that was put on for the year. While witnessing acts of animal cruelty is something I like to avoid, cultural traditions are a privilege to observe as a foreigner. Sitting amidst the enthusiastic Azorian crowd, we watched bull after bull be taunted to the dance of the skilled matador and the beauty of his trained horse, and enthusiastically joined in with the jeering, cheering crowd. 

I regarded the Azores as a mid-Atlantic rest stop in route across 4,000 miles of ocean but found it to be a remarkable destination in itself. The amount of cultural, historical, and geographical sites demand a dedicated amount of time to properly explore, and once done there should be time remaining to settle in with the ghosts of mariners past with a full pint and an empty schedule. After all, if you’ve made it across the ocean to get there, why not settle into the very same seat that Chichester, Montessier and Knox-Johnson occupied on their transit across the ocean. You earned it after all — you are one of them now. 

Photos posted on: Images

Posted on

Two Sides of a Coin

Link to published article: A Lesson in Sharing

Our plan was the Caribbean at the end of 2020. The Canaries was intended as a quick layover in route to our rum cocktails, but even quick stops can result in well laid plans becoming obsolete. So it was for our season in the Caribbean, which was quickly bumped as soon as Gambia came onto our radar. I met a German couple while in Lanzarote who had spent time there a year earlier and their stories sent my excitement for coconut trees and tropical fish out the window — muddy river full of hippos and crocodiles? I’m in!

My time earlier in the season in the Western European Atlantic was enough to drive one reality to the forefront: I am in this cruising lifestyle to explore. Hanging out on non-moving boats gets boring quick. I’m not interested in a floating apartment, regardless of what country it is floating in. I live on a boat to travel and explore as many places as possible, and the more culturally diverse the better. As I debated the change in plan with John, I pointed out that all our favourite destinations have been those that were the least planned and the furthest off the beaten track. Gambia, a country that receives two to three yachts per year, was certainly that.

Barriers and Bridges

Including Gambia in a northern Atlantic circuit is not difficult, so I’m not sure why more cruisers don’t do it. It is only 300 miles southeast of the Cape Verdes and It is only 300 miles SE of the Cape Verdes and is an easy stopover to include between Canaries and the Caribbean. There are a few potential obstacles to be aware of, however, and it is important to understand these before making the decision to include Gambia in your route. 

For one, you must be prepared for a third-world experience. For a relaxed visit, you must have a flexible attitude and be able to find humour in the chaos. This is most evident on entry into the country in the bustling capital city of Banjul, where dust and dirt and noise dominate. The clearance process is confusing but the officials are pleasant, and the process can be sped up if you don’t mind greasing palms along the way. Of course, this is all done in the overt undertones of community support. At customs we were sagely informed, “The office has run out of coffee and the team doesn’t have enough money to buy any ahem ahem.” The port captain informed us that he was required to view the stores onboard the boat “but, cough, if you buy me a Coke I don’t think I’d have the time to drink it AND come out smile wink.” Immigration’s excuse was grand: “Our department needs its own boat. We are happy to accept a donation to help us towards that cause.” While I am morally opposed to paying bribes, it was an indication of the tight sense of community that was shown in every village we met along the way. It wasn’t greed that was at the root of the requests, it was the fundamental concept that everyone was responsible to support the whole. And so we paid the $3 coffee donation, bought the captain his $1 coke and slipped $5 to help buy a boat.

You will also have to accept that you will sail a minimal amount of time, if at all. I’d imagined The Gambia being an Amazonian-like river with endless exploratory possibilities. I envisioned sailing slowly up the river with the tide, however in truth there isn’t the distance between banks to make this practical. You’d need to tack as soon as you completed your tack, and continue running sails from port to starboard until you concede defeat and turn on the engine. We did sail, a little, but only when the wind was directly behind us and the tide was running with us. If you want to sail up the river, be prepared for a lot of waiting. Or just turn on your engine and go. 

