Our Ever-Changing Backyard--Sailing with Scoots

08 November 2017 | Suva, Fiji
07 October 2017 | Mana Island, Fiji
17 September 2017 | Castaway Island, Fiji
11 September 2017 | Wadigi Island, Fiji
04 August 2017 | Akuilau Island, Fiji
24 July 2017 | Nadi, Fiji
17 July 2017 | Port Denarau, Fiji
09 June 2017 | Port Denarau Marina, Fiji
07 June 2017
05 June 2017
01 June 2017
29 May 2017
28 May 2017
27 May 2017

A change of plans in Suva

08 November 2017 | Suva, Fiji
As the Southern Hemisphere spring moves inexorably toward summer, Eric, SCOOTS, and I have left the stunningly beautiful anchorages that we'd enjoyed for the past five months, in the Mamanuca and Yasawa Islands of Fiji's western region, and the islands of Beqa and Kadavu to the south, and are now anchored in Suva Harbour, as industrial and unattractive as our previous anchorages were beautiful.

But we didn't come here looking for scenery; we came here to prepare SCOOTS and ourselves for our upcoming passage south to New Zealand, a purpose for which Suva, Fiji's largest city, is ideal. Here, we found grocery stores for provisioning (peanut butter! bacon! fresh bread!); chandleries and industrial supply stores for procuring parts; diesel and propane to top up our tanks; restaurants to satisfy our desire to have someone else do the cooking and washing up; customs and immigration offices for clearing us out of Fiji when the time comes. And cheap, ubiquitous taxis to whisk us to places that are beyond walking distance, or if we just get tired of walking in the rain.

It rains a lot in Suva, so much that it's prompted Eric to proclaim that Suva has three kinds of weather: light rain, torrential rain, and about to rain. One day it rained so much that the water of the harbor turned brown from the runoff of the rivers that drain into it; all sorts of flotsam floated by: logs and shrubs and trash, and even a large toad, swimming resolutely. During that downpour, we collected more than a hundred gallons of rainwater in less than two hours! This was particularly handy because the harbor water is too dirty to run through our reverse osmosis system.

When we arrived in Suva a week ago, we had every intention of leaving Fiji on November 8, when our visas expired, and sailing to New Zealand. I'd been watching the weather forecasts closely for a few weeks, and the weather was shaping up nicely for our expected departure date. I say “was” because as of a few days ago, a nasty low pressure system (storm) is now predicted to form in the ocean between Fiji and New Zealand this week, with another predicted to follow next week. In-between, the winds are strong and from the south, the direction we'd be going. Oh well.

When you live your life according to the whims of the weather, as we do, patience and adaptability are important virtues. So instead of clearing out of Fiji, we visited the Fiji Immigration office and filed the papers to extend our visas. That takes the pressure off a bit: now we can wait for a good weather window without being illegal aliens.

The Prudent Mariner Goes to Fiji, and the ReefCon Scale

18 October 2017 | Fiji
"Never, never, never, never, NEVER sail at night in Fiji!"

Cruisers began dropping this advice on us even before we'd left New Zealand to sail to Fiji. Once we arrived in Fiji, the admonitions continued. Well-meaning wisdom passed along from cruisers who'd sailed Fiji's reef-strewn waters before us.

Why, pray tell, should one "never, never, never, never, NEVER sail at night in Fiji"? The main reason is that compared to other places we've sailed, the charts for Fiji are woefully incomplete. Though the charts seem to show most large reefs and extensive shallow areas, it's possible - maybe even likely - that not all reefs, shallow areas, and keel-raking coral bommies are charted. Also, large swathes of the charts are unapologetically marked as "Unsurveyed"; big blank areas that may or may not contain things a boat could hit.

So how does the Prudent Mariner navigate in Fiji? The Prudent Mariner sails only in the daytime, uses more than one kind of chart, consults said charts continually when underway, posts a lookout on the bow (or in the spreaders if he or she feels like a monkey), and, when available, follows the trail of waypoints provided by other cruisers who've previously - and successfully - navigated the same route.

