Blue Water

by Lindsay Wright

  ‘Yes,’ she confirmed, ‘after the tender time had passed this man came in, looked at all the tenders, wrote his one down and put it in the pile with the rest.’ The miscreant bidder had recently worked in a management role with the Marine Department, and still held enough clout with staff to do what he wanted at department headquarters.

  ‘We’ll see about this,’ Captain Salu stormed. ‘The final decision is made by the Minster of Transport.’

  Parliament had reconvened by this time. One of their first actions was to table the budget — which was promptly greeted by a vote of no confidence, so the Fijian government closed down for another month while everybody went back to the villages. Our visas were well expired and we worried about being found out and deported, boat and all, in the middle of the cyclone season. But we weren’t leaving without Askoy. Our yacht Elkouba swung idly on her anchor rope near Mosquito Island in a corner of Suva Harbour while the children swam ashore and clambered up coconut palms, or chased crabs and played with local children on the beach. It was hard to be enthused about anything in the oppressive heat of a Fijian summer, but I regularly visited Askoy and sketched some of the changes I’d make when we got her back to New Zealand.

  One day the beach at Mosquito Island was unusually swamped with people, but we didn’t spare the phenomenon much thought until a phalanx of Fijian navy gunboats swept up the channel and into the anchorage in a grey, menacing V formation, like a flight of vengeful geese. Watching from below-decks in Elkouba, Sarah and I exchanged scared glances. This was it, the nemesis we’d been expecting: hauled before the courts, turfed out of Fiji in a major diplomatic incident with no Askoy, two small children and at the height of the hurricane season.

  But the armada swept blithely by and anchored off the beach while their families, who were enjoying the annual defence force picnic, swam out to greet them, wetly gleaming brown children whooping as they clambered up the anchor chains.

  The pilot boat, with customs officials aboard, cruised by one day and eyed Elkouba closely, and I was later told that they were aware of our presence but knew why we were there and had turned a blind eye to our contravention of immigration laws.

  After much behind-the-scenes politicking, parliament reconvened once more and the Fijian civil service cranked ponderously back into action. Captain Salu said that the decision on who would own Askoy now lay with the Right Honourable Jonetani Kaukimoce, Minister for Transport, and I should deal with him directly.

  For two days, I dressed in my best clothes and was the first person in line at the door to Kaukimoce’s outer office. Kaukimoce was a powerfully built man with a rugby player’s physique, immaculately dressed in pin-stripe suit; and for two mornings, he brushed haughtily past me and firmly closed the door to his inner sanctum.

  On the third day, I dogged his footsteps as he strode to his desk and sat down behind it. ‘What do you want?’ he asked. ‘I’ve come about the yacht Askoy,’ I said. ‘Well, you’re too late,’ he replied, ‘it’s already been sold.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Well … when I put in my tender I neglected to add the administration costs,’ I said, and laid a wad of Fijian banknotes on the desk. A runnel of sweat dribbled down my spine.

  Kaukimoce fixed me with his eyes for several seconds while I gazed back, then he summoned his secretary from an adjoining office. ‘What does Salu say?’ he demanded. She pointed at me. ‘Okay,’ he said, and shuffled through a pile of papers, ‘it’s yours,’ and he signed the sales document with a flourish. Back outside, the secretary added an official stamp.

  Back at the boat, I broke the news to Sarah: Askoy was finally ours. The next day we towed her across the harbour, chained her to a hurricane mooring and worked to make her weathertight. Then, with the cyclone season swirling around in our heads, we thankfully cleared Fijian customs and sailed Elkouba south for New Plymouth.

  While Sarah set about selling Elkouba, which had been our home for 12 years and many cruising adventures, I flew to Fiji to prepare Askoy for the delivery to New Zealand. As I walked down the hill from the bus stop, I could see that the local kids had colonized her as a swimming platform, and I hoped she’d continue giving people as much pleasure as she was giving them. They recognized me and excitedly quizzed me about the whereabouts of Ali and Tui, our children.

  I laboured long hours; removed the engine and gearbox and checked them over, welded up places where portholes had been stolen, and made plywood hatches to replace wooden ones which had gone for firewood.

