After 6 weeks in Vanuatu, it was time to wrap up our stay and prepare for our next destination: the Solomon Islands. Luganville isn’t exactly the Champs-Élysées of the South Pacific, but compared to the scant offerings in Lata (a port so tiny it lacks a bank or ATM), it’s a veritable shopping paradise. We had one last chance to hit the “supermarkets” and top off the fuel tanks for November Rain. After we departed Santo, it would be at least three weeks, if not a month before we arrived in Honiara, with nothing but coconut trees, fish, and lobster along the way. Okay, so it could be worse…
Our arrival back to Santo after our swing around the Bank’s Islands coincided with the Full Moon Party, a monthly potluck held on a rotating basis at one of the ex-pat’s homes that lined the waterfront of Aore Island. Relying on our dubious previous residency from the pre-COVID era, we invited ourselves to the soiree, arriving by dinghy to the wooden private jetty in front of the charming bungalow. Two dozen expats were in attendance, each trying to outdo their neighbor with delicious food and sage advice on how to live off the grid. November Rain’s crew had been experiencing a dry spell for a few days, and given that we arrived back in Santo on Sunday, the bottle shops closed, Captain Garry had arranged for a friend to supply the crew with a few bottles of home brew. Their social graces were rusty from the last few weeks spent aboard a sport fishing boat and they needed a bit of lubrication.
In the morning, we bid bon-voyage to crewman Dave, who was returning home to his family in New Zealand. Dave was treating himself to an eco-resort in Santo for a couple of days, a rest before his most direct flight home, Santo to Port Vila to Brisbane to Auckland, the shortest option available after the collapse of both Air Vanuatu and Air Taxi. Coincidentally, Dave will be crewing on a large 80’ expedition boat in the Solomon’s next month, and in an even bigger coincidence, the very same boat was anchored next to us in the very same bay. After Dave shouted out, the owner zipped over in his tender to meet us and invited us over later for sundowners.
Garry and I were sad to see Dave leave, likening him to our “middle child” or the natural peacekeeper of the group. Meanwhile, Elmo and Victor were circling his bunk like vultures, waiting to pounce on the impending vacancy. Elmo had endured the smaller, sunnier top bunk since we left NZ and was looking to stretch out in darkness, while Victor, who had originally claimed the cross-beam bunk, had since decided that Dave’s bunk offered better airflow. Victor tried to claim age before beauty, but Elmo’s swift toss of his dirty undies onto the bunk sealed the claim.
As Dave was offloading his gear into the dinghy, Victor’s bowels, clearly fed up with boat life, booked their own holiday at a nearby hotel, promising to return a couple of days later, once the dysentery had passed. Since we still had his passport locked up in the ditch bag, we kinda believed him. Unfortunately, that put us down two crew members to do the grunt work of hauling rubbish, refilling propane tanks, and carting donkey fodder.
Elmo, Garry, and I continued into town and split off on our independent missions, Garry to organize duty-free fuel, while Elmo and I scavenged four different markets across the length of the town, only to fulfill half the shopping list. My carefully orchestrated meal plan went out the window after we learned it was, again, “no gat” season. Even with only half the items, it still took six trips from the parking lot, 300 meters to the shore, followed by back-to-back trips in the tender to load the supplies. Another hour was spent repackaging, vacuum sealing, and rotating stock. Victor was in my bad books for deserting us.
While Elmo and I were managing the food stores, Garry was trapped in a bureaucratic merry-go-round, with multiple taxi rides between Customs, the Port Authority, and the Fuel Depot, all to secure the necessary paperwork, allowing him to purchase duty-free diesel. All the circling around was further delayed by the traditional 90-minute lunch break at the government offices and further complicated by Garry’s depletion of taxi fare.
That evening, we convened aboard the 80’ expedition ship, Strannik, a unique hybrid between a trawler-style expedition boat and a yacht, fitted with two masts and full sails. The owner, Rodney, treated us to a tour of the ship, along with a narrative of the 5-year build in China, and regaled us with tales of the ship’s many, many exotic journeys. Garry and Rodney compared future routes and found we were most likely to cross paths again. We lost Garry for over an hour in the engine room as he and the ship’s engineer had a mutual admiration society meeting around the inner workings of diesel engines, dirty fuel, Racor filters, and blah blah blah…Elmo and I slipped back to the comforts of the aft deck for food and drink and plotted to liberate Dave from his future conscription.