Because we consider ourselves disciples of the Prudent Mariner, Eric and I have been following all these safeguards when traveling around Fiji. When we sail (always in the daytime), I'm the Lookout and Eric's the Navigator. After raising the anchor, I take my position on the bow pulpit, sporting my stylish, Prudent Mariner-approved polarized sunglasses,

my floppy pink sun hat,

a generous slathering of sunscreen, and my little handheld radio, which dangles jauntily from a strap around my neck.

Eric hangs out in the cockpit, keeping an eye on our progress, making sure we avoid obstacles that appear on the chart, and adjusting our course as needed. Sometimes he'll call me on the radio, to see if I can spot an area of shallow water or a reef that's indicated on the chart.

I wear polarized sunglasses because they block much of the glare that shines up at me from the water,

Without sunglasses

Much better with sunglasses!

and they allow much better discrimination of the sorts of things I'm looking for - subtle (sometimes not so subtle) gradations in water that signal shallow water or coral - than do non-polarized sunglasses.

Here are a couple of pictures of the same spot taken without sunglasses, and through my polarized sunglasses:

A photo of a shallow reef area.

A photo of the same area taken through my polarized sunglasses.

Notice how the color differences are more pronounced, when viewed through the sunglasses. I don't have any photos to show the difference in views between my regular sunglasses and my polarized ones, but I've done the experiment and I've determined that my color discrimination is better with the polarized lenses, so I always wear them when I'm on duty as the Lookout.

Though turquoise water is lovely to be anchored in, I prefer blue water when we're sailing. Blue water equals deep water equals safe water. As the water gets progressively shallower, it gets progressively lighter..dark green water up ahead is still okay; light blue is less ok; turquoise or bright, light green water (which I call "OMG green") get my immediate attention and merit a radio call to Eric, to have him confirm that there is, in fact, a shallow area or reef shown on the chart where it looks like there is one.

The shallowest water of all is a light tan color, indicating coral near enough to the surface to show through. It's the least water you can have, without being dry land. Sometimes, in fact, it's just "wet land." You really want to avoid light brown patches of water.

When seen at a distance, these color variations usually take the form of a thin line at the horizon. A patch of shallow water at half a mile, for instance, would look like a thin light blue, light green or turquoise line riding atop the darker blue of the deeper water. It may be the edge of a huge reef, but all I can see is the edge. By the time the reef begins to show a shape, we're close enough to it that we should have already known its location for awhile.

Most of the time, when I call Eric to confirm a reef or an area of shallow water that I see, he's already seen it on the chart. But one time, the thin line of light blue water I saw up ahead wasn't indicated on the chart as being shallower than the dark blue, seventy-foot-deep water we were in. It was too extensive to go around, crossing our path as far as I could see to left and right, but as it wasn't OMG green, it was probably going to be deeper than our keel. Also, as this was smack in the middle of an area with lots of boat traffic, we hoped that any obstructions would most likely have been discovered long ago and placed on charts or at least marked with a floating buoy. Still, we reduced speed and proceeded very carefully, Eric watching the depth gauge as I hung out over the pulpit watching for any coral heads that we might have to swerve around. Eric called out the depths about once a second as we approached, and then floated over, the light blue patch: "Seventy feet...seventy feet...twenty-five feet!" In the space of a heartbeat, the bottom had risen forty-five feet! The depth remained at twenty-five feet as we crossed the light blue water. I could see rocks and coral on the bottom, but no coral heads loomed out of the depths to trip us up. A couple of minutes later, we let out our breath as SCOOTS slid back into dark blue water.

I also pay attention to subtle (or not so subtle) alterations in the flow characteristics of the ocean's surface, that could indicate shallow water, reefs, or even isolated rocks lurking beneath the surface. A white line of distant breakers is often my first hint that there's a reef up ahead, spotted way before I could hope to detect a color change. Submerged rocks will sometimes cause the surface water to swirl; swirly water is best avoided.

Breakers (indicated by arrows) in the distance indicating the location of a reef.

This is all well and good in sunny weather with calm seas. It's a lot harder trying to make these observations in choppy water, or when clouds have turned the surface of the ocean to a uniform steel gray, conditions that occur quite often. So you can see why we value our redundant charts and waypoint tracks.