  Urbanization has taken a toll on Fiji, with many people pouring into Suva from their villages to hunt for cash work. Poorly educated, industrially unskilled and used to subsistence farming, they settle in shanty towns around the city and cook on the open fires which they and their ancestors have used in the villages for centuries. Consequently, firewood in urban Suva is in short supply and every spare scrap of flammable material ends up on the fires.

  I cleaned fuel tanks and built a deck in the hold, forward of the mast. I loaded 10 200-litre drums of diesel for ballast and spare fuel. I inspected the rig and delved deep into Suva’s seamy underworld to find what was left of Askoy’s sail wardrobe, under a house in the suburb of Lami.

  Helmut Rutten, the German who’d crewed Askoy when she first arrived in Suva, had served his prison time and was living rough in the bushland and suburbs of Suva. He’d married a Fijian woman in a desperate bid to escape extradition for drug crimes in the United States, but time was running out fast. Several people reported that he’d threatened to kill me for stealing his boat, but my attempts to talk with him proved fruitless. Another time I met Colin Dunlop on the bush track leading down to where we hauled our dinghies ashore. ‘Listen,’ he extended an open hand, ‘I didn’t realize you’d put so much work into getting Askoy up for sale — I’m sorry for what I did with the tender.’

  Finally, I had the boat hauled out on the slipway she’d lain beside for so many years, sea-trialled her in the harbour and got ready to leave for New Zealand. A friend’s dog stayed on board while the boat was ashore to discourage intruders but, with inverse morality, the same friend and I ‘liberated’ about 30 metres of anchor chain from a crumbling wreck ashore at another boat yard.

  The dog, George, was a big black Labrador-cross with a manic enmity towards Fijians. While walking up the main road, he and I had once come across a work detail of criminals being shepherded across the road from the prison. George hurled himself in among them, barking furiously. The prisoners scattered, yelling in fear, closely followed by the prison guards; and it took some fast talking to keep George from being summarily executed.

  I’d been working in Suva all cyclone season and tracking storms across the area, so I delayed my departure to let what was to become known as the ‘June bomb’ tear past south of Fiji to decimate a crowd of cruising yachts en route to Tonga from New Zealand. Finally, using a heavy yankee jib as a mainsail and with the Gardner’s deep throb from below-decks, I left Suva and turned Askoy’s head southwards for the — give or take — 12-day trip to New Zealand. Sarah and I estimated that it would take us at least six years to refit the boat as a tuna troller/cargo vessel, but we’d be the owners of an exceptional vessel — a boat for life.

  It actually took 14 days to cover the 1200 miles to Opua, in the Bay of Islands. Salt spray infiltrated the ignition system and engaged the starter while the engine was running. I stopped the Gardner to investigate, and then spent two days trying to restart it, by hoisting an anchor and other weights up the mast using a halyard. I tied another line to the halyard and wound the end of the halyard around the crankshaft pulley, then hurriedly uncleated the other line so that the descending weights turned the Gardner over.

  Askoy picked up her heels and recorded 90 miles in a memorable 12 hours with 35+ knots of north-westerly on her starboard quarter. She ran dead downwind like a surfboat, tracking like she was on rails and cleaving a deck-high bow wave from either bow while I stomped around the deck doing exultant haka and shouting with glee.


  Later, the GPS receiver went out after the foot cord drooped from the sail and chafed through the antenna cable while I slept, so I reverted to sextant and tables. But finally I wafted into Opua at 2 a.m. with the yellow quarantine flag fluttering triumphantly from the rigging. ‘You sailed this from Fiji? ‘ The customs officer shook his head incredulously as we filled out forms below-decks. ‘You yachties are crazy.’

  After a week spent scouring the area for a new starter motor and filing the teeth on the ring gear to accept it, I left Opua bound for New Plymouth to rejoin my family and start Askoy’s refit.

  Off the north-west coast, what had been forecast as 35 knots of north-west breeze became 60, gusting to around 100 knots, of due westerly wind. Askoy’s sails blew out and her engine overheated. I dived below and began plumbing in the back-up salt-water cooling system I’d arranged — but by the time I had the engine running again, I was in the breakers. Askoy and I ran parallel with the waves for what seemed like ages, but was probably mere minutes, until a series of huge waves roared through and slammed her bows towards the shore. Askoy’s fate was sealed.