The following day, Elmo, Garry, and I hit the Santo Sea Mount for a quick morning troll (6 hours) before the weather packed up. Three strikes, the first Elmo called as a considerably sized marlin, which fell off immediately. The second, a smaller blue, was played by myself for about 5 minutes before throwing the hooks, and the third strike was a nothing burger. The consolation prize was a nice-sized Wahoo. The wind and waves got up something fierce and we had a rough ride back to the Aore Island anchorage, where we donated the fish to our former caretaker.
The following morning, yet another trek into town, to speak to someone in person about organizing a fuel tanker. Our window of opportunity was closing in with the incoming weather and Garry was anxious to get it done. The wharf is a prick of a place, more suited for large steel tankers and cruise ships than a 57’ fiberglass catamaran. If the wind is wrong, November Rain gets slammed against the wharf, her gunnels and bow rails sitting a good meter below the concrete landing. There isn’t a ladder, so you have to climb over the rail, and crawl up a slippery rubber bumper, just to get off the boat and onto the wharf. Garry nominated Elmo, our most agile crew member, to be the designated rope handler. Elmo’s secondary skill was the ability to quickly link multiple ropes together with bowline knots, useful when securing NR to the two gigantic bollards, spread 50 meters apart. We waited for the tanker to arrive for a good half hour, praying the winds didn't get up.
The fuel needed to be prepaid, so we were working with an estimate of how much to order. Garry calculated 2,400 liters, but overestimated our tank’s capacity by about 140 liters; 137 liters drained in a spare drum on the deck, but only after 3 liters blew out of the starboard tank inspection port, puddling on the floor of the generator room. After spending a good hour mopping up the mess, Garry’s day went from bad to worse when the shower’s mixer died, turning his hot shower into a cold dribble. Mysteriously, the mixer was working again in the morning. It seems like the boat has a hate on for its Captain at the moment.
A half-day was frittered away on the formalities of clearing out through Customs. Victor dryly commented on the efficiency of having five supervisors, eyes glued to sports on their desktops, while a single clerk processed four groups of yachties. Fortunately, the visit to the Immigration and Passport offices down the road went much quicker. The Duty-Free Shop was a chance for the boys to stock up on essentials for the crossing, but when the clerk informed us we didn’t have the right paperwork, we just gave up rather than deal with the Customs office again. Victor managed to find a money exchanger that carried Solomon dollars, a currency that we had been trying to buy for weeks without success. We purchased the exchange’s entire holdings, about NZD 300 in total, or the GNP of an entire Solomon Island village.
We wrapped up our day in town at the fresh market along with a stop at the used clothing store, where we picked up t-shirts and shorts in various sizes, gifts for the Solomon villagers. Victor loaded up on personal wine for the passage, then tried to get Elmo to swap shopping bags, complaining his load was too heavy. I told him to get stuffed, that Elmo had already don-keyed more than his fair share while Victor was on his “holiday”.
November Rain slipped away in the late afternoon and managed to get as far as Port Orly, dropping the hook in the dark and departing early in the following morning. To keep the wind behind us, Garry changed our route, skipping a repeat visit to the Banks Islands, opting instead for a beeline to the Torres Group. It meant a lot more ocean to cover that day, but the wind behind us promised a slightly more comfortable ride in the 20 knots of breeze.
The day started with a bang, by 7:30, we were hooked up to a midget blue marlin, perhaps only 20 kgs, one of the smallest we had ever caught. It was comically out-gunned on the 37 kg rod and I had it to the side of the boat within a few minutes, Elmo leading. Around 9 am, I brought in another blue, this one around the 70 kg mark and it cooperated long enough for a photo op. A third strike fell off and by 10 am, bite time was over.
By the time we reached the first island at the bottom of the Torres Group, it was approaching sunset, the end of a taxing 11-hour day. The small island of Toga appeared completely deserted although Elmo did claim to see a torch flash later in the evening. Garry took shelter on the lee side, dropped anchored, wary of the large outcrops of ancient lava that tumbled out from the shore. Even at dusk, in 25 meters of water, we could faintly see the rocky bottom through the very blue water.
Elmo caught a few species on soft baits and Victor slipped out on a crayfish hunt after dark, returning victorious, four lobsters and two crabs in his catch bag, all very reasonably sized. We were finally in some truly remote territory that hadn’t been overfished.
The starboard alternator had been playing up the last couple of days, intermittently dropping voltage output and Garry made the tough decision to replace it, using our very last spare. He had replaced the Port engine’s alternator only a month earlier and we are puzzled as to why alternators are burning out quicker than my New Year’s resolutions.
