December 5, 2024 – April 12, 2025
In spite of some of the grim realities we saw facing Tuvalu, both below water in the present tense and above water in the not-so-distant future tense, we had no regrets concerning the decision had made heading north to Tuvalu instead of south to New Zealand or Australia for the cyclone season.
Within a week of our arrival to Tuvalu, we found ourselves sitting at anchor between the motus Fualifeke & Pa‘ava – two tiny islands at the northern edge of Funafuti’s lagoon. Only a few built structures could be seen along the shoreline and, as far as we could tell, the combined population of both motus didn’t appear to exceed even ten people.
Merely a scattering of very benign looking white, puffy clouds separated the stunning blue skies from the equally stunning blue water, which currently was only slightly rougher than glassy calm.
Just to our west was the Funafuti Conservation Area. We were prohibited from anchoring the mothership in the area, but one day, we decided to make a long distance dinghy excursion to visit the postcard perfect island of Tengako, four nautical miles from where we were anchored.
Ominous clouds building in the distance forced us to cut our visit short, considering the distance we had traveled by dinghy. We returned to Exit under still friendly conditions and still found time to read on deck while monitoring the storm clouds in the distance.
Though the squall was short lived, it was still a shrewd reminder that sailors who live to a ripe old age do so only by constantly keeping an eye on the horizon. However, for the time being, even brief durations of grey skies and showers were rewarded with full water catch jugs and double rainbows.
Fualifeke & Pa‘ava turned out to be a spectacular area to anchor at. We had found a perfect sandy spot with great holding, didn’t feel like we were intruding on anyone else, and felt well protected both from most of the winds we were experiencing as well as the prevailing swell (except during the highest tides). Whether diving, snorkeling, or taking out the dinghy, there seemed to be lots of places to explore. And we could jump in the water at any time, without even considering the need for wetsuits.
When we had arrived in Wallis and Futuna, we were flabbergasted to learn we were only boat #35 (of 2024) to visit the country. In Tuvalu, they estimated we were maybe the fifteenth private vessel, and the year was almost over. Crazy.
During our first month in Tuvalu we found ourselves briefly having to share the country with two other sailboats. We had to laugh. Three sailboats in the entire country…it was starting to get a bit crowded. And yet, one of them still had to follow us up to Fualifeke & Pa‘ava and anchor right next to us. It never ceases to amaze us.
The week before Christmas we decided that it was time to move. Once the newest arrival, a catamoron, rolled in right next to the monohull that had already taken up residence beside us, we decided it was too damn crowded. It was one thing to have three boats in the country with us…but all in the same anchorage? Bullshit.
Since our arrival in Funafuti, we had only been north of the town of Vaiaku. It seemed a rather obvious choice that it was time to explore the southern reaches of the lagoon. We quietly picked up anchor and snuck away, keeping an eye behind us while hoping the current trajectory of Exit’s gray hull would be adequately camouflaged from prying eyes by the day’s gray skies.
We made a stopover in Vaiaku for some additional holiday provisions.
After a few days, we headed south and anchored just off the tiny uninhabited island of Funafara. There was a little village to the south of us (Funamoana Takutai), so we saw a fair amount of local small boat traffic going back and forth. But, aside from a friendly wave and smile as locals occasionally passed by, once again we found ourselves all alone.
During the previous months, we had noticed that Kris’ oh-so-precious SUP had developed a slow air leak. It was the primary means, without having to either burn petrol or get wet, by which Kris could get off the boat daily to stretch, get a bit of exercise, appreciate the lovely scenery, or simply enjoy the pleasure of being out of hearing range of me, so it was crucial that the SUP be healthy, operational, and available.
I could tell, when the air leak reached a point of severity where the SUP was floppy every morning and in need of a pump up before it could be put in the water, Kris was becoming VERY concerned. The level of distress that would result from an inability to distance herself from my presence at her discretion would not be tenable.
Though the potential risks of a fatality on the operating table were real, Kris agreed that a slow inevitable death was currently playing out, and an early surgery to try to save her beloved SUP was more likely to be successful than waiting until a catastrophic failure occurred.
Identifying the leaking area was not so difficult with a spray bottle of soapy water. Bubbles emanating out from under the foam in a few locations immediately gave away the locations of the problem spots. Getting under the foam without destroying it to facilitate a repair on the seams that were failing was a much less simple endeavor.
I undertook the task with the careful and delicate touch of a surgeon.