While motoring may not be a significant disincentive for many cruisers, a 17’ meter bridge might be. The Gambia Bridge was completed two years ago and is the only road access for vehicles crossing the river for 300 miles; unfortunately, it also serves as a barrier to many vessels from exploring the upper reaches of the river. As the trip to Gambia is all about its upper reaches, if you cannot get under the bridge then it may not be a trip worth taking. In our case, we had approximate height of the bridge and approximate height of our mast with a meter wiggle room between them. When we approached the bridge we did so with extreme caution. This meant making our way slowly at the start of the ebb tide with myself sitting up at the top of the mast to keep a visual on our one meter gap. We were right to use caution, as our gap was actually a foot of clearance from the VHF aerial and it was an intense moment when I had to make the call to proceed or abort. Strapped to the top of mast, an error in judgement would result in more than just our boat suffering from a collision. 

It is only once you are on the other side of the bridge that the other factors become evident. It is here that the wider river turns into smaller creeks, offering secret hideouts to tuck into along the way. The options aren’t always obvious, as you have to know that the entrance to the creek gets shallow before it becomes deep again. You may see less than half a meter under your keel as you approach and may assume that it will only continue to get shallower, but hold your course and you’ll squeak past the entrance to watch it drop to ten meters as you head deeper into the tributary. At 2.2 meters, we often drew a line in the mud with our keel on our way into a creek to find it drop sharply to on the other side. You’d then find yourself nestled up tight amongst the reeds on a boat 15 meters long in a creek just 20 meters wide. Make sure you drop your anchor directly in the centre of the creek or you’ll find yourself bumping the mangroves on the rivers edge at the turn of the tide. 

With small creeks come small insects. We were told that we would need to keep our anchor light switched off at night otherwise we’d be walking on a carpet of moths on deck in the morning; we didn’t adhere as a boat on anchor without a mast-light seemed worse than assisting insect suicide. But best heed advice on the mossies. If you are not prepared for them, a trip through Gambia will be a trip through hell. Mosquitoes are not only present, they are vicious and the itch of their bite will last days. Fortunately, we had a three-tier netting system in place that kept the bugs out of the boat in a series of stages: Netting for the cockpit for the worst of times, netting for the hatches and companionway as standard use, and netting above the beds if barrier one and two had been breached. There wasn’t a night we weren’t thankful for the sanctity of our impenetrable fortress.

Food and water must also be planned for before a transit up the river. As the river is muddy all the way up its reaches, using a water-maker it is not advised unless you have a bilge full of filters. We filled our 1400-litre tank with water from the community well before departure and used water sparingly up the river; we washed our bodies, clothes and dishes in river water and used our tank water exclusively for drinking and cooking. This meant scenic deck showers in the early evenings, a hose dragged through the cockpit to fill the sink and whites-turned-brown clothes pegged on the rail. You must be comfortable using local well water, clean but unfiltered, and accept running jerry cans to and from the well if spending any amount of time upriver. 

Food is also sparse outside of the larger towns and transport is a difficult but worthwhile experience. If you aren’t up for a long and dusty walk, then local transport is either a hot stuffy minivan or a cool rickety donkey cart. Donkey cart is preferable as there is a limited number of bodies that fit on top of the cart, though witnessing people bumped off means safety is not guaranteed. But I’ll risk safety for comfort, as being trapped inside a nine-person minivan with thirty other people wedged inside is a practice in achieving mental zen. I love the craziness of it, but bumping along dusty roads with your body crammed into a locked position against sweaty strangers is one thing, compounded by the fact that it will take you four hours to move 12 miles and for every minute spent moving you’ll spend ten minutes stopped. In the heat. With the windows closed. Oddly, it is the only place that I saw masks being used; not to stop the transmission of Covid but to decrease the inhalation of dust. When you get back to the boat in the the same darkness you departed the boat in, you are exhausted but have a sack full of onions and potatoes. Mission accomplished. 

