Jared did not like Tonga....

Remember the days when you were driving down the road and you waved to everyone you passed coming the other way and everyone waved back? If you do, do you remember why you did it? Typically you knew the person and to do anything different would be rude or you didn't know the person and to do anything different would be, well, rude. Keep that thought in mind. Now add a tropical paradise isle which is constantly ranked in the top five dive sights of the world for its visibility that often reaches 70 meters (not a typo-meters) and has such an abundance of coral patch reef that you could spend days just diving in the mooring field alone, amazing rain-forests with the elusive coconut crab, underwater and shoreline cave systems, great food, some powder-sand beaches, amazing cuisine, and a Commodore of the yacht club (Keith Vail) who is such a nice guy he may just hail you on the radio out of the blue(as he did us) and take you on an afternoon dive of some of their premier sights. That is the great isle of Niue.

As we make our way to Fiji via Tonga, we wish we had just stayed in Niue and bypassed Tonga altogether. Niue has everything good that Tonga has and far more, and none of the bad. Tonga, from what we experienced in our days in Nieafu and around Vava'u, is a self-imploding society that could take a lesson from former Mayor Guilianni in "broken-windows theory" crackdown on crime and a good category 5 Cyclone to clean its streets of the rubbish. Alright, the cyclone comment may be a bit harsh but the so-called "successful street clean-up" projects that were hailed by the local yachties on the morning net were not noticed by us. It is a place of filth.

The tiny island nation of Niue, at the other end of the spectrum, is blessed with that small-town feel that I hope most of you reading this will understand and if you never experienced it, you still can and do it in a verdant tropical paradise. Be aware, though that Niue is also known for its abundance of sea-kraits, a highly venomous, front-fanged member of the Elapidae family (cousin of the cobra packing one of the most potent neurotoxins in the world). But it seems, even the snakes know to be nice as bites are basically unheard of, though quite possibly fatal if you are the one to foolishly grab one in the water while impressing your love for the last time. I swam with hundreds of them over the course of a few days. At one point while photographing three while I was on the surface, I felt something tap me on the back. Turning around, the tail section of a banded sea-krait rubbed against me and the snake bolted for the bottom. I'm quite sure the snake's intent was to give me a little krait love-rub with its head because I saw this same behavior shared among the snakes on the surface as they came up for air. So, even the snakes know to behave here. Though, even for a herpetologist like me, that was a little too close for comfort.

Christian values are the norm here and regardless of one's religious beliefs, the notion that tourists be treated with respect and friendliness is carried on from the elders to the young ones. Crime is not tolerated here and nearly unheard of. On Sunday, not only do people not work; fishing and swimming is considered taboo. Besides, most of the people are dressed in their lovely white suits and dresses to give praise to the Lord and then head to the family cook-out. Sound familiar for some of you?

Niue, translated, means "Behold, the coconut tree!". It is also know as "The Rock" because it is one of the largest uplifted coral islands and because it is a diamond of a place. The beauty of it lies in the fact that the locals don't let on that they known how special their island is. They don't rest on their laurels and treated us as in a genuine way while being a unpaid welcoming committee. They understand how much a smile as you pass by and a wave from a car means to a new arrival. Because this place is a little difficult to get to, even though it has an international airport (one flight a week, I believe) it is a place that is not yet commercialized, nor over-run with resorts. I know in my writing, I may sound as if I have been paid off by the tourism board, but from the amazing time I had in Niue, if I get just one of you to go there and experience it, I will be happy that I helped their economy that was hurt and still a little scarred by a Category 5 cyclone that washed over the island causing catastrophic damage. Considering the way we were treated in Niue, I feel like I owe it to them to sing their praise. Since the cyclone, they have rebuilt and put on a campaign for tourism. Now's the time to go and when you arrive you will notice how cheap crafts, food, car rentals, and all other touristy things are. That's a nice bonus to mitigate the cost of what it will put you back if you intend to fly here.

Dad and I had a great time driving the back roads at night looking for one of the 1300 coconut crabs that reside on the island. That's actually a healthy population and we found many signs of their existence in the coconuts on the ground that had been peeled and snipped into by their extremely powerful claws, but no luck in actually seeing a live one. The health of their numbers is more land-dependent which is why 12,000 acres of this tiny island has been protected as the Huvalu Conservation Area A limited harvest of coconut crabs is allowed and we were fortunate enough to get to try this delicacy. It has a nice, sweet smoky flavor.