With every seam that was re-sealed, another leak revealed itself at a different location. Eventually, I had lifted the foam around the entire circumference of the seam, exposing everything which led to re-sealing it entirely.
What started as a minor repair turned into multiple major surgeries. The project had started during the first week of December. My hopes of having the SUP completely restored for Kris by Christmas were dashed when, by the 26th, the patient remained on the operating table still undergoing endless procedures.
While Christmas Eve at Tuvalu did not include making angels in the snow, decorating an evergreen tree, or a paddle on the SUP, we still managed to have an exceptionally happy holiday.
The day after Christmas we lifted anchor once again. This time we moved less than a mile to the north. Far enough to be next to a different tiny uninhabited island called Mateiko. This got us away from a shallow area of rock we had been anchored near that was a bit too close for our comfort, and closer to an area we had discovered that quickly became our favorite dive site. It was home to not only a few healthy bits of coral (which we learned, to make a drastic understatement, were far and few in between); but even more amazingly, apparently the only resident manta ray. To our delight, it seemed to seek us out every time we went for a dive there…fucking awesome.
Then, on January 3 of the new year, Kris’ cherished SUP arose from the salon operating table, alive. With assistance, it was slowly taken up on deck, pumped up with air, and lowered into the water.
Lo and behold, it floated!!!
For the first time in over a month, Kris went paddling away with an ear to ear grin on her face.
Sadly, the SUP’s duration of miraculous remission was short lived. Within a few days and a handful of paddle excursions, the telltale hissing and bubbles as the SUP was pulled out of the water returned…a relapse had occurred.
There was nothing that could be done. With very heavy hearts, we accepted the inevitable. Our next trip to the States would require the logistical nightmare of transporting a SUP as luggage during the return flight.
Until that time, I would have to be very careful of what political and social commentary I allowed to pass through my lips. I don’t sleep with one eye open and we were very isolated anyway. If I crossed Kris’ threshold of patience and tolerance, no one would ever hear me scream anyway.
We had been in Tuvalu just over one month. For us, both Christmas and New Years had been spent in isolated bliss. We were more than happy where we were. However, Mother Nature had other plans. The immediate weather forecasts warned that less than benign north and northwestern winds were on the way, carrying with them a likelihood of some pretty substantial rain.
Even though we were inside the lagoon, considering there was over ten miles of open water separating us from the north side of the atoll, once the winds picked up there was a very high likelihood that a shitload of fetch would build up. We did not want to be sitting down south on the receiving end of one to three foot waves when we had other options.
We headed back north to Fualifeke & Pa‘ava.
After a week of north winds with Exit nestled between Fualifeke & Pa‘ava, the winds shifted to northwest. We decided to move to the northwest corner of the lagoon, just outside the Conservation Area, trying to get better protection from the fetch which we expected to build with the change in wind direction.
It was a challenge to anchor in nearly eighty feet of water with the remnants of coral structures scattered everywhere, but we eventually were happy with the decision.
While we were hunkered down for the winds, additional disaster struck. This time it was mixer disaster…bad news for the bar.
As part of our “prepare for the Apocalypse provisioning” in Tonga, knowing we were headed for the edge of the world, we had stocked up on nearly two cases of tonic water. Upon reaching Tuvalu, we were happy for this moment of forethought. Apparently Tuvaluans don’t drink gin and tonics because there wasn’t a single can of tonic water for sale in any of the stores.
While gin and tonics may not be our absolute favorite go-to drink of choice, it certainly ranks among one of the five we’ll drink on any given night – yes, both one of the five we’ll choose from as well as one of the five cocktails we might choose to drink…hmmm.
And though we try to keep a healthy (or unhealthy) stock of tonic water within our mixer inventory, they seem to be the most at risk…not only of being consumed first, but also of leaking. Or worse yet…exploding.
I recall an ongoing mystery over a decade ago when we worked at Scuba Junkie on the tiny island of Mabul in Borneo, Malaysia. Unopened crates of mixer (usually tonic water) would occasionally be discovered in the store room with anywhere between a few and half of the cans partially to completely empty. We would have blamed the staff, except for the fact that the damn pull tabs were still completely intact. No holes could be found on any of the cans. It became an ongoing “What the fuck?” riddle that vexed us.
Years later, aboard Exit, the truth was finally revealed.
