CRUISING - Harry & Mary's Year 2001 Adventure

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Voyages of Sugar Blues

H&M's 2001 Adventure Index

  We're Off!

  Jan. 21 - Letter from Oz

  Australia to New Zealand 
  on Pat's Cat

  Pat's Cat in Fiji

  Fiji to Vanuatu

  Port Vila to Oz

  Snapshots

Pat's Cat in Fiji 

by Harry and Mary Abbott

From Harry and Mary in Fiji - received 7/19/2001...

 I came on watch at five thirty. The warmth of the air surprised me. I looked off to the east as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Venus was rising out of the low horizon clouds followed by the last quarter of a waning moon. I watched with a detached curiosity as dark anvils of cumulo-nimbus closed in. The knotmeter which had been displaying a comfortable 8-10 knots was at 17 before I could blink. A third reef soon had us back to cruising speed. In daylight hours we might have let the boat run with the squall but in the inky blackness of night, prudence is always the best policy. Besides, I was scared.... 

There were two days of motoring and six days of varied winds, all of which thankfully allowed us to maintain our course. In Savusavu we tied to a Copra Shed mooring in time for customs and three other purveyors of important paperwork to finish with us before the soft tropical night descended. A bilibili glided by in the dark. A Coleman lantern hung on a pole in the middle illuminated the thin bamboo raft and the men fore and aft who silently dipped their paddles. Under the light two women sat fishing for a type of mullet on their annual migration. Other lights soon joined in, drifting quietly among the anchored yachts. We were definitely back in the islands. 

Savusavu is a small but busy one-street town nestled against hills whose brilliant greenness highlight it like a 3D pop up. The public market is a miniature of Suva or Lautoka. Inside, English, Fijian and Hindi blend into a chorus of sound all incomprehensible to the visiting valangi. The array of fruit and veggies is staggering. Most kinds we have seen before but many we still have no idea whether to cook them, smoke them or throw them into a blender with some rum. 

After only two days in Fiji, Pat had to return to Oz for business. Alone again, we gave up waiting for our mail and sailed away. The US Post Office does not have a clue when it comes to foreign mail. Take their longest delivery date estimate and double it. Maybe. Forty miles up the coast we turned into Viani Bay, home of the Fishers. It was good to see Jack, Sophie, Loi (who was now 21 and had a baby) and Auntie May, now 90 but still mother to her six sons and two daughters who are scattered around the bay. Everything was the same except that in December the American, Mike, had been eaten by a shark a few miles across the strait at Taviuni. Well, I never said that paradise didn't have a few little bugs. The entire first week snorkeling I kept looking over my shoulder for anything in a gray suit. 

My youngest daughter joined us for a week. Twenty three years ago she was eight when we first cruised Fiji. We headed over to Naiviivi Bay on Qamea for a traditional village sevusevu. Chief Thomas and a number of others remembered us from other visits. Simone and her girlfriend were trying hard to smile while yam and various other "interesting" dishes appeared for them to taste. The only sad note was that our friend John Valentine had died of cancer last year at age 64. 

Another week drifted by. When I circled the day's date on the calendar, I also ticked off the last three days which had somehow slipped by unnoticed. It was time to head back to pick up Pat. After a month I almost forgot that it wasn't my boat. I'm sure I would have remembered when it came time to write a check. 

With Pat and his friend on board I tried to balance a two week tourist trip of snorkeling and fishing and visiting villages. On the last day of Bruce's visit, a bit of overconfidence struck. Only a hundred meters from the anchorage we hit an uncharted reef at five knots. Pat said a very bad word. We sheared two feet off of the port dagger board before stopping. We backed off and checked for damage. Luckily nothing serious unless you count a two to three grand repair bill for a new board when we get back. One yachtie told me that there are only two kinds of boaters in Fiji, those who "have" hit a reef, and those who "will." 

We passed through Musket Cove Yacht Club to pick up mail and find "Sugar Blues" carved in a beam with hundreds of others, an ongoing tradition since the yacht club was conceived in '78. Unfortunately "Antigone" passed through in '77 thereby missing its place in immortality. 

Twenty-five miles north in the Yasawas, we stopped at the island of Waya. Recent rare rains made the island even more beautiful than before. Steep green hills and cliffs surround the bay and the village of Yalobi. We went ashore for a sevusevu with the chief. Here we presented a quarter kilo of yagona root in a solemn ceremony in which he formally made us welcome in the village. I even got Pat to come along. Afterwards we looked up Kini and Tavaira whom we have kept in touch with via sporadic correspondence. To visit Kini, we hiked over the island to find ourselves right in the middle of a Fijian wake. Only three days before Kini's brother's son had not returned from spear fishing right off the village. The spear and a huge fish were later recovered, but so far, no sign of his nephew. 

In a few days we cast off for Vanuatu, about 500 miles west. Two months have flown by. Much too short a visit. In my last letter to Kini I had replied that we would never get to Fiji again. As a yachtie, I should have known better. Never say goodbye, only aurevoir. Only three weeks ago this was heightened when in a quiet cove off the coconut milk run, the only other yacht we had seen in the area so far came in to anchor. Later that night and after a tot or two of Baccardi, Jack's face beams slowly with recognition. "Joe Hill," he says. "Blue trimaran." We shared an anchorage in Costa Rica in 1974. Now here in Fiji we sat again separated by a gulf of eight boats, a couple of wives and 27 years. Boat bums never change. It could be said that we both could have contributed more to society in other endeavors, say raising defense monies for Richard Nixon or Spiro Agnew. Our suspect morals certainly have been improved by emulating America's religious greats, say Jimmy Swagart or Pat Robertson. So then, why do I find it such a comfort walking through a village of smiling happy people that are friendly to a distraction. Perhaps a personality defect. Maybe the answer will be in Vanuatu where the murder rate for the past twenty years is equal to thirty minutes of an east L.A. weekend. Also, if I'm not mistaken, freeway shootings there are way down this year. 

We live in blessed ignorance for another six months before being thrust back into the jet stream of "civilization." I guess we can endure it but in the meantime, maybe I'll keep my eye open for the man in the gray suit.

Harry and Mary

For replies, Mary and Harry's address is:
telapa@whidbey.net