The plan was to hang around the small archipelago for the day, trolling one Rapala on the Tallica rod and one lure on the game rod, a compromise to our rapidly diminishing supply of lures. A sailfish hit the port rigger but didn’t hook up, and a few minutes later, the Rapala on the starboard corner went off. Garry was piloting from up in the tuna tower and circled back to re-work the patch. Elmo at some point went looking for Garry but didn’t realize that he was up in the tower. After searching the boat, including the head, Elmo came to me, trying not to act panicked, but believing Garry had gone MOB. “I think the autopilot might have switched off”, he commented nonchalantly, “The boat’s doing figure-eights, right next to the land.” I laughed and pointed to Garry in the tower, still doing donuts around the area. Elmo looked visibly relieved.
Garry decided to scout out an anchorage for the night’s stay and rocked into one of the most beautiful desolated bays I’d ever seen. The crew, happy for the break from endless hours of trolling, rushed to the bow and started making plans to kayak, snorkel, swim, fly drones, walk the beach, coconut crab hunt, relax, and other silly fantasies before Garry spun the boat around and departed for yet another round of fishing. Our dejected faces and slumped shoulders told a story that wore on his mind, and after an hour, November Rain was back, dropping anchor in Tropical Island Paradise.
The mutiny subverted, we frolicked around for the afternoon, like tourists on a travel brochure, enjoying fresh crab and lobster for lunch. Garry and I kayaked ashore and found plenty of evidence of coconut crab habitat, including an abandoned trap. Back on board, Victor and Elmo spent considerable time cutting up coconuts to bait traps, only to find the elusive crabs swarming the beach in abundance. Victor rodeo-ed two large crabs on the fly, lashing their deadly pinchers shut with a bit of rope, while Elmo offered up words of encouragement.
That night’s sleep was interrupted by strange noises out on the back deck. I thought perhaps one of the many fish circling the boat had flopped onto the deck or worse, maybe the toilet was flooding again, so I got up to investigate. In the dead of night, the coconut crabs had launched a daring prison break, shimmying out of their 5-gallon bucket confinement. One of the escapees was still entangled on a piece of string, and the noise that had awakened me was the sound of the pitter-patter of claws scratching across the transom. The other larger crab, (and obviously the ring leader) was perched on top of the bait board, shiv in hand, ready to shank me.
“Victor! Victor!” I screamed, “Your crabs are running away!” “They’re escaping!” Victor bolted out of his bunk and rounded up the jailbreakers. He installed extra security measures in the form of a lid for their bucket and we held the criminals over for their execution, scheduled for the following day.
We had 150 nautical miles to travel the next day, so it was an early start again. As advertised, the winds were between 18-20 knots, breaking waves against our starboard quarter. The rough weather limited our activities to bouncing off walls and smashing against bulkheads, and we couldn’t be bothered towing lures, lest we be forced to fight a fish in the rough.
Victor and Elmo were hunkered down in their respective bunks, I was hanging in the lounge and Garry on the flybridge when the prison break sirens went off again (my screams). I discovered the ring leader, Houdini, climbing up my galley stove, either looking for an exit out the open window or attempting hari kari by throwing himself into a pot of boiling water. His cellmate was roaming freely on the back deck, having a smoke break. Victor has been demoted from the prison warden and ordered to commence the executions immediately. The death row inmates attended their last meal as the main course.
As the weather began to calm down to 15 knots in the late afternoon, Elmo convinced Garry to throw a couple of lures out. An hour later, Victor hooked up to either a tuna or a small marlin which fell off a few meters from the boat. Not more than a few moments later, Garry spotted a marlin blip on the sounder rise and it hooked up on the rigger. This time, Victor finished the job and nailed his first marlin, estimated at 50 kg. When Victor lamented “It’s sooooo small”, I countered with, “It’s like being a little bit pregnant, you’re still pregnant and it’s still a marlin. Congratulations on your first marlin!”
Garry had promised all day that he would turn the boat down-sea at 5 pm so that I could begin dinner prep in relative safety. Unfortunately, once he lined up for the final leg toward Lata, the seas followed suit. I had to deal with the same starboard-quarter slop I had been enduring all day, juggling to keep the pots on the stove and the food in the pans. At least we weren’t bashing into it, I told myself.
We were back on watches again for the first time since arriving in Vanuatu, abbreviated 90-minute stints. Garry wrapped up the last shift into Lata, avoiding several night anglers in dugouts as he scouted a safe anchorage before putting the ox team to bed at 1:45 am. In the morning, we’ll fly the yellow Q flag, turn on the VHF, and wait, wait, wait for the authorities to show. Til next time....
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