Aluminium cans do not like salt water environments at all. For some reason, if the cans come into contact with ANY salt water, they seem to be very susceptible to developing tiny pinholes which, obviously, is a calamity for said can’s contents. This can happen while en route to the grocery store (very hard to control or be aware of), between the store and our boat, or while being stored aboard the boat. These pinholes can be absolutely minute. So small that, in some cases, we have discovered a can of tonic that was only half full of liquid but still had retained its carbonation…go figure that one out. It seems to be a combination of the pathetically thin walls of cans (obviously a profit margin concern of beverage companies) and any salt water exposure.
For this reason, we wipe every aluminium can that we bring aboard the boat with a damp sponge. It seems to help immensely, but is by no means foolproof. If you’re smart, the cans are stored inside a plastic box, just in case. If you’re lucky a few end up with pinholes. If you’re less lucky, they spring a leak when you bump them against something, unleashing panic and chaos as you desperately try to control the fine stream of spray that is covering everything in the salon. If the gods are particularly cross with you, the degradation results in full structural failure, and the whole damn can explodes.
Discovering standing liquid at the bottom of a plastic bin storing cans, always makes one’s day shittier. But it’s well better than discovering a mess all over the bottom of a locker under the floorboards, especially if it’s not discovered until after the contents have been sitting long enough to begin molding.
So, as I was saying earlier, anticipating our five month existence at the edge of the world, we had stocked as many cans of tonic as we could. And yet, knowing their unstable nature, we had to limit that number and accept the fact that, if we couldn’t find more, gin and tonics would just become more of a special occasion cocktail.
Which is why, when we lifted the floor boards that covered one of our stashes of tonic water, I screamed like a little girl upon discovering the tragedy that had befallen us. Not one, not two, not a few, not even a handful of cans of tonic water…it was no less than fifteen fucking cans that had succumbed to the dastardly exposure of the salt water environment that we call home.
And not just succumbed. Not just leaked. Rather, they had full on exploded. Absolutely fucking detonated.
In one moment we had lost over twenty five percent of our tonic water inventory. It was a devastating day aboard Exit.
Fortunately, we are fairly un-picky alcoholics. While Tuvalu didn’t have tonic water, they did manage to fill the gap with various other less glorious substitute mixers. We were bummed, but we sure as hell weren’t about to stop drinking our gin. We aren’t fools. Sailors got to be improvisors…no doubt about that.
As the last week of January set in upon us, it was approaching two months since our arrival in Tuvalu. We had already made the return rounds through all of our other previous anchorages and, once again, found ourselves back at our favorite…Mateiko Island.
By this time, both the monohull and the catamoron had cleared out of the country and were probably hundreds of miles to the north in Kiribati or the Marshall Islands. For a fleeting moment, once again we were the only sailboat in the entire country. And then…dèjá vu. Another catamoron. Amazingly, they passed by us only once while we were at anchor and, with a wave, continued on to a different spot. We never spoke to them. One week later, they too were gone. It would be the last sailboat we would see during our entire stay in Tuvalu. Once again, Tuvalu had a sailboat population of one…us.
During the week we managed a dinghy excursion towards the southern tip of Funafuti where we found a stunning range of picturesque shades of blue, resulting from the variations in water depth throughout the area. The tide was far too low to visit the tiny nearby village of Funamoana Takutai (funny – almost a higher number of letters in the village’s name than people living in the village). However, wandering about in the dinghy, we discovered what looked to be the decrepit remains of some random unidentified vessel or diesel machinery, sitting partially out of the water.
After a brief exploration ashore at Mateiko one day, we enjoyed fresh coconut meat and tropical rum beverages served in a coconut shell – an atypical treat as far as Exit’s sundowners usually go. My bartending menus/skills tend to be much simpler and less ambitious than that.
Kris, on the other hand, is always far more diligent, creative, dedicated, and talented than myself when it comes to cooking, despite her absolute disdain for the task. Her imagination never ceases to amaze me, not to mention, keeps my belly full of the best boat cuisine imaginable. I often joke that she needs to author a sailor’s cookbook. My suggested title…Unforgettable Cuisine Recipes For The Sailor Who Despises Cooking.
Unanticipated mixed messages…
We were still anchored just off of the tiny uninhabited island of Mateiko, our favorite anchorage. We had already done a number of dives nearby and found the area to be one of the only with any healthy coral at all. Even better, we had stumbled across a lone manta ray that seemed to be a resident there and appeared to enjoy seeking us out time and time again when we were diving in that same area. So cool.