One last but important consideration is to understand what “floats your boat” — what is it you seek when you cruise? If it is solitude and seclusion, Gambia is your place. You can spend weeks up a creek hidden from the world, with only bird song to remind you that other life forms exist. Is it cultural experience? You will be well rewarded as you are more than just an observer in Gambia. You will be warmly welcomed in any village you visit and the Gambian hospitality is some of the most inclusive, generous that I’ve experienced. Looking for a party? A cruising community is non-existent and, if seeking kindred-spirited sailors, you will be hosting a party for one. So, know your social agenda before choosing your destination. 

If this list of considerations leaves you questioning why you’d sail for a muddy river on Africa’s western shores, the peaceful tranquility of Gambia’s social isolation and the unique cultural experience of Gambia’s social immersion is the sweet reward. 

Social Isolation

When I recall Gambia visually, I will think of a country of mirrors. Everything has a double: There are two suns that shine down, two moons that rise up, the roots of every tree end in dense foliage and the bottom of every house rests on its rooftop. As a longtime cruiser, I am used to the ripple of wind across water, the constant roll over gentle waves and the swell of the ocean as if it breathes. It has been a long time since I’ve looked out over water that has no movement, no heartbeat, no breath. Yet, it is the reflections on the motionless river water that brings it to life. I didn’t realise a muddy river could be so beautiful and so full of vibrant colour: Blue, green, red, white, black. The water captures the life that surrounds it and tossed it back — the  sky, the forest, the sun, the moon and the people in beautiful, perfect reflections. 

It sounds like a crazy Alice in Wonderland kind of world, unless you understand the degree to which the River Gambia dominates the country. It is a country that stretches 350 miles from west to east with a river that runs the entire length of it. The country is surrounded by Senegal, which at its furthest is only 20 miles away and often only two. The river is the country.

With the river comes the animals that depend on it. I was told that I’d see hippo and crocodile on the riverbanks, and I accepted that there would be a possibility that I’d have such luck when transiting up the river. What I didn’t appreciate at the time is that I was guaranteed to see hippo and crocodile. They don’t live in isolation; they live in abundance. Their presence is marked in every creek by the trampled reeds that line the waterfront and the river access holes that tunnel through the bush. On Christmas Eve we took little chimes up on deck in the evening to convince the kids that they’d heard Santa’s slay. A cute idea, but the tinkle of bells was drowned out by the bellow of hippo that had come out into the river right next to the boat. On Christmas Eve a crocodile crashed through the reeds into the water five meters from our anchor. On New Years Eve we sat in our tender watching croc laze on muddy shores and hippo cool down in the shallows and, on the same stretch of river, men in their pirogues laying out their fishing nets. We also sat in our dinghy in the national park to watch a family of chimpanzee curiously watch us, silently peering out from a tree overhanging the water only yards away. Dolphin were also present, and a pleasant but unexpected surprise. When I think of river I think of fresh water, but the lower river is saltwater and it was with great delight share the waterway with them. I had hoped for sightings of wildlife in Gambia, and I got it. What I didn’t expected it was that it would all be so close and abundant.

We chose the isolation and the quiet solitude offered by the smaller creeks on our two week trip up the river. Due to timing, we kept to ourselves over the holidays and enjoyed our celebrations surrounded by the beauty of the river. Because we were away from the villages, we were submersed in the wildlife. The birdlife was prolific and we sighted dolphin, hippo, croc or chimpanzee every day. Why take a detour to Gambia? It is more than a chance to get off the beaten path — it is to be surrounded by the beauty of nature, the silence of the river and the magic of chance encounters with animals that are so different than those typically seen by yacht. 

Social Immersion

If Gambia was a coin and each side of the coin was associated with an attribute of the country, heads would be social isolation and tails would be social inclusion. As we chose heads on our way up the river, we chose tails on the way down. There are many remote villages that dot the river’s edge and the locals are hospitable, welcoming and warm. Invitations to visit are readily made by waving hands on the shoreside and if you aren’t drawn in by their visual signs of welcome, then they will paddle out in a pirogue to deliver greetings in person. 