The charts we use have been pretty good - though not perfect - about showing the locations of shallow areas, and features that we could hit. As an added enhancement, we overlay our boat's GPS position on satellite photos, which show shallow areas and reefs in colorful detail.

To provide further comfort - especially when it's cloudy, or the wind has kicked up waves that obscure the color gradients, or it's raining and I can't see anything, let alone colors - we have tracks. In addition to sharing their warnings and wisdom, cruisers who've sailed these waters before us have recorded their GPS tracks and shared them with us and other cruisers. Once we've imported the tracks into our electronic chartplotter, all we have to do to safely navigate our route is to follow their waypoints - displayed like so many digital breadcrumbs - for the same route. We don't have tracks for everywhere we sail, but we have quite a few. We're also saving our own GPS tracks, which we'll be able to share with other cruisers.

Here is an example of a track we followed in the Yasawa Islands. The white squares with a circle in the middle are GPS waypoints; the blue line is the track connecting them. Blue and purple circles with X's in them, and asterisks, indicate rocks; blobs of blue and green indicate areas of shallow water and/or reefs; brown is land.

We could, in theory, follow someone's track at night. But as you know, Prudent Mariner disciples such as we would never, never, never, never, NEVER do that. Unless we really had to.

As I stand on the front of the boat for hours at a time, watching intently for things we might hit, my mind can tend to wander, even as my visual attention is focused on the horizon. During one of these extended Lookout sessions, I created a scale of attentiveness that I call the ReefCon scale, based loosely on the Norad DefCon scale. When we're cruising someplace for which we have no tracks, scant depth information, we're near reefs or areas of shallow water, or perhaps the sky is cloudy and the water is streaked with whitecaps, I'll be at ReefCon 5: fully focused, continuously scanning the horizon for any indication of danger. Different sets of conditions will merit ReefCon levels of 3 or 4, at my discretion. (My scale, my level assignment.) If we're following someone's track, though, I back off to ReefCon 2.

Eric once asked me, "Why wouldn't following someone's track be ReefCon 1?"

I'd had a lot of time, up there on the bow pulpit, to think about the levels of my ReefCon scale, so I was ready with an answer. "ReefCon 1," I told him, "is when we're anchored. I'm still paying attention to our surroundings, but much less than when we're moving. When SCOOTS is snug in a slip in a marina, I'll relax to ReefCon 0."

Eric just smiled and shook his head in the friendly, disarming way that he's been responding to my goofiness for more than three decades.

But in spite of this bit of goofiness, we take navigating very seriously, and we'll keep following the Prudent Navigator's lead.

Mana: a resort with an island around it

07 October 2017 | Mana Island, Fiji
Mana Island 17 40.13'S, 177 05.98'E

After three days at Castaway, we were ready to explore another island. So we pulled up SCOOTS' anchor - at the end of 240 feet of chain - and headed north to Mana Island. As the seagull flies, Mana lies only about 3.5 miles away; but the seagull doesn't have to worry about reefs, and we do.

As you can see from the picture, we had to wind our way around and between some reefs, so our total distance was more like 5 miles. Still, not very far at all. We're really digging this coastal cruising!

We had a lovely sail to Mana, with SCOOTS' genoa catching the wind. I stood on the bow - my customary station whenever we navigate Fiji's reef-strewn waters - keeping a lookout for any uncharted reefs. We didn't encounter any. All the reefs were quite well-marked on our charts and Google Earth images.

Mana's south side has a large lagoon enclosed by a stunningly beautiful reef. Most of the resorts and concessions are located here, as well as the usual anchorage. But the wind was still blowing quite hard from the south, so we rounded the eastern shore of the island and took refuge from the wind and waves on the north side of the island, dropping SCOOTS' anchor in 65 feet of calm water off a lovely white sand beach, shaded by coconut palm trees. I'll never get tired of white sand beaches with palm trees.

We took our dinghy to the beach one day, and explored the many winding trails of the Mana Island Resort. This large, family-friendly resort sprawls over most of the island, along both north and south shores, as well as across the middle.

