We rocked into Diver’s Bay about an hour before sunset, our fourth time to the island of Ureparapara, the last visit six years ago. The third largest island of the Bank’s Group of Vanuatu, Ureparapara is an ancient volcano, about 8 miles wide, in which the caldera has collapsed and the sea rushed in, resulting in the long and narrow Diver’s Bay. From the air, the island vaguely resembles PacMan, a nickname Garry favors over the six-syllable original.
The area is subjected to frequent cyclones and earthquakes, and the remoteness ensures that progress into the twenty-first century moves at a snail’s pace. The island’s 500 residents live in the traditional Kastom ways, self-sufficient for most of their daily needs. Copra ships drop by every few months, to collect the island’s main source of outside income, coconuts, as well as import basic supplies such as matches, soap, and Digicel minutes on scratcher tickets. Tourism is the second largest source of income, which consists of one or two expedition-style cruise ships stopping by once or twice a year. The odd assortment of passing yachts, like us, round out the tourism trade.
The villagers with dugouts raced out to meet us, hopeful to be among the first to receive any gifts we brought. Garry recognized a couple of faces from our previous visit and we were sad to learn that Chief Nicolson had passed a couple of years ago. He had been replaced by several chiefs, and the population was now considered too large for a single chief to manage. We parcelled out a dozen doggies, a Spanish mack, and some tuna, keeping two of the smallest specimens for our sashimi appetizers. A couple of the villagers that missed out on gifts, hung around the boat for a while, hopeful that we would find something else to throw at them. It is embarrassing to say, we gave them the fish frames from our sashimi, like scraps thrown to a dog. Garry made a promise to one such man, to remember him, and seek him out first to receive first dibs on our next pass-through.
Victor, on his never-ending quest for lobster as well as the somewhat near-endangered coconut crab, interrogated a couple of the fishermen to see if they could find us some. “Yes”, they replied, “No coconut crab, only lobster, but we need a battery for the torch, to see at night”. We donated 8 AAs to the cause and they returned a couple of hours later with a cuttlefish, 3 small lobsters, and a large sea crab. Elmo dug out some cooking oil, rice, and sugar from our stores, as an additional tip on the take-away order, in addition to the fish that we had already given them.
That night, the boat was a sauna. The bay, surrounded by the volcano on three sides sheltered us from any breeze, and most of us didn’t sleep well, despite the calm water.
Garry picked up anchor at 5 am, heading for Vot Tande, a small fishy rock a few miles away. Garry had fished the rock a few times before and knew some of its secrets. By 7 am, I was hooked up to a wahoo, which fell off the gaff at the side of the boat. The crew, sluggish from lack of sleep, was hanging in the lounge, on their phones, not watching the lures, and otherwise acting the part of paying charter guests (which they are not). Captain Garry, in retaliation, unplugged the internet, effectively canceling the cruise ship option and instilling mandatory fishing participation.
Half an hour later, Dave played a nice yellowfin tuna in a torrential downpour, the rain ceasing almost immediately as the fish was boated. We caught a few doggies but lost twice as many, mostly to sharks, but some due to the sheer size and tenacity of the fish. The lure ratio was 2:1, losing 2 lures for every one fish landed. After a while, Garry, tired of retying trace, flagged the trolling and put Elmo and Victor into the water for a spearfishing session.
The currents were wrong and the guys drifted over sand instead of the rocks, and the only species that saw were Napoleon Wrasse and Oceanic white tip sharks, about 30 of them circling the divers. Back on board, Victor informed me that oceanic white tips were the premier choice for shark fin harvesting, due to their large dorsals. I’m not sure what to do what that information, other than report him to the authorities.
We went back to trolling and wrapped up the afternoon with a sailfish for me and a wahoo for Elmo. The wahoo put on a big song and dance, racing up alongside the boat at lightning speed, splashing along the surface. Garry gunned the boat forward and away, while I was screaming to Elmo, “Run to the bow!” Elmo raced forward, managing to keep the fish on the line until Garry could maneuver the boat into a better position.