The children are as enthusiastic as children are anywhere in Africa — gregarious, enthusiastic and inquisitive. Being swamped by small bodies in a cacophony of noise is not a unique experience, and I am always charged by the energy that the children bring with them. What was a welcome surprise, however, was the warm welcome that was also extended to us by the adults. It helps that English is widely spoken and having a shared language allows for a connection with people you meet along the way. But there is more than language to credit for the warm Gambian hospitality. 

While Gambia is a poor country and the people are living in very third-world conditions, I experienced little of that “give me” attitude that occurs in many poor nations. If anything, the handouts came the other way. There wasn’t a single village we visited where we weren’t made to feel welcome. I’ve had more meals made for me, been asked to drink more tea and been gifted more fish and vegetables than in any country I’ve travelled to. Even the wood-carving peddler offered two additional carvings at the end of the deal as gifts for the kids (and I’d only bought one small bowl) and the batik artist gave my daughter a dress even though I didn’t purchase anything. Self-selected guides would offer to walk with us as we arrived, making introductions to others in the community along the way and ensuring we were comfortable and our needs were met. It was fantastic to have an ambassador while walking through the centre of a village; it made us immediately less of an outsider and allowed us to experience a deeper layer of the community. 

In one village we were enthusiastically invited to join in a Christian ceremony, where we followed a man around town who was wearing a horned headdress and gourd-covered back. He was dressed to represent the evil spirit of an animal while the community chased after it to scare it away. I’m not sure what part of Christianity was being covered, but in a predominately Muslim community I don’t think that was what mattered. That the fruit bloomed and the vegetable gardens were safe was of much more practical concern. 

We were also honoured by an invitation to join a family in the naming ceremony of their newborn son. To properly mark the occasion, we undertook the arduous two-hour minibus journey to town to source fabric, track down a seamstress and have a ceremonial outfit made on the spot. We departed at 6:00am and returned hot and tired at 6:00pm, ready to start the celebrations the following morning. The ceremony was beautiful to witness and I am honoured to have been included, early as it was. To start the day we were invited into the house to watch the baby’s head get shaven and for the 7-day old infant to make his first appearance to the world. A woman was in charge of money collection and a continuous stream of women walked in with a donation of rice, as the new mother would be taking some time from the fields (the cultivation of rice was a woman’s job, and rice from the field was the primary source of food for the family). We then watched the community elders gather, chant and whisper the given name into the infants ear. Prayer was then given to the child’s health and welfare and the name, which had been selected by the elders, was finally announced to the family. Afterwards the men sang and prayed as a group and the woman did the same in another, followed by a shared communal bowl of sweet ground rice and the gift of betel nut shared amongst the group. A morning of sitting, chatting and drinking tea commenced, a large shared lunch in the afternoon to follow, however the evening party was cancelled due to the death of an elder in the afternoon. I would have loved an evening sitting in their compound, dancing to the beat of drums in my newly-stitched stiff waxed-cotton African dress, but it was not to be. 

There is a culture of collective consciousness which was evident in many of the interactions between the adults. It was evident in the naming ceremony, in the hush of the village upon the death of a community member, in the community lunch shared at Lamin Lodge where everyone was guaranteed a free meal. We noticed it on our very first day in Gambia, when our local escort passed small change to his friends in passing. In most instances it was our money that was passed out, but it was an introduction to the communal nature of the people nonetheless. I saw this again and again, the nonchalant passing of small change between hands in passing, slipped over on a handshake. I was also a benefactor of this generosity as a hot tea, a chilled bag of yoghurt or piece of fruit would be randomly passed over to me with a smile. 