Every few days, or even a couple of times a day, local boats would pass by. Sometimes just a single person, sometimes a family, or a group of people – either heading from the small village at the southeast corner of the lagoon towards the main town of Vaiaku, or vise versa. Regularly, a fisherman or two in a small boat would pass by us with a friendly wave, obviously heading for or returning from a day (or night) of fishing outside the lagoon in the open water.
Though accompanied by some rather perplexed looks from people, obviously trying to wrap their heads around exactly what in the hell a couple of people on a sailboat were doing just sitting there for days on end, they always had smiles on their faces and offered enthusiastic waves to us.
We got used to, though never tired of, the friendly exchanges every passing boat seemed to offer up.
We were quite surprised when, one day, a small boat carrying what must have been ten or so people slowly approached us and stopped just off Exit’s transom. We greeted them with a smile and a “hello”. Everyone smiled back except maybe the guy driving the boat, who seemed to be much less amused at our presence.
Speaking in very broken English, he identified himself as Mr. Osa, with the Marine Police. It appeared he was questioning why we were anchored at that location. We tried to explain that we had cleared in with the Tuvalu authorities months ago and had already visited the Town Council, where we had been told after paying the anchoring fee that we were free to travel anywhere inside the lagoon as long as we didn’t anchor in the Conservation Area.
We apologized if there had been some sort of misunderstanding on our part, but expressed that we thought we were okay to be in this location. It was, after all, on the opposite side of the lagoon from the Conservation Area. He seemed to mull this over momentarily, and then shrugged and we got the impression he had accepted our explanation.
A few days later, two fishermen approached our transom slowly and stopped. They threw us a dilapidated line and tentatively said hello. We offered two big smiles and two friendly hellos in return. The pile of fish in the bottom of their small boat testified to a rather successful day of fishing that they must have just completed. After a brief exchange, they picked up what must have a ten pound or so tuna and held it out towards us.
While I thought they were offering to sell us some of their bounty, they quickly indicated I was mistaken. They expected nothing from us other than to fry it up and enjoy it for dinner. A gift. Though Kris is vegetarian, we were struck by their kind gesture and eagerly accepted. They motored away both waving and smiling. It seemed we were back in the good graces of the locals.
Which is why we were even more surprised when a few days later, another boat loaded with people pulled up to our transom with none other than Mr. Osa once again manning the outboard engine. This time, his demeanor seemed even more dour than before. He simply indicated we needed to go visit the Town Council. It was Friday afternoon. They would already be closed by the time we got there. He told us we could remain at anchor through the weekend, but Monday we needed to go speak with them.
Hmmmm…this sounded ominous.
On Monday, we picked up anchor and returned to the town of Vaiaku and headed straight to the Town Council. This was when we learned first hand how profoundly the behavior of a few assholes could directly and adversely affect us. One of the people in the Town Council office informed us that there had been a change of policy for visiting sailboats at the start of the new year.
It was because of the fucking cata-moron that was already at anchor when we first arrived to Tuvalu. They had told us themselves before leaving that they had gotten in quite a bit of trouble for sailing to the only other atoll in Tuvalu that sailboats were allowed to visit – only they hadn’t received permission to do so prior to their visit. Idiots.
Now we were informed that the Town Council had learned not only had these dipshits committed that offense…in addition they had anchored their cat inside the Funafuti Conservation Area and proceeded to go fishing (all strictly prohibited). If that wasn’t bad enough, some of the crew had gone ashore to one of the islands where they had camped for days and build bonfires. Fuckers!
As a direct response to the behavior of these numbnuts, the Town Council had decided that all visiting sailboats would be prohibited from any movement within the lagoon area of Funafuti. The only location currently permitted as an anchorage was just off of the town of Vaiaku itself!
We expressed how incredulous we were at the jack-offs responsible, and that we certainly couldn’t fault the decision that had been made. A lack of respect from one boat can single-handedly fuck things up for every subsequent boat in its wake. Still, we carefully and diplomatically tried to explain that we had now been in Tuvalu for two months, trying to show the utmost of respect in our behavior, following the rules and guidelines given to us, being diligent in our caution to avoid causing damage where we anchored, and were highly appreciative that Tuvaluans had been so friendly, hospitable, and accommodating so far.
We still planned to be here for another two to three months until cyclone season was over, and were relieved when the people we were speaking with acquiesced to the idea of us being allowed to still move about the lagoon, especially when changing wind directions and weather dictated that necessity, as long as we first contacted the Town Council and received permission to do so.