Amid all the action, Dave noticed a particularly bad funk coming from the crew cabin locker, mostly stuffed with Elmo’s clothes. “Smell’s fishy, not like our usual B.O.”, he complained. Elmo ripped all his gear from the locker and started a load of wash. Over the next few hours, the odor continued to ripen, so more noses were called in to investigate. The theories ranged from, “It smells like rotten fish”, to “Maybe Victor’s smuggling shark fin?” or worse yet, “Maybe gangrene has set in on Victor’s finger?” (fish hook injury 2 days earlier). By now, flies were starting to swarm, which helped pinpoint the offending agent down to two rotten eggs, lost under a pile of lifejackets on the top shelf. While in clean-up mode, a bit of the gunk sloshed onto Victor’s sheets, so now, he’s also doing laundry. I’ll wear this one, I had broken the eggs trying to pick them out of the tray in rough seas a couple of days earlier. Rather than fight through a pile of life jackets, I had left them in the tray, thinking I’d just toss the entire flat once we finished up the remaining few eggs, not foreseeing the effects of the heat in the short term.
We wanted to fish Vot Tande for one more day, but there wasn’t safe anchorage around the rock. To Victor’s horror, Garry decided to drift all night, rather than return the two hours to PacMan Island. The forecast was for 2 knots of wind and the current was going to pull us away from the island. Shipping traffic is virtually nonexistent, and not expected this close to an uninhabited rock. He drove off a few miles before turning off the engines for the night. In the morning, November Rain had drifted back to where we needed her to be.
Glassed-out conditions meant no unexplained bruises but at the same time, without a breeze, it was stifling hot. Everyone picked up a wahoo on the Rapala/Talica combos and Victor and Elmo went doubles on sailfish with lures. Garry zeroed in on some fish in deeper water, but jigging was hard work in the heat, doubly so at 130 meters. Dave caught a small doggie, everything else was sharked off.
On a darker note, Dave, planning on returning to New Zealand at the end of the next week, finally booked a charter flight from Santo to Port Vila, a route underserved due to Air Vanuatu’s recent bankruptcy. Not an hour after he received the confirmation, a second email pinged through, informing him that his flight was canceled, Air Taxi’s only plane being destroyed in a plane crash. While tragic for the victims, we accept this unfortunate accident as a sign that Dave should remain aboard, especially given the recent discovery that he’s quite skilled in the galley.
We left Vot Tande much later than planned, Garry’s idea of “Just one last pass” is as precise as his definition of “40 minutes”, heading for the southern end of Moto Lava, to park up in front of an eco-resort with white sandy beaches and crystal clear water. However, Garry soon realized that there wasn’t any place suitable to drop anchor. He could see breakers on the reef, but the shelf abruptly dropped away to 130 meters. A Copra boat being loaded while on the drift, told us all we needed to know. Garry decided to run another hour to Sola and stepped on the gas.
We arrived in Sola well after dark, too late to parcel out the day’s fish to villagers. The GPS chart plotter maps for the area were way off, showing the boat was clearly on land, while the depth sounder argued back that we were indeed in 10 meters of water. Google Maps was the decider, in solidarity with the sounder.
A long boat filled with people heading for the market passed close in the morning, we waved them over, trading bananas and coconuts for half the fish in our bin. We laughed as they whooped-whooped as they drove away, believing they got the better end of the trade.
It was time for our tribe to take an excursion, browse the village, and stretch our legs. As we approached the beach by dingy, we could see a uniformed policeman, pacing back and forth, waiting for us on the beach. Garry and I looked at each other, telegraphing the same thoughts; Were we in some kind of trouble? Maybe we weren’t allowed to anchor in front of the village? Do they think we are selling fish, in violation of Vanuatu law?
The policeman got right into it, “You sell fish?” He queried.
“No, we only give away, no sell, only gift”, responded Garry, wary of a possible shakedown. “You want some fish?”, he asked, "We have some to give you on the boat".
The policeman, named Roger, explained that he was in charge of organizing a retirement party for a co-worker and he had been trying to catch fish for a couple of days but hadn't any luck, despite burning through 60 liters of fuel for his efforts. He was very appreciative of our offer of fish and kept thanking us repeatedly and profusely.
