Hakura and the Last Voyage

September 16-21 2010

The race was on. Doug, the captain, had the motor running at 22 rpm’s, as hard as he wanted to push it. Hakura, his 36-foot sloop, was gliding over glassy calm water towards a white line of waves smashing against the reef that protected the island of Viti Levu, Fiji from the churned up sea. Somewhere in that tumult was a channel, the illusive eye of the needle that would take us through a wall of coral; we had to thread the needle before the light was gone completely.

Dark purple was spreading from the eastern horizon, washing out the brilliant orange and red light like spilled ink, to where the sun had already sunk into the monstrous sea. We looked back at the hillside and searched through binoculars for the two markers that, once in alignment, would tell us we were on the right course. But we could only find one. The calm water between heavy breakers was the obvious choice, and we took it.

There had been a gigantic storm in New Zealand that was pushing massive swells our way. I was at the helm in the small open cockpit, my legs braced in a wide stance, my hands firmly gripping the wheel. Hakura didn’t have an autopilot, or any other fancy stuff (no refrigeration, water maker, radar, SSB), so it would be hand steering, three hours on, six hours off, for the approximate 10 days it would take us to reach Aotearoa, New Zealand: the land of the long white cloud.

Just as the purple sky was deepening into black, we cleared the last of the submerged dangers, and left the safe waters. A monster wave nailed us, stalling the boat for a split second with a loud thud. My feet slid to the low side as I braced myself, and all three of us were drenched with a wall of cold green water. Fuck. What an ominous way to start a voyage, these were the worst conditions I’d been in and I couldn’t even see them, plus Hakura was the smallest boat yet. And for the first time in ten months of sailing, my stomach began to churn. At least puking was easy, a slight lean over the lifeline and the ocean was nearly in my face. Nevertheless I was confident with my choice, Doug and John were competent sailors and good, solid people.

After getting the job offer in New Zealand at a water park, [see last blog] I spent two days searching for a boat. But my energy and the feeling of endless possibilities had drained. The bubbly, “Maybe I’ll just hang out in Fiji for awhile,” was reduced to, “Just get me to New Zealand, quick.” Lounging in paradise gets old, especially without much money and a heavy backpack to haul around. Everyone I talked to at the modern marina at Port Denerau pointed to Hakura first, the small sloop tied up directly in front of the office. They needed crew, but no one had been aboard all day. I kept chatting with sailors on the docks, looking for more leads.

I ran into a couple with whom I’d crossed paths a few times during my travels in the Pacific. After a pep talk from them, I confronted my previous captain. His boat was hauled out in the tiny boatyard beside the marina. He still owed me money, had my passport, and was responsible for me until I signed onto another boat, or had a ticket out of the country. We attempted to negotiate, but I was sick of his incessant negativity and his passive-aggressive refusal to take any responsibility for the situation. When he told me to calm down, I turned up the volume for the entire boatyard to hear, and stomped off in tears.

Later that night I had dinner with a prospective captain, Brian, who I had met in Tonga. He wanted me as a mate, but not merely the nautical kind. I made it clear that I was only interested in a platonic relationship, and left the possibility open as a last resort. One problem was his powerboat. Modern yachts are boring enough with all their electrical conveniences, but at least they still have sails to tend. Also, he wasn’t leaving for another month, and he was going to Australia by way of Vanuatu. After 10 months of crewing on other peoples’ boats, I was so ready to be autonomous, to live in one place, and have my own engaging life. The thought of hanging around Fiji and then slowly cruising yet another tropical paradise sounded like hell. All I wanted was to get to New Zealand.

Stupidly, I had the made the assumption that I’d crash on his boat for the night, but after dinner I found out that he had a girlfriend flying in at 4 am. It was too late to go knocking on the few boats that had offered a bunk and I didn’t want to blow a bunch of money on a hotel. Brian was taking his usual taxi back to Vuda Marina (pronounced Vunda) and his Indian driver told me to get in, he’d help me figure something out. I was too exhausted to think, I shoved my pack in the back seat and slumped in beside it. After we dropped of Brian, the sympathetic driver made me an offer, I could stay at his house free of charge but I’d have to cook for him. Or I could stay alone, also free, at his vacant house next door.

“That’s very kind of you,” I responded, thinking he seemed harmless enough, “I’ll take the empty place.”

Slightly surprised he asked, “Why don’t you want to stay with me?” with a little Indian head bobble.

I shrugged off answering but when I answered his other questions, “I am American and yes, I am single,” and he giggled to himself, “I am a lucky man.”

I quickly responded, “That is why I want to stay alone.” I made sure to lock the door behind me.

It was the next morning that I found Doug on Hakura. He popped his head out the companionway: a hefty, round man with a bushy grey beard and long fading brown hair tied back under a bandana. He invited me aboard for a cup of tea. His bare torso was decorated with various tattoos, including a parrot on his shoulder, and he immediately struck me as a down-to-earth person, a pirate type that I could relate to. His boat was obviously his home and he wasn’t a wealthy world cruiser, but a Kiwi on his first sail abroad. In its size and simplicity, Hakura reminded me of my boat, Azurlite, and as a captain I could appreciate the enormity of the feat he had accomplished, making the 10-day sail from New Zealand to Fiji.

I hefted my pack into the cockpit and ducked below out of the sun, settling into the cozy saloon. I offhandedly rattled out my considerable sailing experience. Doug busied himself with the ritual of preparing a proper pot of loose-leafed tea, and then explained his situation. He and his best friend, John, who he had known since college, had enjoyed a few months cruising Tonga and Fiji. Their respective partners had joined them for a few weeks and other crew had helped with the passages. Now it was time for the big trip home and John refused to go without help since they didn’t have an autopilot. Doug figured $30 a day as each person’s share of the expenses. I countered with a lower price for the whole journey. “I know how sailing is,” I said, “and I can’t afford to pay by the day if we have bad weather or are becalmed.”