As for our time sailing around Tonga it wasn't all that much to be praised. The islands are pretty, but the coral was not as vibrant nor as abundant as Niue or the Tuamotos, which surprised me, and the number of ornamental species far outweighed those of the game species. However we did manage to find one chunk of coral where I did take a couple of nice grouper and lost a monster peacock grouper. The only place we found any spiny lobster was on our plates at the local eatery. Our great excitement occurred at the isle of Ovalau, oddly a pick-me-up after the burglary, was awakening to realize our anchor had pulled in the heavy winds (a first for our marvelous, 40 kilo rocna due to steep anchorage and heavy winds) and to find our boat adrift. Tragedy possibly averted as it is a labyrinth of islands in those parts. One has to put things in perspective. The Skip, treated our short-term crew-member, Fabian, and me to a steak and lobster dinner for saving the "BEG". Well, at least, for preventing us from waking up in a different anchorage. As always, love and miss you all. Te amo, Merce.

"Brown-Eyed Girl" out...

the Hell of Neiafu

I'm a firm believer that 99% of the people of the world are fundamentally good people. That other 1% that rear their heads up from time to time are evil and can ruin a day quickly. The vast majority of the places we've have had the privilege to see has been sublime and the people divine. I can't say that for the vast majority of the encounters we have had in the city of Neiafu in the Northern Group of Isles in Tonga. Below is a true story of burglary, dirty streets, inept (possibly corrupt) government, and a people that for the most part I don't like.

We arrived in Neiafu on Thursday the 10th of June. We had more a four day passage from the splendid isle of Niue without the aid of autopilot with four hour shifts on and off for those four days. Needless to say we were very tired when we arrived in Neiafu. As winds had been non-existent, we had run our engine a lot and were thus down to the very last of our fuel and decided not to run the generator that night. We waited on the fishing wharf (guarded by a guard we now know sleeps on shift) for the fuel delivery by truck the next morning. As I was down below, I heard two unfamiliar voices calling, "Anybody Aboard?", several times. I did not answer and the boys put hand to rails. I ran up and confronted the boys who sheepishly stood there while I chewed them out, asked them for their names which they gave as "John and Moses" and then offered them a Coke. I took a picture of them while they watched and told them if anything came up missing, the first people I would come looking for would be them. Before going to sleep, I had mingled a little with people on a boat called the "Royal Princess", two young Indonesian males. Exhausted, I headed to bed. In the morning, I awoke and quickly saw that my camera, laptop, and one of dad's knives were gone. We couldn't believe that someone/s would have the audacity to make their way into the salon where my camera and laptop were. The knife was in the cockpit above. It could have been very bad for everyone involved had we awakened

Of course, the camera with the photo of the young Tongan boys was gone with the camera and computer. I quickly made my way up to the police department, that lacked a filing system, a photocopier, and cops with much interest in helping. One detective followed me down to the "Royal Princess" where I approached the boat asking to talk to the young Indonesians, one of whom ducked quickly into the cabin. The detective was afraid to approach the boat. I received a very defensive response from the owner of the boat. When I explained that I just "wanted to ask a few questions to see if his crew saw anything," he angrily told me to get the police which I did. I told the detective that he needed to board the boat. He was hesitant but finally did, missing the opportunity to possibly see the kid stashing our belongings.

Over the course of the next four days, I talked to several hundred people and offered a large reward with no questions asked, sent a message over the sailor's net, and had friends in the Arc keep a sharp look-out. Talking to Tongans in a very respectful manner, they seemed disinterested in helping, some even lied about finding the two boys "John and Moses". As I walked the streets, looking at the filth, the chains and locks on the doors, the garbage strewn everywhere, kids making obscene gestures as we passed by, I wished I had never made landfall in this wretched place. Coincidentally, in my investigation I found the young Indonesians walking the street who then saw me, turned to each other, and changed direction when I approached them. I got them to stop and got them to show me their sandals (a track had been left on the boat). They didn't match, unfortunately, but then again, it's possible to have more than one pair of sandals, right? One of the kids quickly showed me his sandals as the other looked down at his before lifting his feet. I found out later, the boat "Royal Princess" is aptly named for it is owned by the relative of the King of Tonga. Think that may have something to do with the fear the police had in boarding it? Sailors, if you must stop here to fuel up, do so and be on your way. If you have to stay the night, lock up and don't be as trusting as we were. Most of the boats in the Arc would agree with me on this one. Much beauty to be had around here, but not here in Neiafu.

