We’ve been bouncing around aboard November Rain for the last couple of weeks, working our way westward through the Solomon Islands. The weather has been rough, with constant trade winds from the SE, hovering in the 25-knot range. When we have managed to get out for a fish, we’ve only caught a few barracudas. We haven’t had so much as a hit from a game fish. Even the spearfishing sessions have been completely unproductive, the waters are warm, hovering around 28-30 degrees C, nice for swimming but perhaps too hot for even pelagic fish.
Security has become our biggest concern, especially since the Solomese seem to have little concept of private property. They sit in their canoes, hanging off the stern, unaware or concerned that their betel nut spit is staining the boat, that the canoes are knocking on the paintwork. Several times, we have had to firmly ask people to get off the boat. They comply but hover nearby as if they will return once we look away again. Some speak perfect English and seem well-educated, others stare back, slack-jawed in complete silence when you try to initiate conversation. The difference in tone from village to village is remarkable, with the more remote places being the most friendly. The children are always wonderful, friendly, always laughing, and curious to learn about us.
Recent reports from other cruisers in the area show that theft is a major issue, especially around Honiara. More worrisome, some of the yachts have reported being boarded by pirates. As we are met by villagers in canoes, we’ve taken to exaggerating the size of our crew, informing them that we have anywhere from 6 to 10 people aboard, with the unseen crew inside, sleeping in shifts. Elmo has suggested we disappear inside, change our clothes, and reappear on deck to help with this ruse, given that all “white people” look the same to them.
Our misinformation campaign continues by informing the villagers that we plan on staying 3-4 days in the area, but then to their surprise, we lift anchor the following morning, hoping criminals haven’t time to organise a raid. The fishing rods are stowed every night and the crew makes a prominent show of the spear guns going into the cabins with us. A motion-activated security camera by the door, which sounds an annoyingly loud alarm, is tested nightly, within earshot of the canoes. We lock the door at night, despite losing cooling airflow through the cabin. All of this is done while trying to maintain a friendly tone and continuing to trade for coconuts. We are friendly but firm.
Needless to say, we have been on edge with the need for additional vigilance, and any bump in the night has one of us up in an instant, flooding the deck with lights and armed with our weapon of choice. I prefer the canned-air horn for pure ear-shattering effect, Garry favors the tag pole, which offers uncomfortable poking at a safe distance, while Victor believes the fish gaff will do a fine job on an intruder. Elmo would probably sleep through the bombing of London, but he does offer to load his speargun if someone can just wake him up first.
One night, around 11 pm, I was awoken by the thundering of someone pounding on the hull, coupled with shouts of “Hello… Hello…Madam…Sir” I shook Garry awake, who investigated by looking through the window in the dark, where he observed two men on a canoe, trying to get our attention for some late-night trading. Fortunately, they eventually left on their own after a while and never boarded the boat. Our crew slept like babies throughout the event, which didn’t belay any confidence in my security team.
My hyper-vigilance and lack of sleep have been surprisingly useful for other imminent dangers. Twice in one night, I was jolted awake by thuds against the hull. I was convinced we were being boarded and shook Garry awake, who jumped up to investigate, only to discover that our holding had failed in the mud, November Rain was bouncing on the bottom, backing up into the trees of the mangroves. We had to pick, move, and reset the anchor in the middle of a rain and windstorm. Meanwhile, the front door siren kept going off every few minutes. Surprisingly, our crew slept through the whole debacle at 11:30 pm but managed to wake for the 4 am repeat exercise, when Elmo was convinced a thief was trying to steal the dinghy. The anchor-dragging debacles are further complicated by the recurring twists in the anchor chain, which jams on the windless’s gypsy.