  Her stout construction served us both well as the huge seas smashed us onto Baylys Beach. I lived to sail another day; and, little as I knew it then, so would Askoy.

  KAVA CAPER

  One of the most illuminating aspects of offshore yacht cruising is the many opportunities that sailors get to be at one with the locals: eat their food, dance their dances, or imbibe their inebriant of choice (not always necessarily in that order). Not to excess, you understand — just enough to foster that warm feeling of mutual admiration that comes from shared experiences.

  During the 10 years we spent cruising in our 11.8-metre cutter, Elkouba, we were fortunate enough to sample ouzo in Greece, wine in France, Spain and Portugal, the inexpensive and smooth rums of the Caribbean, beer in Britain, schnapps in Norway, and whisky in Scotland.

  So, a few days after dropping our anchor in Suva Harbour and clearing customs, I set out once more to enhance international relations and understanding by sampling kava, the national drink of Fiji. Partaking of this muddy mixture is not just a matter of shouldering your way up to the bar and ordering another round of kava to go. It is a solemn cultural experience and should be undertaken with appropriate respect and decorum.

  My first opportunity to partake came at the central produce market in Suva. Downstairs the huge concrete hall is crowded with stalls selling pineapples, coconuts, bananas, papaya, mangoes, vegetables and other exotic Indian and Fijian foodstuffs. Upstairs they really get down to business: stalls up there are stacked with whispery piles of dried kava which the locals call ‘grog’.

  Kava is made from the ground-up roots of the pepper tree mixed with water. In ancient times the dried root was chewed to a pulp by the village virgins, then sieved into a large bowl for consumption by the local warriors. With the advent of mechanical grinders (or perhaps because of a shortfall of virgins prepared to masticate pepper roots for hours on end), this practice has diminished. The powdered pepper root can be bought from the market for about $15 Fijian a kilogram, and cruising yachts often carry a stock on board to gift to the chiefs of any villages they visit.

  ‘Whew … she looks like a pretty powerful brew,’ I observed aloud to a wizened brown stall-keeper, pointing to the equally brown and wizened root stock stacked on his stall.

  ‘Kava from the island of Kadavu,’ he replied proudly. ‘Best kava in all Fiji.’ ‘Hmmm,’ I countered non-commitedly, ‘but what does it do to you?’

  ‘You never drink kava before?’ he asked incredulously. ‘Come … sit.’ He patted the wooden bench beside him. With the air of a magician producing a rabbit from a top hat, he then whipped a grubby muslin cloth from beneath the bench and, taking a battered plastic bowl, disappeared downstairs to the communal tap for water.

  Shortly he returned, poured some of the gingery powder into the muslin cloth and began to tenderly knead it in the bowl of water. I felt a bead of perspiration trickle slowly down my spine.

  ‘Drink,’ he ordered, dipping a coconut-shell bowl into the mixture and handing it to me. Advice from my Fiji guidebook popped to mind: the drinker claps his hands twice, empties the bowl (bilo) in one swallow, returns it and claps twice again. Feeling faintly foolish, I gave the recommended applause, held my breath and gulped the muddy brown mixture. Gritty, and a little peppery, the kava slid down my throat and left me feeling … well, different. I glowed with a sort of confused goodwill towards my host, surrounding stall-keepers and the shoppers thronging past.

  ‘My name is Nathaniel — call me Nat,’ my host beamed, extending a work-hardened hand. I replied with my name and where I was from, then Nat and I sat down to talk. Conversation is an integral part of the kava experience and Nat began to talk about Kadavu, his home island. He told me how, during cyclones, sheets of corrugated iron flew from house roofs and sliced coconut palms in half, leaving stumps that looked like grated cheese blocks. ‘Thatch roof is best for Fiji,’ he explained.

  Clap clap … and the bilo came around again.

  Kadavu, Nat told me, is a steep, hilly island and access to his village is by boat only; or, if the passage through the reef is impassable, by a long hike over the hills. There is no electricity, TV or radio. Nat and his family live near Suva but return every year to harvest the kava and fruit from the family land.