By this time, we had also already made contact with the Funafuti Fisheries, happily offering to volunteer our time to assist in any conservation efforts they might have underway. The director’s decision to take advantage of our scuba resources and experience to survey potential locations that giant clams might still be found in order to help stock their newly built holding facilities in an attempt to rehabilitate and repopulate the dwindling location population required that we be able to dive in various locations around the lagoon. Anchoring Exit in different places would give us the opportunity to do just that, but we needed to be able to move about.
It turned out that Mr. Osa’s marine police responsibilities largely revolved around his stewardship of the Conservation Area. When Mrs. Bruce, the assistant secretary of the Town Council informed Mr. Osa that we would be allowed to move about a bit as well as dive on behalf of the Fisheries Department, the look we got made clear that #1 – he was not happy at all with the decision, and #2 – we would not be receiving any help or cooperation from him. It was the first time we had ever gotten the stink eye from anyone in Tuvalu and it sure carried a lot of animosity.
By this time our immigration status had become somewhat of a concern and began looming in the back of our minds. We had burned through about half of our four month visa limit and in two more months we would still have another month left before the cyclone season ended.
We only had four real options we could think of. We could leave Tuvalu at the end of March and take our chances inside the cyclone box for the final month of cyclone season. Or we could sail four hundred nautical miles to Wallis and Futuna (the nearest country), get our passports stamped, then sail four hundred miles back to Tuvalu and reset our immigration clock. Or we could fly from Tuvalu to another country while we left Exit at anchor in Funafuti. All three of these options held very little appeal to us. Rolling the dice…sailing eight hundred miles to get back to the same place…or pay thousands of dollars for airplane tickets while leaving our home exposed and unsecured at anchor.
We opted for curtain number four. Beg and plead with the powers that be.
We knew our status with the Town Council was, politely stated, strained. However, every time we had interacted with the immigration officials, they had always been incredibly friendly, helpful, and polite – when we had first cleared in, as well as the two times we had already extended our visas. We had a single one month extension remaining; but we surmised that if we were going to attempt to persuade them to make an exception it was better sooner than later. If they denied us, we’d still have some time to make an alternate plan. And though we didn’t think there was probably a lot of communication between the Immigration Office and the Town Council (the Town Council seemed to be on the shit list of just about every local we talked to), it made sense to try to get a green light before word potentially got back to them about how the Town Council felt about things.
So we composed a lengthy email requesting…no, begging that they grant us an additional immigration visa extension which would allow us to stay through our fifth month. A lone sailboat with two humble sea gypsies aboard hoping to maintain safe harbor and protected anchorage from potentially deadly cyclones here in the magnificent country of Tuvalu…a country that had shown nothing but hospitality, kindness and generosity since our arrival. It was a praise-gushing, ass-kissing, treatise in all-out brown nose negotiation.
And it worked! Damned if they didn’t reply within a few days, expressing how pleased they were that we had enjoyed ourselves so much here. Yes, they would be more than happy to grant us a (one time only) visa extension of one month beyond the official time legally allowed here.
Woohoo! It had worked. With certainty, we now knew we had a place to sit out the entire cyclone season and we immediately felt an huge weight lift from our shoulders. Now, if only we could keep the Town Council happy…
Back in December, across the airport runway just beyond the Funafuti Bank, we had discovered a small farming operation that had been set up by the Taiwanese government to assist Tuvalu in increasing access to fresh vegetables.
Oddly enough, almost every time we went there there, the front gate was either locked and chained or, if they were open, they had almost nothing available for sale. Cabbage…maybe cucumbers that had been grown elsewhere. The rows and rows of tomatoes always remained on the vines. Odd.
Finally, in February we hit pay dirt. Veggies, eggs, and fresh fruit. But not from the farm. We found them at the grocery stores. Around Christmas we had discovered potatoes, nearly the size of coconuts…but only once. Eggs appeared sporadically with the arrival of random cargo ships. Apples and onions were consistent. But this one time…almost everything. It had been almost three months and we wouldn’t see it again.
Though our largely unquenched appetite for fresh fruits and vegetables may have led to a differing opinion, from a weather perspective, we were repeatedly reminded of having zero regrets regarding our decision to be north of Tonga and Fiji for the cyclone season.
Despite New Zealand being south of any real cyclone danger, again and again we watched the Kiwis get pummeled by inhospitable weather which had sauntered up from Antarctica just looking for trouble.
Then, in late February, we watched what looked like a parade of potential cyclones marching from through the South Pacific, from just south of French Polynesia all the way to Australia.