Vandy admiring their very large drum

It offers a wide assortment of activities, a large selection of bures, several restaurants, a few swimming pools, and even a sea turtle rookery.

Three or four green turtles were lazing about in the water of their small enclosure when we were there.

We also wandered over to the lagoon side of the island, where the strong winds were keeping most of the water toys on the beach.

It's a long jump to the dock.

If family-friendly Mana Island Resort isn't your style of accommodations, you have two other options: an inexpensive backpacker hostel and Tadrai, a five-star resort catering to couples.

The wind blew quite hard during our time at Mana, even on the back side of the island where we were, so we spent most of our time on SCOOTS. We did meet some other cruisers who dropped the hook near us, and I paddled our kayak around one day when the wind had lulled a bit.

After a few windy days, we set sail for Monuriki Island, a picturesque island featured in the Tom Hanks movie, Cast Away.

Castaway Island: friends, seaplanes, and a nice resort

17 September 2017 | Castaway Island, Fiji
Castaway Island 17 43.74'S, 177 07.72'E

Location of the Mamanuca and Yasawa Islands, Fiji


The morning after our night anchored off Wadigi Island, we received an email from some cruiser friends whom we'd last seen in American Samoa last October. A fun and friendly family of six hailing from Nelson, NZ, the crew of s/v Noce Sei, it turned out, were anchored at an island just a few miles north of us. Would we like to get together? Yes!

We agreed to meet at Castaway Island (known to Fijians as Qalito Island), a location between our two anchorages. The wind was still blowing hard from the SE, so we ignored the usual anchoring spot on the south side of the island, choosing instead to drop the hook around the corner, on the north side of the island, near a floating wooden platform that we assumed was a swimming raft.

Noce Sei arrived at about the same time and dropped anchor nearby. As we stood on deck waving at Lucy, Adrian, Callam, Naomi, Thomas, and Tillie, Eric blowing a hearty hello through our conch shell, we heard the throaty rumble of a sea plane engine.

Noce Sei!

Looking up, we watched as the plane came closer, and closer, and then roared to a landing, skimming along the water near SCOOTS, the pilot giving us a thumbs up as he went by, then taxiing over to the wooden platform. Ah, we thought, that is not a swimming raft.

Eric dinghied over to the plane to ask the pilot if we were in his way. “Nah mon,” he said. “The ocean is big. I can land anywhere.” OK then. We enjoyed many more of the sea plane's visits, here and at other island anchorages. We always exchanged waves and thumbs up with the pilot, who often found ways to inject some excitement into his takeoffs and landings, for both his passengers and for the nearby boats.

We enjoyed morning tea with the Noce Sei crew, and then reconvened later for drinks, dinner, and a rousing game of Apples to Apples. Veterans of many miles and months of sailing in Fiji, Lucy and Adrian gave us their navigation waypoints and tracks, notes about different islands and anchorages, and even lent us their Fiji F5 paper chart covering the Mamanuca and Yasawa Islands, which they'd annotated with interesting tidbits. We used that chart – and Lucy's notes – for the whole time we cruised the islands. They were very handy.

Though the Noce Seis had to leave for their next destination in the morning, Eric and I stayed anchored off of Castaway Island for two more days.

SCOOTS waiting for us

We dinghied to shore to wander around Castaway Resort, enjoy lunch at the beachfront restaurant,

and hike the island's trails.

Despite its name, the movie “Cast Away” wasn't filmed here; it was filmed at a different island, a few miles away. The resort has an assortment of bures (small huts) of different sizes and prices, tucked away in lush gardens along winding pathways; two pools – one that welcomes kids, and one that doesn't; a long list of activities and excursions; and several bars and restaurants. You can read more about Castaway Resort here: www.castawayfiji.com.

Pointy rocks, fickle wind, and an exclusive resort

11 September 2017 | Wadigi Island, Fiji
We've been exploring the Mamanuca and Yasawa Islands for a few weeks now. Here are some highlights from our destinations....

