Harmonie - Crab Bay, Malakula Island, Vanuatu

Crab Bay, Malakula Island, Vanuatu

Harmonie

Don and Anne Myers

Mon 25 Aug 2008 04:16

16:09.877S 167:31.876E

Waaaay back on Monday, 8/11, we left Waterfall Bay and Chief Kerely and started the trip south back to Port Vila, the Vanuatu capital on Efate Island. The total distance from Waterfall Bay to Port Vila is something over 250 miles and we planned to make the trip as fast as possible since we were running short on things like butter, cheese, meat and more importantly, beer and scotch. We motorsailed into the wind to get ourselves to Sola, which is on the southeast side of Vanua Lava and the place we had to stop to renew our cruising permit.

We arrived in Sola around noon and deployed the dinghy. A nasty swell coming in from the east made for an extremely rolly anchorage so we decided we would get in to shore, obtain the new cruising permit and leave for an overnight sail south as soon as possible. Given that the swell was making the boat roll a good twenty to thirty degrees from side-to-side every thirty seconds or so, I suggested that it might be best if 'we' rowed to shore instead of attempting to lift the eighty pound dinghy motor from the rolling boat down to the bouncing dinghy. This, of course, was easy for me to suggest since I wouldn't be the one doing the rowing. Don was reluctant at first, but after I pointed out that the shore was only 'like two feet away', Don agreed to row. A half hour and a half mile later, after battling a strong side current and struggling not to wash up on a rocky shore, and with local canoers smirking and smiling in our direction as they watched, we managed to wash up on the sandy part of the shore where a ni-Van was waiting to help us drag the dinghy up on the beach. 'That wasn't so bad, was it?' I asked brightly. Don, sweating profusely, gave me a look, but was nice enough not to say anything ugly.

We were directed to the customs office where there was one lone gentleman waiting for us (he had watched us motor into the bay, but was nice enough not to comment on our zig zag dinghy row in). We were once again the only boat in the bay and the customs guy seemed happy to have someone to talk to. He said he had been transferred from the customs office in Port Vila when the new customs office opened in Sola. This was probably like being exiled to Siberia for him although he did say that he grew up in Losalava on the island of Gaua, so he wasn't completely unfamiliar with the territory. When we heard he was from Losalava, we asked if he knew the boy Christopher who was our guide there. He was pretty sure he knew who Christopher was. The customs guy also said he knew Chief Kerely and was planning to attend the festival in Waterfall Bay in September 'by special request'. This is the advantage to living and working on islands with a population of only 2,000 people - not only does everyone know everyone, but generally everyone is related to everyone too. As a matter of fact, we heard the term 'cousin brother' more than once when a villager described his connection to another villager. We never asked but are still wondering what exactly a cousin brother is.

We received our new cruising permit with clearance all the way to Port Vila without much further ado and after thanking the customs guy, 'tankyu tumas', we went directly back to the beach where Don was looking forward to rowing us back to the boat - which he did with no complaint. Not sure if it helped that I pointed out several times what good exercise he was getting. After hoisting the dinghy back on the rolling deck, we motored out of the bay as fast as possible, through a pass between Vanua Lava and a neighboring small island, and into the open sea.

We knew that the sail from Vanua Lava back to Port Vila would not be a pleasant one. We generally needed to head south, and because the wind generally comes from the southeast, we would either be sailing, motoring or motorsailing mostly into the wind the whole way. After all the lovely downwind sailing we have done, it's quite shocking when we have to sail into the wind. The boat heels and the apparent wind is higher than the true wind so it always seems windier than it really is. Worst of all though, sailing into the wind means sailing into the waves - which wouldn't be so bad if when the bow crashed down from the top of one wave to the bottom of the next it wasn't accompanied by the worst pounding sound ever. Blam! Like fifty doors being slammed by an angry teenage sister all at once. The really bad kind of door slam - when not only the door and the door jam vibrate from the shock, but the entire second floor of the house gyrates for a second or two. Every time the boat pounds down a wave, we, or at least I, am certain the boat is simply going to crack open like an egg and spill all of our stuff and us out into the sea. This, of course, never happens. And it is possible that I'm exaggerating just a tad, but it is true that even Don doesn't like it when the boat slams down a wave when sailing upwind. Oh, and sailing upwind always makes for a queasier stomach than sailing downwind. This is even true for Captain Don - normally known for his iron stomach.