Cruising reports and our own experience told us that villagers often expected anchorage fees, although it was never clear as to whom the fees should be paid to, or how much the fees were. One evening, as we were having dinner in a mangrove, an old man in a canoe rowed out and declared himself as the chief of the area. He asked us point blank “What are you doing here?” and “What gifts do you have for me?” Our treasure chest had been depleted, so I donated a bottle of Moet champagne which had been rattling around the liquor cabinet for a few years, along with a bag of sugar, some rice, and crackers. He seemed satisfied, granted up permission to stay the night, and paddled back, disappearing into the mangroves.
Garry and I had a small spat about the transaction, Garry accusing me of being too generous with our supplies, explaining that we would have nothing left to trade further down the track. In my mind, the sooner we exhausted our supplies, the sooner we could depart to Australia. In deference (really, defiance) to him, I’ve permanently removed myself from canoe transactions going forth.
Garry’s managed to barter anchorages for a few fishing lures, rice, biscuits, carrot cake, hard cash, ballpoint pens, the occasional caught fish, along with this favorite SAPO Tee shirt, taken right off of his back, sweat stains included. Some villagers have asked for more, including one guy in Mosquito Lagoon, who thought we should gift him a speargun, but he’d settle for a bottle of wine. A couple of times, Garry has outright refused questionable “chiefs”, stating that we would leave rather pick up anchor and leave than pay additional fees, especially when he had already gifted them fishing gear. Fortunately, they backed off, but my anxiety has increased. While some villagers are more direct with their requests, most ask to be gifted “What is in your heart”. My heart aches for a civilization where you aren’t shaken down every night. I am dreaming of a nice marina in Cairns at the moment (where the marina fees will most likely cost ten times what we are paying now).
A teenage boy, Raymond, was hanging around the kayak at the back of the boat in the late afternoon in Bin Harbour. Garry shared some cheesecake with him but surprisingly, he wanted the green bananas hanging off the rocket launchers. Bananas weren’t available on this particular island, they were a bit of a luxury item. Victor, on a luggage reduction diet in preparation for his impending departure, gifted Raymond a shirt and was rewarded with a small bit of iron pyrite and some intel on crocodiles. As darkness grew, a scan of the water with the high-intensity torch illuminated a pair of eyes watching us. Nek-minute….Elmo, Victor, and the boy were racing across the water in their watercraft, crocodile-hunting for close-up photos. Elmo returned victoriously, with a blurry image on his phone, a reminiscence of a Loch Ness sighting. Raymond showed up again the following morning, asking for more stuff and wanting to go crocodile hunting again.
Some of the bright spots include beautiful wild scenery, sandy tropical beaches, and exotic bird life. When we arrived at Roderick Bay, we were greeted with a wonderful floral bouquet and coconut drinks, welcomed personally by the famous Chief John. The Chief explained that he had spent his youth aboard a yacht, traveling with a family who had quasi-adopted him. He learned the ways of the cruisers and how to interact with them. He explained that he had learned how providing value and security to visitors was important. John shared with us his meticulously detailed decades of journals, dating back to the 1970s, which recorded every yacht to visit his anchorage. His hospitality was overwhelming, his seven sons are under his tutelage, taking over his legacy when he’s gone. John’s hospitality earned him $300 Solomon Dollars for one night’s anchorage, “from our heart”. He’s also offloaded three weeks' worth of our ship’s rubbish, which was priceless to us.
Fed up with the constant anchoring hassles, the crew wasted an afternoon trying to get the twist out of the 90-meter stainless steel chain. Garry would deploy the anchor in deep water to untwist the chain, but as soon as the anchor was winched back, it would twist up again. Finally, after some internet research, some precise measurements taken with calibers, and a few phone calls to the winch maker in Tasmania, it was determined that our new chain was the wrong size for the gypsy, which was the root of the problem. Garry’s ordered a new gypsy from Tasmania, which will be waiting for us in Cairns, Land of my Hopes and Dreams.
Honiara is a shit-hole kind of place that spreads its grime and filth even beyond the city, into the surrounding waters of Guadalcanal Bay. As we motored into the harbor, floating cans, bottles, and other rubbish bounced off the hull. Several rusting cannery ships were anchored along the city’s backdrop, awaiting deliveries from purse seiners, perhaps explaining the general lack of fish in the area. Besides the usual petty crime of most third-world cities, Honiara has a reputation for riotous violence, sexual assaults, and piracy.