While Dave and I waited on the beach with Roger, Garry and Elmo zipped back to the November Rain, returning with a tuna and a wahoo. Roger directed us down to a more secluded part of the shoreline for the drop-off, concerned that the entire village would rush in and take the fish for themselves. He hefted the large tuna off to his waiting police Ute, while a few circling locals pounced on the remaining wahoo.
The five of us strolled down the main street, a $25 million concrete road, complete with sidewalks and collision avoidance barricades. The road stood in sharp contrast to grass huts, skinny dogs, and empty eco-lodges alongside it. The road, ending at the Sola airport 3.5 km to the north, was funded by Australian Aid and appeared sturdy enough to last well into the next century. We passed a woman washing her family’s laundry in the middle of the creek next to the foreign investment. At the fresh market, a small open-aired pavilion, we bought some long beans and spring onions. Victor was convinced that the fish we had given away earlier in the day would be on display for sale, but he could find no evidence of that, only small reef fish hidden from flies in warm chilli bins. We enjoyed a local meal at the nearby lunch bar, the menu of the day was chicken wing, rice, taro, and sautéed veggies. Dave went out of his way to compliment the cook, who was beamed at the praise.
We ran into Roger again, he had tracked us down, to gift us a bag of grapefruit, thanking us again for providing a proper meal for the policeman’s ball. We chatted for a while and learned he had been to New Zealand four times already, the last time was to attend police training. We inquired about crime in the area and he told us that most crimes were sexual assaults. If they had a serious crime such as a sexual assault or murder, they would hold the perp in the local jail, before transferring them to Luganville for trial. Garry and I believe that we met Roger the last time we were here, as his story sounded vaguely familiar. Elmo later observed, that the police probably needed more funding, for though Roger wore a proper uniform and boots, he had not been provided shoelaces.
After giving the last of the fish away to a family of three in a long boat, Garry picked up the hook and puttered over to the bay for the other side. He was conscious of which way the swell was going to come in later and wanted to be sure the crew wouldn’t be complaining of lack of sleep when the rods started going off the next day.
Elmo and Victor had gone on a scouting mission and found a patch of reef that showed promise. The next morning, they set off in the dingy, Victor, with his spear gun and Elmo’s weapon of choice, soft baits. Elmo caught a doggie, a couple of job fish, and some coral trout, releasing most, and donating the rest to a fellow angler in a nearby canoe, a NiVan, on vacation from Ureparapara. Victor shot a small red bass, which we refused to eat, citing Ciguatera poisoning.
Garry informed me we were going to be in the early afternoon to Gaua, he needed good light to navigate through the tricky reef. On that bit of information, I slotted in a slow-cooked casserole for afternoon tea, which went in the oven at 1 pm.
Nek minute, the port rigger hooked up a decent Mahi-mahi. Victor didn’t bother taking the rod out of the holder, cranking it in on the 37kg rod. Garry filleted it, saving the head for Victor’s signature dish. Osso Bucco is on tonight’s menu and to Victor’s disappointment, fish head soup will have to wait. Victor calls me out on the fact that I will happily eat bone marrow, but find fish-heads somewhat disgusting. He’s made a valid point.
A few minutes later, Garry stumbled onto a patch of doggies on a reef we didn’t know about, and as Dave was losing the fight to yet another shark, Elmo got hit on a lure that was trailing idly in the water. Garry had been yelling at Elmo to “get it out out the water”, sure another would shark snatch it up. Elmo fought the big fish in and just as Dave was ready to cut the line and release the presumed shark, Garry called out from the flybridge, ” It’s was a doggie, it’s a doggie and a shark’s after it!” The pressure was on to get it to the boat ASAP, a lot of shouting from the flybridge, as a form of encouragement seemed to be working. At the side of the boat, Dave grabbed the leader and swung at the fish with the gaff, but missed and managed to lose the gaff into the water.