First, some maps to get you oriented:

The Mamanuca and Yasawa Islands, off the west coast of the large island of Viti Levu, Fiji.

The Mamanucas that we visited.

Wadigi Island 17 45.196'S, 177 08.717'E

The first place we went after leaving Musket Cove's crowded anchorage was Wadigi Island, just around the corner. This anchorage is good during settled weather, and when the wind is coming from the north, both conditions that were in evidence. Though we were concerned about the nasty-looking rocks that poked up above the water about 200 yards to the north of us, we took consolation in the fact that they were in fact well upwind of us and dropped SCOOTS' anchor in 75 feet of water. It took us a couple of tries to get the anchor to set - the bottom was apparently rocky - but we finally got it hooked and settled down to enjoy our new surroundings.

Wadigi Island is home to an exclusive resort, where you can stay for about $1300 US per person per night. Yes you read that right. You can read more about it here: www.wadigi.com.

Wadigi Island.

Just after sunset, the wind switched around to the SE at about 20 knots, and swung SCOOTS' stern toward those nasty-looking rocks. Though we were still a hundred or so yards away, we weren't interested in spending a night knowing they were right behind us, should the anchor drag. So, we pulled up SCOOTS' anchor and moved. Though our new spot was farther from the rocks, it was closer to some submerged coral. The anchor held fine, but we didn't have a particularly restful night. In the morning, the low tide revealed a row of jagged coral about twenty-five yards behind us. Yikes.

Magnetic Musket Cove, and a Rant about religion and pronunciation

17 August 2017 | Musket Cove Resort
With four months to explore Fiji, Eric and I had to decide where to spend that time. So on one of those breezy days while we were anchored off of Akuilau Island, we sat down with a map of Fiji, a Lonely Planet Guide, a selection of cruising guides, and discussed our options.

Which of Fiji's 333 islands do we want to visit? Fortunately, since we plan to cruise Fiji for more than one season, we don't feel compelled to visit all – or even most – of the islands this time around. Add to the mix the fact that most of those islands are upwind of our current position, making some of them much less attractive. So we decided, for the moment, to just focus on Fiji's western district, beginning with the Mamanuca and Yasawa Island groups, strung like four dozen bright pearls off Viti Levu's northwest coast.

I'm going to make a small digression here, perhaps even a tiny rant, to consider the intersection of religion and pronunciation. What, you may ask, could these two topics possibly have in common? Quite a bit, actually, in the South Pacific. Here's why. We'll begin with the pronunciation of the Yasawa and Mamanuca Island groups: Yasawa is pronounced “yah-sah-wah,” pretty much as you'd expect from its spelling. Mamanuca, on the other hand, is pronounced, “mah-mah-nu-THa.” Yes, here in Fiji, the letter “c” is pronounced “th.” The Fijian language has other letters that are pronounced differently than we pronounce them: for instance, the letter “g” and the letter “q” are both pronounced “ng.” (Apparently, the two “ng” sounds are slightly different, but we don't need to delve into that much detail.)

Those are some really odd pronunciations, especially the “c” and “th” thing. Why is that? I wondered. And then it occurred to me: it's the Christian missionaries' fault. While they were in Fiji, converting the locals to Christianity, the missionaries also took the opportunity to codify the Fijians' oral language into a written language, assigning letters to the sounds. And here is where I go berserk: why, when presented with the sound “th,” did they decide to assign it the letter “c”? What were they thinking?! Eric suspects that some of the missionaries spoke Castillian Spanish, in which “c” is pronounced as “th.” He could be right.

And they've done this same sort of thing all over the Pacific. You've heard of Christmas Island? That's how it's pronounced, but this is how it's spelled: Kiritimati. The island nation that's pronounced “Kiribas” is spelled Kiribati. Why did the missionaries assign the letters “ti” to an “s” sound? Why, when given the opportunity to make written languages from previously oral-only languages, did the missionaries pulled these stunts. They knew how to read and write and spell; I can't fathom why they would have done that. Unless they just wanted to mess with us.

But I digress...