One of these was Tropical Cyclone Rae. Reaching Category 2 status as it passed over Fiji, Rae kicked out winds as high as 60 knots (70 mph). Not a whopper, but not something to ignore, either.
Despite the cyclone itself being hundreds of miles to the south of us, as it progressed we watched the forecasts for Tuvalu grow more and more sinister. Wallis was expecting winds that could reach into the fifties. We were glad we had chosen not to take our chances south of Latitude 10°S. Tuvalu was forecasted to reach into the thirties. However, the wind direction was expected to come from the northwest.
Fualifeke & Pa’ava, on the north side of Funafuti, had proven to be the perfect anchorage last time things kicked up from that direction. It seemed like the go to place once again.
However, this time we couldn’t simply lift anchor and head there. A visit to the Town Council was now required…
Sigh.
The frown we got from Mr. Osa as we arrived at the Town Council building was adequate proof that he both recognized us, and still harbored some strong opinions against yachties. Fortunately, we could just smile and walk past him straight to the office. He wasn’t the one we had to talk to.
Even more fortunately, after a brief explanation of the situation, the woman at the desk seemed sympathetic to our situation. Not only did she give us permission to move Exit, she indicated we could email the assistant secretary Mrs. Bruce directly with future requests. Considering this was the person who had seemed appreciative of our assisting the Fisheries Department, we took that as a good omen.
It sounded easy enough. In reality, it worked…for less than a month.
We moved to Fualifeke & Pa’ava and settled in. Within a day, the skies around us began to darken with the ominous look of incoming potential chaos.
We kept a close eye regarding our own anchor holding on multiple iPads as the weather around us deteriorated, watching the winds which had kicked up from the cyclone that nearly smashed Fiji. Fortunately, we never saw wind speeds that reached higher than the low to mid thirties.
Though no cyclone ever materialized over Tuvalu, we still felt of the ripples from Rae’s outer bands. And when the skies finally cut loose, they did so with a vengeance…for two days straight.
We were grateful that we had excellent holding and no other boats were in the area to add to the stress.
Less than a week later, Cyclone Alfred blasted through the South Pacific. Once again, we were grateful for our decision to spend the cyclone season in Tuvalu. After denying us any coverage whatsoever in Fiji (unless we were hauled out and placed in a cyclone pit), five months ago our insurance company had assured us that, in addition to New Zealand, it would be acceptable if we spent the cyclone season in Brisbane, Australia (or south of there). After achieving 90+ knot winds (105mph) as a Category 4 cyclone, Alfred reached Australia on March 8, 2025. It was the first cyclone to hit Brisbane in something like over fifty years!
Whew. That would have sucked. And it would have blown…
Always keeping one eye (or four) on the horizon as potential storm clouds form.
As instructed by the Town Council, we had returned to Vaiaku after the winds had settled. Once again, we reached out to the assistant secretary of the Town Council, this time requesting permission to move back to Mateiko to do some additional dives as requested by the director of the Funafuti Fisheries Department, who had asked us to assist with surveying potential locations of giant clams for their ongoing conservation project.
Grudgingly, it seemed, permission was granted.
This was already becoming arduous. We had already been here three months. We still had two to go.
After a few dives with no sign of any giant clams, without warning, things started going south with our dive compressor. First a broken weld on one of the filter brackets.
Without any welding equipment, much less any welding skills, I was forced to bolt the bracket back together. Inconvenient…certainly, a ball ache to sort out…but not that big of a deal.
However, soon after we were mortified to discover a leak in one of the cooling pipes of the dive compressor. We were suddenly incapable of filling tanks. Shit. It turned out excessive vibrations from the broken bracket had caused the compressor to develop a leak in one of the stainless steel cooling pipes.
We were also running out of time before the Town Council wanted us back at Vaiaku.
For a bit of stress relief, we took a brief afternoon swim off the transom to go ashore on the small island of Mateiko on a calm day. Short lived but undeniably therapeutic.
We returned to Vaiaku with the hope of finding a mechanic that could possibly help with the compressor.
We were also starting to have real concerns regarding our propane status, which was a necessity for our stove. One 20lb. tank was already empty, our backup 20lb. tank was getting critically low as was the smaller 10lb. tank we use for the barbecue. We had already determined Tuvalu had no propane. Only butane, which was okay. Except no one had the fitting connection we needed. We had already spent a month unsuccessfully trying to find someone that could fill the tanks.