It was also obvious that it is taught from an early age. If a treat is offered, there was no greed. Everything was divided and shared. Children often paddled a pirogue out or swam out to visit us at the boat and an invite onboard would be extended which would start an endless wave of visitors. If treats were in hand when others arrived, the kids would hand their drink over or split their half-nibbled cookie so that the newly arrived wouldn’t miss out. My favourite story is that of a friend, who shared a gummy worm he had with several children. The first child licked the sugar then passed it along, the next took a lick and and the next until all the sugar was gone. Then it was slowly nibbled and passed until the entire gummy had been shared amongst every child. 

Covid Considerations

There was a certain perk to our decision to head for Gambia, which was that the country was Covid-free. While the Caribbean bubble was disintegrating and Covid regulations were making travel not only difficult but also expensive, Gambia was a safe haven in the crazy world of global epidemics. We spent a portion of time at our base camp at Lamin Lodge, a well-known cruisers haven that had fallen into disrepair. The local community had picked up the gauntlet during the tough tourist-starved year and established a daily communal meal to ensure everyone was fed; we were invited to share in the feast. The centre of activity was usually under the trees between two local establishments: One was a bar that, due to the lack of electricity, sold only soda from a chilly bin and the other was a restaurant that, due to the lack of clients, only served instant coffee. 

We would all mill around, hopeful that the 2:00 mealtime would be ready by 3:00 but was never ready before 4:00 and most frequently served at 5:00. We learned quickly never to come to lunch hungry. I came to appreciate the time required to produce a meal after getting involved with the cooking. The typical Gambian meal is 95% rice, 4% fish and 1% veg, cooked for several hours over charcoal in a large iron pot in a layered process: Fry the fish in a gallon of vegetable oil and remove. Add veggies, herbs and spices to the pot of oil in order of density, set aside. Cook the rice in the richly favoured oil. Three hours later you have cooked the three separate components of the meal, which is layered on a platter in reverse order and served. And let me tell you, the food was delicious. No doubt the bucket of oil was a contributing factor.

When eventually served, we would huddle in a group and share the meal together. At a time when my family in England and the USA were hibernating in isolation due to the surge in Covid cases, we were sitting hunkered down in the dirt eating with our hands from a communal platter with strangers. How different our experience was from so many around the world. We enjoyed the daily ritual of a shared meal and the camaraderie that came with it, and it was hard to pull ourselves away when it came time to do so.

So ask again, why Gambia? Is it worth the motoring and the mud and the bugs? Yeah, I can give up a few rum cocktails for a trip up the Gambia river. I’ll take a month of motoring for a few days in the silent tranquility of her freshwater creeks. I’ll elbow through a mile of mud to sip tea with a stranger. I’ll battle a billion mosquitoes to hold a hundred little hands in my palm. If I were a gambling woman I’d put money down on the Gambian coin, and it wouldn’t matter what side of the coin I laid my bet on. Every day I would lay my bet, flip the coin and let fate decide my direction: Heads for the river and tails for the village. Social isolation or social inclusion — either way I’d be a winner.

Photos posted on: Images

Posted on

Sugar and Spice

Follow link to read the published article: Sugar, Spice and Everything Nice

When the end of the cruising season in the southern Caribbean was upon us, we did what a majority of Caribbean cruisers do: We sailed south for Grenada. We delayed as long as we could, knowing the hurricane season was upon us but not wanting to be forced south. I had but one impression of Grenada, and that was of rotting boats and retired sailors. It was a cruisers graveyard, or so I thought, and I was far from accepting an end to our sailing days.

Grenada is the southernmost group of islands in the Lesser Antilles archipelago as well as the name of the main island within a cluster of eight smaller islands and about a dozen smaller islets and cays. The only thing I knew of its geography prior to arriving was that it was one of the few island groups in the Caribbean far enough south to be considered out of the hurricane belt. It was with supreme irony, therefore, that we had to shelter in the mangroves on our first day in country from a category 1 storm. As we lashed Ātea’s bow to densely-bound tree roots and secured lines to the cleats of yachts on either side of us, our small unit became a part of the larger, unified collective. Little did we realise that this interconnection would be representative of our Grenadian experience.