As far as the boys: "John and Moses". Fairly common names here, actually, and the kids here all look pretty similar. To add to our wonderful time here, a 220 volt/30 milliamp circuit breaker caught on fire. Luckily all that burned was the breaker. We could have had a major electrical fire and lost the boat. Look at the sunny side of life. We were fortunate in the fact that we didn't join some of the crowd in port who had one of the myriad jellyfish get sucked up into the intake of the generator and destroy the impeller. One boat actually had one get sucked up into their toilet bowl. Beats a sea-krait, I guess.

The fourth time that I went to the police station to find a detective, I actually found one, the one who had approached the young Indonesians on the boat. The boys had said that they had at no point during the night left the boat. There's where they put the foot in the trap. They had indeed left the boat that night, as I had been talking to them on the pier. I told the Detective that he had been lied to and there's never a reason to lie in an investigation, unless there is a reason to lie in an investigation. He actually looked at me as though, he had learned an investigative technique. So, they will continue to "keep a keen eye out" (laughable). I will, too (not laughable). I will also not let my guard down again.

I'm thankful for the fact that I and/or my father didn't lose our lives and/or take two. I'm thankful I had backed up my photos, have more than they ever will(not just possessions), and that currently this wretched place is in our wake. I still wear a smile. I look forward to the next dive, seeing my wonderful family and all of you, and seeing my beautiful Merce. I have to go and set a fishing line out. A tuna is waiting for us. As always miss and love you all. Te amo, Merce.

"Brown-Eyed Girl" out...

Old Men and the Sea

"A man can be destroyed, but not defeated." I always liked that line from " The Old Man and the Sea". This morning, as the Skip and I awake with bruises on our forearms and aching backs from a battle with a 250-300lb blue marlin on 80lb test line yesterday, we have a new-found appreciation for that novel. We keep talking about the battle and how well we did and what a prize-fighter that fish was. Here begins a fish story.

After a fun morning of untangling a balled up jib and fouled fishing lines, the Skip and I took a few minutes to rest. He decided to take advantage of the lull in the action to shave and I, to prop my body against some nice soft, cushions and read over some stuff about Niue while keeping a watchful eye on the newly-set fishing lines. Two rods and one handline were set with hula skirts plugs in vibrant greens and yellows with blood-red eyes and a delectable mackerel plug with blunt forehead that is quite beautiful to watch swimming in the water.

I looked up from my reading and watched our out-rover (plastic device attached to line several yards in front of plug that disturbs water and keeps line away from boat-highly recommended for sailors-we love 'em) doing its water-dance. A bill violently pierced the water, cutting back and forth, and a leviathan's head raised up from the depths to investigate its prey, our lure just out of reach of the beast's mouth. Water exploded in white, frothy foam. The fish dropped back and launched itself again at the lure, this time resulting in the rod doubling over and the sweet scream of a Penn Gold breaking the afternoon silence.

"Holy S---! Dad, get up here quick! Big Bill fish! He's on! He's on!" The fish tailed-walked upon feeling the sting of the hook, which I could see was well-placed in the corner of its mouth.

"Slow the boat down! Slow the boat down!," Dad yelled from his quarters.