The anchorage is notably poor, with submerged reefs and rocks, poor holding, and weather that changes in an instant. There is no way we could leave the boat unattended. Garry would have avoided the place completely if possible, but we had to offload Victor, who was flying home to California, the end of his tour with us reached. Our provisions were running low, certainly not enough to sustain us as we moved towards Australia, so we decided to run into town for a shop while we were here.
After strict instructions from Garry to not let me out of his sight, Elmo accompanied me with the collapsible shopping wagon into town. We stopped at the pharmacy to replenish our antibiotic supply, then hit the bank for cash. Garry has planned to take on fuel in Noro, for the crossing to Australia. However, he's discovered the depot will only accept cash, (their ATM is broken). After doing the calculations, he figured that we needed SI$21,000. It took multiple trips to the cash machine, with the largest denomination available being $100 notes, and we had huge wads of money stuffed in our pockets, trying not to look conspicuous while being the only white people in town.
The fresh market was well stocked, more diverse than Port Vila’s, and we loaded up on watermelon, lettuce, tomatoes, green onions, ginger, eggs, cabbage, papaya, bananas, cucumbers, peppers, eggplant, limes, carrots, and green beans. It was almost like Christmas for castaways. Impressively, the produce was somewhat organized by type, presented on tables in evenly spaced aisles, which were kept cleanly swept, and best of all, betel nut chewing was banned within the market walls.
Once the wagon was filled, we weaved through the crowds and traffic the 2 km to the dock, radioed Garry for pickup, unloaded, and returned for round two. The “supermarket” was a disappointment, with the only meat being low-grade mince, frozen chickens, and some fatty unidentified pork bits. Elmo noticed a uniformed New Zealand Police Officer in the shop, picking through the rotting garlic bin. A quick chat with him about local crime did a lot to ease our anxiety. He was on a one-year assignment, working with the Solomon’s Police Department. He seemed a bit jealous that we were getting to see the countryside and other islands while he was stuck in Honiara.
The table-top ice maker (less than 6 months old) packed a sad, blowing its’ compressor, not 3 minutes after I commented about how I couldn’t live without ice in the tropics. The main refrigerator, perhaps in solidarity, or more likely in response to its increased workload, has started squealing and sputtering if forced to work for longer than an hour. Garry temporarily calmed its nerves by replacing two cooling fans, however, after a couple of weeks, it started complaining louder than ever. We are hoping it lasts long enough to get us to Cairns, where we’ve lined up a therapy session with a specialist. Meanwhile, I’m fantasizing about a new ice maker and researching for a more durable model.
There’s a design flaw on November Rain; when rain sheets off the roof’s overhanging “eyebrow”, it hits directly onto the angled windows of the saloon. This slight flaw is compounded by the poor drainage of the window sills. If the windows are open, water is funneled into the saloon. Every time the skies spit even a few drops, the windows have to be closed, creating an orchid house inside. I’m forever opening and closing windows, even in the middle of the night. To further compound the problem, there’s a small issue with the windscreen wipers on the flybridge. When the water pressure in the line reaches a certain point, the windscreen washers leak, splashing water on the windscreen, which then channels along the eyebrow and straight into the galley window. It makes for soggy toast and sandwiches.
A recent torrential downpour flooded our galley’s bench top when the window drains couldn’t keep up with the massive sheets of water. There was massive flooding with water pouring onto the bench top. My complaints to Garry went unnoticed, he was engrossed in the sports recap on his phone while I was sopping up rainwater with bath towels. Finally, I disabled the internet, redirecting his attention to address the flood. Garry took a two-fold approach to the problem; drilling more drain holes into the window sills, and cementing gutters onto the eyebrow. While it looks a bit silly, it’s working well. Unfortunately, the re-directed water has to go somewhere, which is now through the bathroom window. The phrase “If you sprinkle while you tinkle” has been rewritten to “It might sprinkle while you tinkle”.