Safely through the storm, we disbanded and spread out to explore our new surroundings. We completed our clearance in Carriacou, Grenada’s northern sister island, and we were amazed to see a hundred or so yachts anchored in Tyrell Bay, Carriacou’s main harbour. I knew Grenada was popular, but if the numbers of boats in Carriacou were anything to judge by, I’d have to cope with much larger numbers when we travelled further south. The south coast of Granada not only provides the most settled weather, it is riddled with about a dozen safe harbours from the dominant easterly swell. It the reason why cruisers gather on Grenada’s south coast, and it is also the reason why cruisers remain. Some stay for hurricane season, some use the island as a base for a few years, some retire from active cruising and either settle or sell. One thing was certain, though: Grenada was far more than the end of the line.

Before making the journey south, however, we wanted to stretch out the season by adding in a short circumnavigation around Carriacou, known to the Kalinago (the original Island Caribs) as “The Isle of Reefs.” Given name and reputation, we would spend our time dodging bommies and soaking up the tropical island experience with our feet in the sand, our bellies in the water and our hands on a bottle of rum. We stopped at Petite Martinique, the third and smallest of the three main islands, and enjoyed the rugged, rocky beaches, side-stepping clusters of goat grazing the green rolling hills as we hiked up Mount Piton for panoramic views of the surrounding islands, and climbed down into the Darant Bay Cave for framed views of the same islands at sea level. Of course, we couldn’t miss a few sundowners on Mopion, a tiny sand mound rising amid expansive coral reef with a single beach umbrella perched in the centre. While technically a part of the Grenadines, its proximity to Petite Martinique made a quick dash across the border for a sip in the shade of this unique little spot a worthwhile experience. Living up to its name, Carriacou was an island surrounded by unspoiled reef, and it did not disappoint. A quick tour of her perimeter was the perfect way to salute the end of an amazing Caribbean season.

With a quick stop-over in Ronde Island, a beautiful private island that lay half way between Carriacou and Grenada, we continued our transit south. Again, of things unexpected, I’d not prepared myself for the wild beauty of Grenada’s west coast. Mile after mile of dense, lush forest cascade down the leeward side of the island from peak to sea. We hugged the coastline as we sailed the 13 miles down the west coast, looking up at 2,700 feet of volcanic rock and shear waterfalls that fed the small rivers that ran down the slopes of the mountainous interior to the coast. While Grenada is well reputed as a tourist destination for holiday-makers seeking either a sun-drenched party or quiet refuge on one of its 45 beaches, I knew from sailing down the coast that my preferences would draw me inland.

Grenada’s coastline contains many large bays, but the majority of yachts head for safe anchorage behind one of the many narrow peninsulas that spit up the southern coastline. As we pulled into Prickly Bay, the first of Grenada’s southern harbours, I knew from the crowd of yachts that I would be escaping to the interior as soon as possible. As it turned out, I didn’t get that chance. As soon as we dropped anchor we were invited ashore for a cruiser’s jam session, reconnecting with friends from past seasons. The following day we found ourselves crammed into the back seat of a taxi on our way to an event for the annual Chocolate Festival, and our schedule quickly filled after that: Tours of cocoa plantations, cocoa grinding competitions, chocolate tastings and chocolate drawing contests. In additional to the island’s cultural events, we were also immediately drawn into the cruiser’s social scene. On our first week of arrival our mornings were already booked into early morning yoga and bootcamp on the beach, and the kids joined a cruiser’s homeschooling collective and regular extracurricular activities that were held under the shade of the trees. If we weren’t listening to live music or joining the beach barbecues put on by the locals in the evenings, we were sitting poolside and sipping beers from a $5 bucket with a crowd of other cruisers at Le Phare Bleu, a boutique hotel who’d opened their amenities and their services to cruisers during the pandemic. Every morning there was an activity and every evening there was a social get-together, and the weeks flew by in a social extravaganza unlike any we’d experienced. As yachts gather in Grenada every year for the hurricane season, it was clear that the regularity of this influx of boats had resulted in a solid cruising community and a variety of services and events that have arisen from it. Far more than a collection of retired boats and sunburnt seamen, my preconceived notions of Grenada didn’t come close to the reality of the vibrant cruising network that existed on this popular island.