Back in Vaiaku, a brief moment of comic relief while trying to locate the last possible option for propane fills…the realization that a massive fuel tanker that was in the process of offloading its cargo had tied to a tiny tree ashore to help stabilize itself…
Unfortunately, despite all of our persistence and the efforts of one of the locals, we were unable to successfully refill our propane bottle. We’d just have to hope our dwindling supply held out.
That night a lightning storm passed overhead. The wind wasn’t bad but, when we turned on the electronics…aaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrgh! Once again, another wind indicator had succumbed to lightning. Not a direct hit, but just like in Wallis four months ago to the day, failure due to a static halo of some sort…electricity proximity…electro-magnetic interference…call it what you will. Fucking electrical voodoo!
Undoubtedly, our luck was beginning to falter.
No luck on the compressor either.
After loading up the compressor in the dinghy and bringing it ashore, we hauled it through town alongside the road in our little blue wagon until we found the mechanic who had been recommended to us.
Despite his kindness and efforts, we were gutted to learn there was nothing that could be done locally. The fitting wasn’t what was leaking. The stainless steel pipe had actually developed a crack…in a spot under the collar that was impossible to weld. Shit.
Without parts, our compressor was dead in the water.
This all led to a cascade of frustrating escapades (of comedic proportion) trying to get packages delivered from both New Zealand and Australia.
We were still going to be in Tuvalu for six weeks. There were flights from Fiji almost every day. No problem we thought.
From New Zealand we ordered the replacement stainless steel compressor cooling pipe we needed. From Australia we were in the process of ordering a new wind indicator sensor.
And then, both of our fresh water pumps began leaking. Both. The primary and the backup. Weird enough; but I simply pulled out the spare new pump from one of the spares lockers. It had been sitting in its box for seven years. We had purchased it before splashing after we first purchased Exit. Smart, eh? Except when I pulled it out of the box, I discovered it had a crack in the diaphragm housing – damage that had occurred when it was being assembled at the factory. We had been carrying around a new defective pump for seven years. Son of a bitch!
Undoubtedly, our luck wasn’t just beginning to falter. Bad luck was suddenly shitting all over us. I wouldn’t have walked under a ladder even if there was a hundred dollar bill sitting under it.
I quickly added a fresh water pump to the Australia order. Sorted…or so we believed.
The wind indicator and pump shipped immediately from Australia. It arrived in Fiji after only a few days and then proceeded to sit, going absolutely nowhere. After two weeks and over thirty emails back and forth with DHL, they finally confessed that the package wasn’t actually awaiting the next Fiji Airways flight to Tuvalu…duh(!)…we had watched ten flights from Fiji already land in Tuvalu. In fact, they were trying to sort out a shipping embargo Fiji Airways currently had in place which prioritized customer luggage over DHL cargo. They expected to have things sorted out within the next thirty days, allowing them to deliver the pallet sitting at the Fiji airport which, at the moment, held a thousand pounds of backlogged shipments. For fuck sake…really? By this time, we only had thirty days left on our visa. There was no way they would have their shit sorted by then. We relayed to three different people in the DHL hierarchy that we needed our package to simply be held in Fiji. We would be there shortly and could just pick it up there. They acknowledged the situation and assured us that what we were requesting would not be a problem. Ya, I would think not. Easy enough for the package to keep doing what it had been doing for the past two weeks…sitting doing absolutely nothing.
Our compressor part had never shipped out from New Zealand. It was backordered. This turned out to be a good thing. Instead of paying US$300 to ship a box that wouldn’t have gotten here anyway, we told the dive shop it would be picked up by someone. Our old friend aboard SV Russula had been in New Zealand for the cyclone season. It just so happened he would be passing by the dive shop’s location just before he sailed to Fiji. We could meet up there.
For the time being we’d simply have to use our foot pumps to deliver fresh water…hold up a finger to confirm wind direction…and put our compressor into hibernation.
Suddenly, it was almost April. We had been at what seemed like the edge of the world for four months. Ok…maybe “the edge of the world” was a bit of an exaggeration; but certainly a frontier outpost at the edge of civilization. Regardless, it was a long time to sit in such a small location. Once our scuba tanks were empty now, our diving was done. For the most part, our supplies were holding out and it seemed as though, with a little luck, we’d last another month before our propane ran out. However, if we couldn’t cook, things would start getting serious…downright grim, in fact. It also seemed as though our back stocks of good luck had pretty much run out. In fact, it felt like things were starting to unravel a bit.