The first place we visited in the Mamanucas was Musket Cove on tiny Malololailai Island (the word “lailai” even means “small”), a two-hour sail beginning with a straight shot across relatively deep water, culminating in some careful motoring among coral reefs. While Eric watched the charts and manned the helm, I maintained a lookout on the pulpit, radio in hand, peering into and across the water through polarized sunglasses, looking for the telltale bright green or light brown that signal danger. I saw a lot of it – all where our charts indicated that it should be, and none of it right in front of us, which was good.

Cruisers had warned us: “Musket Cove is like a giant magnet...once you get there, you won't want to leave.” This magnetic attraction is most likely due to the combination of a welcoming yacht club, inexpensive moorings, a small but well-stocked market, several cruiser-friendly resorts, lovely scenery and snorkeling spots, a waterside bar, and even a small marina.

We tied up to a mooring ball, then enjoyed lunch and our traditional arrival beer in the cockpit, peering around at the thirty other boats anchored or moored with us, some friends from other places, some friends yet to be made.

The Mamanucas are known for their resorts, and Malololailai has three of them – Musket Cove Island Resort, Plantation Island Resort, and Lomani Resort – each attracting a different clientele, together hosting hundreds of people at any given time. That's a lot of humanity squeezed onto a 2.4 square mile island. Consequently, the bay out in front of the resorts is a busy place: pangas zipping by, loaded with bathing suit-clad pink tourists out for a day of snorkeling, diving, shark viewing, or sunbathing on a remote beach; floatplanes skimming to landings near shore, transferring passengers to and from waiting pangas, then roaring away, their pontoons trailing plumes of spray as they gathered speed; helicopters and small planes landing and taking off from the dirt runway, their movements obscured by giant clouds of dust; kayakers paddling by; snorkelers bobbing over the reefs. In the midst of it all, cruisersbuzzed in their dinghies between their boats and the marina's dinghy dock. It was an exciting environment to be immersed in.

The "private island" portion of the resort.

We enjoyed meals in the restaurants of both resorts,

and sundowners on board SCOOTS and our friends' boats. We bought groceries and produce from the small store, and walked all over the small island.

We always seem to find the hidden underbelly of places. Here's the resort's reverse osmosis plant.

Gathering sand for our beach sand collection (we now have sand from 92 beaches)!

One day, we went in search of the organic farm that friends had told us was on the island. Our trek took us along the airstrip,

past a junkyard of worn out machines,

past some old boat molds,

and into the scrubby forest, where we found birds

and even more discarded machinery.

Following the signs,

we eventually found the farm, a compact, verdant collection of healthy-looking produce, but we didn't buy anything as no one was around at the time to sell us anything.

Another day, our wanderings brought us to a fourth resort – Malololailai Lagoon Resort Club. As we walked among the dozens of cute little bures, set amidst well-tended landscaping, and fronted by a white sand beach, we soon realized that this was not an operating resort.

The place was abandoned; eerily quiet. Peering through the window of one locked bure after another, we found the same scene: interiors set up as if waiting for guests to arrive – kitchenware on the counters, bottles of dish soap near the sink, pillows and sheets stacked on the beds – and porch furniture stored inside, out of the elements. The place had the same feeling as the two deserted hotels we'd visited in Baja: abandoned, but poised as if waiting to suddenly explode into life again. Beyond the bures, the evidence of neglect was more pronounced: a cracked and weedy tennis court, a swimming pool half-filled with milky green water. Our bare arms suddenly bristled with mosquitoes, who were apparently enjoying the pool. We slapped them away and made a quick exit from the shady silence of the abandoned resort, to the sunshine of the dirt road beyond.

After six days enjoying magnetic Musket Cove, we slipped free from its attraction aand headed north to explore some more of the Mamanucas.
Vessel Name: SCOOTS
Vessel Make/Model: Able Apogee 50
Hailing Port: San Francisco, CA
Crew: Eric and Vandy Shrader
About: We've been living aboard full time since September 2014. We sailed to Mexico with the 2014 Baja Haha and had fun exploring Mexico until April 2016, when we turned SCOOTS west and headed to the South Pacific. As of late Nov. 2016, SCOOTS and her crew are exploring New Zealand.
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