Winds had been nill and we were slugging away with the diesel. I ran to the helm and threw the boat in neutral. Dad appeared, Johnny-on-the-spot, in shorts, with shaving cream still on his face. That furious fish was tail-walking and launching himself out of the water, violently shaking his head back and forth to throw the hook. He repeated hellacious tail-walks, vertical-launching, and porpoising 12-15 times on his first-run. We could clearly see him, his left-eye, large bill, splendid colors, and dorsal-fin and blue striations and size that quickly gave his identity away. nice-sized blue marlin. Organized pandemonium ensued as the other lines were brought in, boat was positioned to follow fish, harnesses were donned, and gaffs and spear-gun were readied. Line stripped out, as Dad ran back and grabbed the rod. "He's going to spool us! I'll have to tighten the drag" I winced as I expected to hear the resounding "Twang!" of a snapped line and battle lost before it was ever fought. The line didn't snap and the game was on. For the next hour and ten minutes , Dad and I alternated between fighting the fish and running the boat. Three times it ran off 450 yards of the 500 yards we have on the spool. Each time, we reeled it back up. The final run, the fish went for the abyss. Imagine, folks, that fish hit a depth of over 1200 feet in the fight. Our muscles burning, our fore-arms beat-to-hell from being pinned to the rail, and our feet aching from fighting the fish standing-up while trying to balance ourselves. We brought him back up and gazed at the king of the deep-blue.

There he was. There, straight below us, his colors shined, showing his agitation. Dad worked quickly as I told him to ready the gun. The fish made a run with such tenacity that he actually pivoted the rod-holder toward the water (not good) leaving me holding a rod that was now pointed straight down. I screamed for Dad to get aft and pivot the rod upright while all I could do was hold on to it. The rod was secured with a safety line, but I didn't want that reel getting wet under any circumstance. Dad bolted back and heaved the rod up and repositioned to its correct upright position. Both of us took a second to savor the moment and looked down at all nine feet of him (not including the bill). Here was a fighter below us, tired like us and taking a momentary break, but unwilling to give up to accept defeat. Destruction, yes. Defeat, not a chance. He made a sudden surge directly toward the boat's deep keel (an unfortunate reality when fighting from a sailboat) and the resounding snap of the line, told us the battle was over. Dad and I looked at each other and remained silent for merely a moment, and then we laughed. "Go back to the depths, you glorious bastard, and procreate!", Dad yelled. Dad looked at me and said, "Don't be sad, Son. That's was the perfect fight. We couldn't have done it any better." I have to admit with those words, I wasn't. That fish earned his freedom and though, we lost him, I believe with all the fish we have ever caught and harvested, the Skip and I have never fought a better, more concerted fight together. We headed down below for a well-deserved ice-water and later, steaks garnished with olive-oiled fried mushrooms and wilted-lettuce salad. It was a glorious day! Live long, you glorious bastard. You earned your freedom.

As always, love you and miss you all. Te amo, Merce.

"Brown-Eyed Girl" out...

The boat ...

As I have traveled round this sphere since November 28th, 2009, when I came aboard in Tortola and now find myself nearing Niue and Tonga on the far end of the Pacific, I find that I have been remiss in my duties as writer to properly introduce you to the lady we call home: "Brown-Eyed Girl". She's quite a lady, too, and like a lady if she's treated right she'll give you the world in the palm of her loving hands and if you don't, well, you'll find yourself high and dry or adrift on a sea of loneliness. One might object to the way I give life to an inanimate object. But she's not inanimate. She's very much a living, breathing entity and I am a better man for having made her friendship.

She's a 53' foot Amel ketch. Amel's are built in France and were designed by none other than the great French engineer, Henri Amel. She was born in 1992 in La Rochelle, France and is number 86 out of 490 plus or minus made. Yes, she's a beautiful French dame and one of a kind to us. Unlike the Skip and me, this lady has already been around the world under a previous owner, Bill Gilmore, who clearly understood how to treat her like a lady. We have always like dark-hulled boats, so very atypical of Amel's, she changed the white dress of her youth into a sleek hull of dark blue as she matured and it suits her well, even if it requires more upkeep with salt stains. I thinks she likes the pampering. She has smooth, fine lines and makes good speed when the winds are fair. Apparently, she loves to come in first in her class, as she rocketed us to a first-place finish on the first leg of the trip from St. Lucia to the San Blas, Islands. Her interior is adorned with teak floors and African mahogany wood, which always requires quite a bit of cleaning but lets her show her internal beauty. She has a bench freezer as well as an upright freezer and fridge, all powered by the generator and battery banks. Her holds are filled with bottled water, coke, and all the foods non-perishables we can store, should the refrigeration ever fail us again. She even has a television that helps make those long night-watches go by a little quicker when one doesn't feel like reading or gazing at the stars. How many more times, though, can I watch "The Patriot?" As she rocks in high-seas, she flexes and creaks, and reminds us that she has more miles under her belt than us and we had better remember it. She's a fighter, too. She's the luckiest boat in the fleet when it comes to fishing, but that's to be expected as she's been round these parts before and gently hints to us as to what lures to troll and when. Her legs are the Genny, Main, and Mizzen we fly when the winds are there and the Perkins diesel when we find ourselves in the horse latitudes and doldrums. The Perkins has more miles on it than we shall ever know as the first meter broke, but as long as it gets copious amounts of 40 weight and changes, she keeps on truckin' on. Like any lady, she has her quirks but her beauty, strength, and practicality far outweigh those.