As we made new friends and reconnected with old ones, we found that we really enjoyed the buzz that the tight community offered. Pulling myself out of the continuous activity took a concerted effort, but I eventually dragged the family off the beach and up the mountains. After our trip into the interior, I knew I had a new passion for my time in Granada: Exploring waterfalls. A short bus journey followed by a hike into the forest would lead us to one of Granada’s many waterfalls, and unlike other tourist destinations where fees were handed over and you’d stand under falls next to groups of other tourists, we had the rivers free of cost and all to ourselves. Some of the trails were a short distance from the road, and we’d hop on and off a bus to walk the short distance to the falls. Others, such as Seven Sisters and the Concord Falls, required planning as it took a full day to hike in and out of the forest, clambering up steep banks and criss-crossing the river to wind through deep forest to get a view from the top. Each part of the river that ran down from one of the six inland lakes had its own magic and I was enthusiastic to see what each had to offer. It was only later it that I really appreciated all that I’d gotten in terms of Grenada’s inland beauty. As I paid $20 per person to stand in crowd under cascading water in Costa Rica’s most popular waterfalls, I couldn’t help but compare it to all that I’d been able to see and experience in Grenada’s secluded, remote interior.

In additional to nature, we explored some of the historical roots of Grenada’s past. Grenada’s original economy was based on sugar cane and indigo, and with that came the importation of slaves in the mid-seventeenth century to work and harvest the crops. We set out to search for some of the old plantation houses and slave pens that remained from that period, which took us on a wild tramp through the the backstreets of quiet neighbourhoods and into unmarked bush to find these lost relics. It was quite the education for our children to see the small, dank, windowless stone slave quarters set behind grand old houses, a potent reminder of darker times in this beautiful and vibrant country. We also smelled and sampled some of Grenada’s more current crops, nutmeg, mace and cocoa at the top of the list of exports, and enjoyed local culinary treats such as oil down, a vegetable stew that is the country’s national dish. Thanks to these excursions we can say that Grenada is, both figuratively and literally, full of sugar and spice.

Cruising often leaves you tied to the boat and, therefore, the sea. Grenada was a wonderful period of enjoying the most of both land and sea in equal balance, and in doing so we were able to get the most of what the country has to offer. To see the beaches but not the forest, lakes and rivers is to get only half the experience; likewise to spend time inland but not explore the coast leaves only half an impression. As Grenada offers safe anchorage throughout the hurricane season, cruisers remain in close proximity for an extended period of time, sharing experiences and building friendships. This is unique for a community that is typically very transient, and offers plenty of opportunity to create a home away from home atmosphere. In addition, there are suitable yacht services available so that the period of time spent waiting for the next season gives everyone a chance to get much needed repair work done. Far from being the end of the line, Grenada offers an interim rest stop where friendships are forged and yachts are restored on an island that offers a wide range of activities and opportunities both on and above the waterline.

<a href=”http://<a href=”http://<iframe src=”https://www.facebook.com/plugins/post.php?href=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2Fsvatea%2Fposts%2Fpfbid02ohD7ih7fuqf817wxVfGFqfZBwNAAgbL339bqJ8tboADg2jcLbP3xYVCHaphunGtTl&show_text=true&width=500&#8243; width=”500″ height=”683″ style=”border:none;overflow:hidden” scrolling=”no” frameborder=”0″ allowfullscreen=”true” allow=”autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; picture-in-picture; web-share”>” data-type=”URL” data-id=”<a href=”http://Images