Dave still had the leader in his hands as the order, “Get the other gaff” roared from the flybridge. Victor grabbed the secondary gaff from the far side of the deck, and between the two of them, managed to drag aboard a 30 kg doggie through the back door. The fish was too large to fit into the pod and close the door, so Dave tried to drag the fish up the three steps and onto the back deck. As he did so, he stumbled over a deck cleat, fell over, lost grip of the secondary gaff and the fish it was connected to, the whole lot sliding back down the steps, into the pod, heading for the open door. I managed to grab the gaff as it went whizzing past, and saved the whole mess from going back in the ocean. Meanwhile, Elmo kept eyes on our original lost gaff, bobbing just a couple of inches above the water as we drove away. Garry backed down and I pluck the gaff out of the water. Elmo perfectly summed up the scenario with “What a shit show”. We are far from being a polished crew, but we had just landed the biggest dog tooth tuna of the trip so far.
Garry worked the patch for a couple of hours, each turn of the boat sloshing a bit more Osso Bucco out of the Dutch oven, to burn off on the oven floor. A couple more fish heads went into the bin, the taxman taking his share as if we were Swedish residents. As Victor was carving the eyeballs out of the most recent scrap, my rotation on the rod came up. I used the opportunity as a teaching moment, demonstrating just how fast you have to pump and wind, beating the sharks and boating my entire fish, paying a tax rate like Elon Musk.
Navigating into our favorite bay on Gaua is challenging, there’s a narrow natural channel that snakes between two wide reefs. At the end of the channel, there’s a small village located on the fringe of a sandy beach. We’ve stayed here before and found the villagers to be absolutely lovely people. Garry picked his way through the coral heads, with Elmo and Dave on the foredeck, signaling places to avoid. The GPS had decided to sober up, and Garry could follow a track laid in 2018. After several attempts, the anchor to dug into the sand in 3 meters of water. In the middle of all the navigating, the LPG bottle ran dry, interrupting my dinner prep.
Three canoes and their occupants welcomed us back, remembering our last visit when we ferried some of the members over to Ureparapara for a family reunion. Elmo and Dave offloaded the fish, 2 wahoos, 2 doggies, Victor’s red bass, and a sack of rice. Victor grilled the locals for info on lobster habitats and coconut crabs even before we had our “hellos” in. He’s a man on a mission.
Garry and I snorkeled the anchor chain for peace of mind after he changed the gas bottle over. The oven had cooled just long enough for me to clean up the slop before it burnt on, so for once it was a good thing to run out of gas in the middle of cooking.
Just after sunset, the chief and a shy young woman brought us a canoe full of fruit and veggies. Several ripe papayas, bananas, coconuts, island zucchini, Kamala, yams, long beans, and a ridiculous amount of spring onions loaded down the dugout, enough produce to start our own market stall. We replaced the space in the canoe with 2 liters of cooking oil, sugar, and biscuits, which seemed to make the young woman very happy. Package noodles went back into the pantry and we paired fresh root vegetables with the Osso Bucco that night.
Victor slipped out for a lobster hunt after dark, but came back disappointed again, complaining that the reef had been destroyed by a cyclone, the coral broken into small pieces.
Departing Gaua at daybreak, we headed south towards Port Orly, with blue marlin on our minds. Garry pulled out all the stops, engaging the Simrad Omni-Scan sonar, towing both dredges while I stood fully geared up all day in belt and harness, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. We ran 4 rods, our 37 kg Tiagras with corresponding Shimano reels. The Black Bart Blue Breakfast ran from the short corner in its usual spot, a favorite snack for blues. From the tower, Garry spotted a big school of skipjack following one of the dredges for a while. As the hours wore on, it became apparent that we couldn’t win them all. The only fish we saw that day were the mahi-mahi and cuttlefish on the dinner table.
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Please, we love to hear your comments!
Loving all the details it's almost like being there with you. Looking forward to your next blog
What a wonderful adventure you’re having. Loving your descriptive writing Lori😃
It’s been a bit wet and windy here in your home port🤨
Another good yarn on November Rain Adventures .... ..
Great stories and a great country. Thanks for the effort and updates
‘What a shit show’; sooo funny.