Doug agreed to this. “But there’s one rule,” he added solemnly. “There are no put downs, and that includes the one we put down the most: ourselves.” I nodded knowingly. “Okay,” I consented with a smile. “That’s a rule I can definitely agree to.”

There were still a few prospects I wanted to check out, and Doug magnanimously offered me a bunk for a few nights, and the use of Hakura as home base, whether I sailed with them or not. He even said I could use his computer. I hesitated, not wanting to take advantage of his generosity by using his laptop to check on other crewing options, but he read my mind and assured me, “Use it, even to find another boat,” before leaving me in his floating sanctuary in blessed solitude.

With the knowledge that such a genuinely kind person had me covered for a few days, my whole body relaxed. Doug’s offer not only released me from the burden of lugging my oversized bag around in the tropical heat, wondering where I would sleep, but also  from the considerable weight of the single-woman-traveling-alone guard I’d been holding up.

When Doug returned, he invited me to join him on what had become his daily afternoon outing. We walked through the westernized complex that made up the posh outdoor shopping mall and marina, and through the surrounding high-end suburb, a pocket of white man’s vacationland, to the Hilton Hotel, with its luxurious oversized swimming pool. Our white skin was the only ticket we needed to enter this opulent resort, and we swam and sunbathed on cushioned lounge chairs. Since I didn’t have to hold up my tough, independent guard anymore, my feelings from the past week of unresolved drama welled up. Doug listened sympathetically and coached me through it. He was thoughtful and easygoing, and treated me like a niece. By the time we made it back to Hakura I felt totally at ease.

We met John at their usual picnic bench in front of a café on the mall, overlooking the water and all the vessels. Doug and John didn’t drink, a bonus since I was still abstaining, and we all ordered fruit smoothies. John was good-looking, tall and broad chested, with the unbreakable confidence and happy go lucky nature I associated with younger guys. I was not up to proving myself as good crew or good company, but they didn’t make me feel like I had to. Their relaxed, unassuming vibe made it clear they were old friends with no power trips or ulterior motives.

When I returned from the toilet, Doug announced that I passed the test; they both agreed they’d love to have me as crew for the passage to New Zealand. “Cool,” I nodded, relieved to be signed on and moving forward, “lets do it.”

While we sat there, my previous, stingy old captain and his wife wandered by, and stopped to exchange superficial pleasantries. These two big fatherly men sat on either side of me like sentries, and I felt protected from the miasma of negativity and bad communication that plagued Mistress 3. These guys were a much better match.

It was good we came to our agreement that evening, because the next morning a cute young surfer boy named Rob came by, looking for a boat. Doug told Rob he already had me, but invited him aboard anyway. He wasn’t experienced, just a kid in Fiji on a solo surfing trip who thought sailing home would be a cool adventure to end on. He was positive and energetic, and we all found his laid back persistence endearing. But, there wasn’t room for one more. Once we were at sea our sleeping arrangements would be “hot bunks.” When someone came off their three-hour watch, they would take the vacated bunk of the person leaving it for a turn at the helm. We had a few days to wait out the weather, however, so Doug invited Rob to hang out till then.

I made one last visit to my previous captain Ivan and made a deal. He was adamant I pay for the radar, since my attempt to fix it had made it worse, finally forcing him to pay a professional. I reminded him it had been broken long before I came into the picture, and maybe he should be thanking me, but to avoid full on battle I offered to pay 100$ out of what he owed me. The fact that I found a boat was a huge relief for him and he agreed, he would pay me 900$ and be free and clear of any further responsibility. “900?” “900$.” We both repeated it a few times, and shook hands, planning to meet at immigration to do the final exchange.

The next morning the three guys and me moved Hakura the few hours to Latoka, with its big ships dock and paper mill factory spewing smoke. Doug accompanied me to the dusty and eclectic city to sign me off Mistress 3 and onto Hakura and get my money and passport. I cordially shook Ivan and his wife’s hand, saying goodbye and wishing them luck and they handed me an envelope. As we walked away I realized it only contained 720$, they had subtracted my original air fair to Bora Bora. Ah well, at least it was over and done with, finally.

We spent the rest of the day provisioning and then pulled anchor. The murky green water around the city port cleared slowly to blue as we left the dry brown hillside of Viti Levu, the main island, in the distance.  Rob and I perched up in the spreaders and guided Doug between bommies (the Kiwi term for coral heads) to anchor in crystalline waters. We snorkeled around colorful coral outcroppings, and challenged ourselves to swim the distance to a tiny uninhabited island of white sandy beach. We took turns cooking and enjoyed meals together in the cockpit. Though most of our two days of exploring was under motor power, we even got a little sail in for Robby’s sake, since he never had before. With all the drama Fiji had been for me, it was a blessing to end it with these few days of laid back fun and mellow camaraderie.

By now we were all looking forward to getting underway. Doug was of the mind to just  tough out whatever conditions we encountered, so I was glad John was adamant about making sure the weather was auspicious for our 10-day sail. He subscribed to a guy in New Zealand who made detailed predictions and even chartered the optimum course for sailors through the changing weather patterns, according to him this was our window. We spent the morning doing our final clearance from customs back at Latoka and fueled up one last time, before barely making it through the reef as the light faded.

While being sea sick and puking wasn’t fun, at least I liked and trusted Doug and John. Sleep, eat, and steer; the ten days would pass. We were on our way to New Zealand.

Advertisement