Back on the road - Kavala to Vunasea Monday July 13 Janet I feel a twinge of anxiety; How windy would it be out there? Will I feel seasick? Shall I take a pill or not? Images of the rough passage from Suva to Kadavu are still fresh in my mind. We are on the cusp of leaving the sheltered womb of Kavala Bay to head to Tavuki.
In Fiji we are almost always in unfamiliar waters. Most of our cruising in New Zealand is in familiar places, so if the wind in wrong direction we know where we can go to find shelter. The trip to Tavuki holds lots of unknown factors; the wind could go to the north (it has three times already and most of the anchorages around here are exposed to it), the anchorage may be too deep, there could be too much coral for safe anchoring, or rain may obliterate coral visibility.
"Now Janet, nine times out of ten you get out there and you love it." I reassure myself. "For now just breathe deeply, in and out, in and out." My anxiety eases a little.
Then suddenly there's no time to worry. Motor gently forward, anchor up. It's grey and raining as David hoists the main and eases the headsail out.
We hand-steer for a while. The wind is from behind making it tricky. I don't want the it to back the sails but can't go further to port because of the invisible coral shelves jutting hundreds of metres out from the coast.
I look back at Kavala cloaked in cloud. We are in bright sunlight now, feeling relieved we may not to have to navigate the coral of Tavuki Bay, our destination, in dull conditions. My mood lifts. I love the thrill of being at sea again, being challenged by the elements. Excited and anxious at the same time, it's a fine line.
I look at the land. It looks familiar, reminding me of cruising along the east coast of Northland. Then I remember there are no roads, no power wires, no shops, not much reception, and the people speak a different language. It feels remote again.
Now there is enough wind on the beam to put the auto-pilot on the tiller. We are racing along at seven knots in 28 knots of wind.
"Fine sailing," I say to David.
We settle in to tea and Christmas cake. Cake baked months ago in another lifetime in Bay of Islands. Neil Young's Take a Look at Yourself belts out from the stereo. Fine indeed.
*** I let my thoughts drift back to our three weeks in Kavala, two lunches with the chief coming to mind. Sharing food is so integral to forming relationships for me.
Lunch is the main meal of the day in Fijian village life. As Seru, the chief's wife, prepared the food I asked her what she was cooking, and all about each ingredient. She seemed to enjoy my interest.
Another meal that stood out was our second lovo. This time we accompanied the lovo baskets to the local school and ended up sharing ours with the head-teacher and his family. What a country this is when you can rock up to the house of a stranger and be welcomed in to share a meal, then sent on your way with armloads of produce from their garden. Lunch guests are rare and treasured here it seems. We went back another day with a banana cake and a jar of Kavala Bay orange marmalade to say thank you.
*** "Just as well we left those reefs in the sail," I say to David, as another gust blasts out of a valley, heeling Navire over. It feels like sailing along the vicious Wairarapa Coast. We are well off the land. I measure the distance from the unseen rock shelf to our plotted course, 200m. I measure distance to our destination. 16 miles. Less than three hours at this speed.
"I can see the reef," David points ahead at a line of turqoiuse water, waves breaking, stretching well out to sea. We head out around it.
As we pass the bay where Kadavu's main town, Vunasea, is the wind speed increases and white caps abound. Boat speed 7.4 knots.
"Visualise the cloud lifting," says David.
I look ahead and the land is hidden by rain. Mmmm, not good coral-spotting visibility. As we turn into Tavuki Bay the wind heads so we roll up the genoa and turn on the engine. It's howling. This isn't what we signed up for. What would we do if we couldn't anchor at Tavuki? We have plans but still a little of my anxiety returns.
"Ten degrees to starboard," calls David from the cabin where he is watching our progress on the laptop. Up top there appears to be miles of room but most of it is actually too shallow. I push the tiller across and duck another blast of spray.
"I think I'll stay down here," David jokes, "It's much better." We get as far as we can into the bay before the coral shelf prevents us getting into the lee of the land. The wind is howling. The anchorage is too deep and exposed.
"It's not going to happen," says David, pushing the tiller hard to the side and gunning the engine to turn Navire quickly. "Let's go and look at Vunasea." I radio a yacht we passed earlier and ask about the bay. We'd been concerned it could be gusty there as it was on the lee side of a narrow piece of land.
"Good anchorage," they assured us.
I go down below and stare at the computer. "Go to port," I keep telling David.
I feel the boat lurch hard to port and go topside.
"We just missed a rock by inches," said David, "The trip could have been over." I go back and look at the chart. There should have been a beacon there, more often than not beacons that show on our charts just aren't there.
Heading out of Tavuki Bay I pass David a bowl of unheated leftovers.
Vunasea Bay is a myriad of shallow coral patches that we have to weave our way through. Finally we reach a small clear area near the shore.
"What's the depth?" David calls from the bow.
"Seven metres.
"Yahoo!" A shallow anchorage is a good anchorage.
I lick my lips. I touch my face and hair. Caked with salt. In the galley I sluice my face again and again till I can't taste any more salt.
"Beer?" David offers.
"Yes please."