  Nat clapped, and the bilo came round again.

  By now, several other people had gathered round the stall, many of whom were also from Kadavu. ‘Kadavu people is like one big family,’ Nat beamed happily.

  Clap clap … and the bilo came round again.

  Suddenly I remembered the shopping list buried deep in the pocket of my shorts — my reason for going to the market in the first place. The bread, butter, tomatoes and meat would have to wait a bit.

  During the next hour or so I learned that Kadavu is about 90 kilometres south of Suva, mountainous at one end and tapering down to Astrolabe Reef in the north. Almost 280 kilometres long, it grows the best kava, biggest fish, sweetest mangoes and prettiest girls in all Fiji — most probably in the world. Kadavu is Fiji’s southernmost island, Nat laughed, and Kadavu men who travelled to Suva to find brides would tell them they could take the ferry to New Zealand to go shopping.

  Clap clap. and the bilo came round once again.

  I talked a bit about where I came from, the huge conical mountain that spent much of the year wearing a snow cap or hiding amongst the clouds. The men shivered at tales of sleety winter storms and nodded knowingly when I told them about the cows and how they made milk from grass. I talked about my wife Sarah, our children Ali and Tui, and our vaka (boat) Elkouba and our life at sea. They wanted to hear about the storms so I invented a couple, and clap clap … the bilo came round again.

  Several bilos later and wearing a smile that threatened to split my face in half, I bid my new friends farewell and ambled off to the bus station. Quite in control but feeling unduly smug. From my seat on the wooden-bodied bus I thrust my elbow out of the pane-less window and enjoyed the bustle of downtown Suva as we rattled past.

  Back at the yacht club, a loosely tied rope blocked access to the dinghy dock and the first indication that something might have been amiss among my brain cells came when I reached out to lift it out of my way and missed it by about 4 centimetres. After two or three attempts I outsmarted it by walking around the tree it was tied to.

  Anxious to share the afternoon’s cultural adventure with Sarah, I clambered into our dinghy and began the row out to Elkouba. The 50-metre trip seemed to take ages, like rowing through setting green jelly, but eventually the dinghy nudged Elkouba’s transom and Sarah came on deck.

  ‘G’day love,’ she smiled, ‘what are you rowing all back to front like that for?’

  DELIVERANCE FROM MORUROA

  A yacht delivery skipper’s lot can be a tough one. You invariably end up sailing in the wrong direction, during the wrong time of the year, against wind and current, and
in a boat that the owner knows enough about not to sail himself.

  So the Greenpeace job pretty much fitted the bill. I was steaming out of Nelson in the fishing vessel Huatai, heading for another haul of albacore tuna, when my cellphone rang. Could I fly to Tahiti the next day, the Greenpeace person asked, and shortly after that to Moruroa Atoll, to collect a 12-metre steel ketch called La Ribaude and deliver her to Auckland?

  All they knew about the boat was that the engine was seized, and that she had been built in France and bought by Greenpeace to convey European Union politicians from Papeete to Moruroa to protest nuclear bomb tests there. She was reputed to sail well, but had been under French military arrest at Moruroa for 18 months.

  They didn’t say that it was the tail-end of the central Pacific cyclone season. Nobody mentioned radioactivity, and I forgot to ask.

  I altered course to Picton, berthed Huatai in a marina there, and within 24 hours was stepping off an aeroplane into the sultry heat of summertime Papeete. Over the next few days, other Greenpeace sailors arrived from all over the globe to take delivery of Rainbow Warrior 2, MV Greenpeace, Vega and Manutea, all of which had been arrested by the French at Moruroa. While Greenpeace lawyers haggled with French authorities over the conditions for release of the vessels, we sweated in a downtown backpacker hostel, planned the passages to the vessels’ various destinations, and socialized.

  Papeete is one of the least attractive landfalls in the Pacific Ocean. A multi-lane road winds around the waterfront and the hot, humid air can carry enough exhaust fumes to make your eyes water. The island’s indigenous Polynesian population seems to have adopted a Gallic grimness — it’s odd to be among islanders who don’t sing, dance or even smile in the street. Papeete is a city under ethnic, political and military pressure.