She carries a lot of gear in all the right places. A lifeboat, cooler, emergency jump bag, scuba gear and compressor :), gaffs, extra lines, and other fishing gear adorn her aft deck and lockers. Her cockpit is warm and inviting and the Captain's chair gives you the feel of freedom and power as you allow her to guide you through one of the harshest environments man has ever taken to. Autopilot control, self-furling sail controls, and large chart-plotter offer the creature comforts of a sophisticated, modern lady. But these things add to the list of gear to be maintained and watched with an eagle eye. Jerry cans of extra diesel are found on starboard and port secured tightly to her stanchions. An inflatable dinghy is secured on the fore-deck and gives us the mobility we love in port. We lift her with line and winch and gingerly drop the dink in the water and mover her aft to lower the motor using a pulley. Brilliant set-up. Her VHF radios and Single-Side Band radio are our connection to the world and other boats in the fleet and we keep scheduled contact with our brethren to lend a hand if need be, or heaven forbid, receive help should it be beyond our ability to rectify.

She's a lady through and through and now you have made her acquaintance. Maybe, one day, if you haven't already you'll get to appreciate her up close. Words don't do her justice. As always, love and miss you all. Te amo, Merce.

"Brown-Eyed Girl" out...

Leaving Rarotonga (from Jared)

Fishing lines are out and we leave Rarotonga behind us along with its amazing fish and chips, incredibly nice people, rugged peaks, beautiful lagoons, and horrific marina. Yes, horrific marina, due to its tiny entrance and precarious ladders mounted alongside a crumbling pier. Add to the fact that the port of Avatiu has a tight, North entrance and we had prevailing winds from the North for the entire week, reaching 22 knts yesterday and we anchored med-style (stern to pier with lines running from starboard and port stern to pier and anchor off bow); one can understand how we were concerned at times of our anchor pulling and the seas bashing the boat into that crumbling, harsh concrete. The ladders leading up the pier were treacherous in and of themselves. I'm quite certain they were made for Sir Edmund Hillary's training routine before his conquest of Everest. Furthermore, the ladders didn't account for the range of tide, leaving one precariously dangling at low-tide while managing his/her best pull-up to exit dinghy to make it ashore. It was good exercise, though, and since we were consuming more than our share of fish and chips at the roadside stands, mango and guava ice-cream, and pork at the traditional island dance festival; perhaps there was some method to the madness behind the engineers of the marina. Splash! Another embarrassed sailor falls into the water as onlookers gawk. Maybe not.

We will all look back at Rarotonga as an amazing place. Its name means "in the direction of the prevailing wind, south." It certainly did not live up to that but it was much more. The Cook Isle people of Rarotonga understand that their lagoons probably aren't as pretty (still amazingly gorgeous) as some that can be seen further East and perhaps topographically the island may not be as impressive of those of the Marquesas (still lush, verdant, and volcanic) but that being said, these people know how far a smile and good conversation go. Community is everything to them and to watch a ceremonial dancer describing the various traditional dances at a marae (holy place made of stone where Gods are worshipped and heads were rolled) ceremony is impressive. We spent a Friday night at Highland Paradise, a botanical garden/cultural center that has various archaeological sites on premises including a pit where people were kept before they succumbed to their cannibalistic conquerors. Table fare was excellent that night, especially since we weren't on the menu. As we dined on traditional taro, raw tuna marinated in coconut milk, smoked pig, and inexpensive, yet excellent New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc; we were enthralled by the scantily clad girls shaking those hips (chiste, Merce)...I mean, we enjoyed the fluid nature of the dances in regard to tempo, rhythm, and use of ceremonial garb while telling the history of the native people of Rarotonga. Yeah, that's the ticket.