With all of that said, on with the story.

We proceeded to sail as close to the wind as possible in order to make our course. As luck would have it (or not have it as the case may be) we couldn't quite sail close enough to the wind to miss the east coast of Gaua Island. This, plus the fact that the sun was setting fast and our charts are not all that accurate in Vanuatu waters, caused us to decide that it might be a good idea to turn northeast and out to sea for an hour or so before turning back on course. Doing this would keep us away from the Gaua coast. So we did. By this time, the sun had set and although we were headed in a different direction with the wind on the starboard side instead of port, we were still sailing as close to the wind as possible with the same wave action and the occasional bow slam. We have two autopilots on board and we usually run each for an equal amount of time so one doesn't get more wear than the other. When we turned to the northeast to avoid Gaua, Don switched from the model 6000 autopilot to the 7000. Shortly thereafter, we heard a very loud metal-on-metal crunching sound - described by Don as a prolonged 'grunch'.

I've written in the past about how when sailing, particularly at night, your ears become attuned to the sound of the wind, waves, sails, and general creaks and groans (and occasional bow slams) of the boat. So when a different, and highly unnatural sound suddenly enters the picture, it's usually followed by a stomach flop and a semi-panicked, 'What was that noise??' from me. Not so for Don, his reaction is usually heightened senses followed by an extended silence (which tends to drive me insane the longer it goes on) while the gears click rapidly inside his highly logical brain, working to deduce what exactly caused the unnatural noise. While I waited in semi-silent, semi-panic mode, Don figured out that the sound came from the autopilot. He punched the 'stand-by' button on the model 7000 control panel, which would normally release the wheel and allow us to steer by hand. Not so on this particular occasion. The model 7000 autopilot had decided to take an untimely vacation and in the process decided it would take all steering wheel control with it. While my state of panic spiraled up from semi to full mode, I had visions of perching out on the tilted and bouncing back deck, emergency steering tiller in hand throughout an endless night of windward wave bashing. Don, on the other hand, spiraled into full action mode and trotted into the back cabin, lifted up the bed mattress and supporting wood platform to check out the steering hardware near the rudder post. Thankfully, all looked fine, so he trotted back to the scene of the crime with the good news that all was ok in the back. By this time, my slower brain had worked out that at least we were headed out to sea and not straight for the coast of Gaua. And the wheel was locked so the rudder was stuck in one position, not flopping about uncontrollably. After one more peek at the backside of the wheel and the autopilot hardware and electronics through an access panel above the kitchen sink, Don had the model 7000 autopilot disconnected in a matter of a few minutes, which unlocked the wheel. One more minute later and the model 6000 autopilot was engaged and found to work fine. Just like that my semi-panic mode receded and it was like nothing had ever happened. Ah...the joy of having two autopilots and a mechanically minded captain.

The rest of our overnight sail was uneventful. We turned back on course, avoided hitting the coast of Gaua and eventually sailed into waters protected from the worst of the swell by Vanuatu islands lying to the east and south of us. By then our churned up stomachs allowed us to eat a granola bar or two and we were mostly happy. After sunrise, the waters were quite a bit calmer making our windward sail tolerable with no bow slams. By four o'clock in the afternoon, we were anchored in extremely protected Crab Bay on Malakula Island - once again the only boat in the calm bay. The only thing visible on shore was a coconut tree plantation. There were no villages and no canoes. The Outrigger Alert was not sounded and we had a peaceful evening and night. I should mention that Don had the model 7000 autopilot disassembled within twenty minutes of our arrival in Crab Bay and discovered that one of the shafts in the planetary gear train had become dislodged and jammed. This was not something he could fix right away, so he stowed the parts until our arrival in Port Vila several days later. More on the rest of our trip back to Port Vila later.

Anne