StarLink had become a necessity, and it's hard to imagine cruising without it. Unfortunately, we had contracted to a Global Roaming plan that recently doubled in price, from NZD$349 to NZD$760/month, not including the additional maritime fees, (when more than 20 miles from a land mass). After some back and forth with SL’s Customer Service as well as advice from some dedicated SL Facebook groups, we decided to downgrade to the Regional Roaming plan. The only way to do this from our current Premium Plan was to cancel our subscription and “sell” the dish back to ourselves, using a new email address. Using the printed instructions, provided by customer service only got me so far before I ran into a major snag. You see, once you cancel service, you lose your connectivity to the satellite immediately, and to sign up for a new account, you need connectivity to the website, which is provided by the satellite! Here we were, in the middle of the wop wops, with no internet. I tried to activate my cell phone and use international roaming data, to log into the website, but the Solomons are not part of the 211 countries within the NZ’s cellular roaming family.
Elmo, slightly panicked at the thought of living without TikTok, not to mention still juggling a real estate career back in NZ, suggested we kayak to shore and seek out a local who would share the internet. It was that or slog back to Honiara, a good 50 miles away. Not wanting to be in Garry’s bad books, we launched the kayaks.
On the beach, we were greeted by a young man in his late teens and a dozen school-age kids. They had been watching us all day, hoping we would eventually come ashore. We explained our need to buy a SIM card, buy some “data minutes” or even use someone’s internet as best we could. He escorted us into the village, the children tagging behind us like we were some kind of Pied Pipers, to the small hut on stilts. The hut was only identifiable as a shop by the spray-painted wall that read “Top Ups”.
A woman was sleeping on the floor of the hut and it took a few attempts by our guide to rouse her. After apologizing for the interruption, we explained our dilemma. “Could we buy a local SIM card?”, “No SIM cards here”, “Okay, then, may we buy some data for your phone and hotspot it to my phone”. After some back and forth between a translator whose name was Jose Castro,(I shit you not), we gave Dora SI$100 to use her phone, only to find her phone wasn’t capable of hot spotting. I then tried using her phone directly to reach the website, but she didn’t have data loaded. A few clicks and codes punched in by Dora bought us 240 Mbytes for SI$20. Unfortunately, the phone was a circa 2008 model, and the StarLink website kept failing to load. A more modern phone was located, more data was purchased, and finally, success! I was able to enroll in the new plan, providing the Serial Number of our existing satellite dish. During this entire time, the kids hung around giggling and watching us, while several third-world adults worked together to help solve my first-world problem. It was a surreal juxtaposition of the stone age meets the space age.
Elmo suggested we buy the kids treats, so we emptied the lolly bin from the shop. Fortified by sugar, the kid followed us back to the beach, the Pied Pipers in reverse, trying out their English skills with lots of questions. Later, they canoed or swam out and hung around the boat for the rest of the afternoon, using the duckboards as diving platforms.
The Starlink worked perfectly again and at NZD$199/month, we won’t go broke for a few extra months, and we will be able to continue to order boat parts along the way, to await our arrival into Cairns.
As we push further through the Solomon Islands, the contrasts of this journey become more pronounced. We’ve been captivated by the wild beauty and genuine kindness of some locals, yet constantly reminded of the challenges of cruising in these remote waters. The mix of friendly encounters and frustrating setbacks keeps us on our toes—whether it’s navigating security concerns, wrestling with equipment that seems determined to fail, or simply coping with the unpredictability of the weather. But it’s these very ups and downs that make the experience so memorable. With Cairns just over the horizon, we’re looking forward to the comforts of a marina as well as better fishing. But until then, we’ll keep embracing the adventure, one day at a time, and hoping for smoother sailing.
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STARLINK, Grrrrrrrrrrrr. A very necessary evil.
It’s a shock to see this part of trip, stay safe