Scooters seem to be the most popular mode of transportation here. Someone said there are 3 for every person. I believe it. People enjoy driving them while hauling various goods... like little children with no helmets, produce, farm animals, building material. Using headlights at night seems to be optional for a significant percentage of the locals driving. Rentals are fun and cheap but really not worth it as our friend, Donal, from "A Lady" found out. There is a lot of loose gravel on the somewhat poorly paved roads here. As Donal was making his way down a hill, he hit a patch of loose gravel and applied the front brake a little too hard and summersaulted over his scooter. He was not wearing a helmet and after seeing him in the hospital after being x-rayed and diagnosed with a concussion; my desire to get on a scooter quickly waned. He is headed to the states to get a CT-Scan and carry-on with some other business that had been planned before the accident. Good luck, Donal! We hope to see you back in the Rally soon! It was great to see Donal cutting a rug with Mom at a beachside bar'b'q just a few days later. These Irish are tough!

We rented a convertible VW and though I probably could have pushed it over onto its side or carried it had we broken down, it made for a fun way to see the island and get us to the Vaka ceremony. We happened to be in luck in our timing at making our arrival for the first traditional Vaka ceremony since 1994. What's a Vaka ceremony? A Vaka is a traditional, wood, double-hauled sailing vessel that is a the heart of these people's ties to the ocean. Per chance, we happened to be on Rarotonga to witness the arrival of the five Vakas in race from Tahiti, each representing various islands in Polynesia and Cook Isles. Chiefs and politicians were dressed in black-lipped oyster shell ceremonial dresses carrying long spears and standing in the water to welcome their respective sailors as the media covered it all. The ladies put the final touches on the feast as they were dressed in flowing pareus and dresses made of palm fronds adorned with hibiscus flowers. It was a real happening and something the crew of the "Brown-Eyed Girl" shall treasure. "Home are the sailors from sea and the hunters from the hills", I thought as the Cook Isle team came aground. Speaking of Robert Lewis Stevenson's' epitaph to himself, Mom actually saw an original with the missing second verse (only a few in the world) and was able to get the lady to take it off the wall and photo-copy it. No photographs allowed. That's my Mom. Way to go, girl!

As the boat is concerned, we have had a rough day. Autopilot went out and then decided to come back on. Mainsheet outhaul went kablooey but we got that fixed. Just tried to start generator and it wants to turn over but won't start. We are presently working on that one (possibly some water in diesel-changing fuel filter). Earlier, winds picked up as we were untying lines from dock drifting us close to boat anchored next to us. We quickly averted collision and got underway. These problems raise their heads like cobras from the basket and we knock 'em back down with a big stick and we sail on! These cobras will raise their heads again, but we always have our sticks ready. On the bright side, the "BEG" received a healthy cleaning topside and along the haul. The salt that has permeated the hull after many a mile was washed away with a healthy application of hot water, soap, and vinegar (heavy on the vinegar). She's radiant and this 1st Mate doesn't out-source his work.

We bid farewell to our loving Brown-Eyed Girl. She is headed stateside and will return to us in Australia, if not before. We love ya, Momma! It's just the Skip and me sailing this baby, now. We are headed 600NM to Niue, where I read the sea-kraits are "plentiful, highly-toxic, but will not bite you unless you stick your finger into their mouth." I know this not to be entirely accurate about the not-biting thing. A famous herpetologist by the name of Bill Haaust from Florida was almost killed by one and Haaust actually injects himself with various snake venoms to keep his immunity up. What a man! Do tell me who this bloke was who had such a brilliant notion as to stuff his finger in the snake's mouth? A short honeymoon for his lady. Haaust was attempting to milk the snake to make anti-venin. Far different. The Skip and I just want to swim with them and photograph them. I'll be happy with that. As always, love and miss you all. Te amo, Merce.

"Brown-Eyed Girl" out...