I began to feel as though, one of these nights while I was on deck checking the snubber, I would hear someone say, “Relax”…only to turn around and have the night man step out of the dark and proclaim, “We are programmed to receive. You can clear out any time to like, but you can never leave.”
Eeek!
We needed to get away from Vaiaku and find a Zen equilibrium again. Except for one thing. The Town Council had now completely ghosted us. We had already made multiple attempts get permission to move. The last time Mrs. Bruce (the person we had to correspond with) had replied, she stated that she was traveling on a business trip and would contact us when she arrived at her destination. That never happened. After that…nothing but radio silence. That was the last time we heard from her. Fortunately, dangerous winds hadn’t been an issue; but still…
Without explicit permission, we couldn’t move anywhere outside the main island that Vaiaku was stretched out along. Outside the center of town, that gave us a spot about four miles to the north and three miles to the southwest.
For a couple of weeks, we bounced between those locations, growing more and more frustrated that the Town Council had turned out to be such dicks; they wouldn’t even give us the courtesy of an email reply. Yes, we understood the progression of circumstances that had occurred to arrive at that situation but we were still pissed. Fucking catamoron.
Still, every single other person we had interacted with in Tuvalu had been so friendly. Outside of our experience with the handful of people in the Town Council, we had nothing but stellar things to say about Tuvalu. It was remote and anything but posh; but still, it had treated us well.
And we would certainly miss those Tuvalu sunsets.
Not that Matafanua (at the south edge of Vaiaku) wasn’t nice. Certainly better than sitting just off the main part of town, where we had, not once but two separate times, watched pig intestines and lungs float past us while we sat at anchor, obviously the remnant entrails of pigs that had been slaughtered near the shore. Kris loved that…
But with most of April still ahead of us, we started discussing alternatives.
We immediately decided we could take our chances leaving two weeks before cyclone season officially ended. Wallis lies right at the edge of Latitude 10°S and, for the most part, hadn’t seen weather that different from Tuvalu. Yes, it would be a small roll of the dice, but it was only two weeks. We were in one hundred percent agreement. The decision took even less time than it had to originally decide we were coming to Tuvalu.
Four to five hundred nautical miles to Wallis, depending on the winds. Previously, we had been forced to cut our stay short there; but now it would be the perfect place to sit out the remainder of April. Then another four hundred nautical miles to Fiji in May. With the insurance company, no claim would mean no problem. No blood…no foul. We had fallen into a morale crater here in Tuvalu, but we could instantly feel the tide turning.
In four and a half months we had criss-crossed back and forth across the Funafuti lagoon numerous times.
Not since we had spent over a year in Bocas del Toro, Panama during COVID had we seen such a Spiro-graph design on the map from the tracks Exit had made.
But now it was finally time to go.
There were only handful of things to be done first.
Going up the mast…again…to inspect the rigging before departing Tuvalu. In the background, you can see the old Simrad wind indicator sensor, held together by white electrical tape. When the wind indicator, newly installed in Mexico before crossing the Pacific, died in a Wallis lightning storm we had to pull this one back out of retirement. Now, it too was dead. We would have to go old school for the four or five hundred mile sail to Wallis and subsequent four hundred mile sail to Fiji…ribbons tied to the shrouds!
For a brief moment, I had the best view in Tuvalu from the highest point in the country…the top of our mast.
We had to make one final visit to our favorite Chinese restaurant we had frequented more than a dozen times. Everything plate on the menu: $5. My massive plate of chicken and chips never disappointed. However, Kris’ five egg (!) vegetarian omelet (“no meat” we repeated) came with chopped ham during our second and fourth visit. Then we got smart. After showing him a Google Translate message from Kris’ phone that said “没有肉” (no meat) a few times, we would walk in the restaurant and he would bellow, “Ya, ya, ya…no meat!” Occasionally he could be seen in the kitchen, cooking with a lit cigarette hanging from his lips. He would then walk to the table with our plates and bark, “To-ma-TOÉ!”, handing us a partially opened can of tomato sauce…ketchup for the chips. Classic.
After a last trip to the fuel station to top up our diesel and petrol jerry cans (among the cleanest fuel we have ever gotten), and one more trip to the grocery store to nearly clean them out of the best canned hummus (!) we had ever tasted, we were left with only the authorities to visit in order to clear out.
Our sixth and final trip to the Immigration Office. Just like every previous visit, they were all smiles. After indicating how pleased they were we had enjoyed our stay here, they placed one last stamp in our passports and waved goodbye to us. Obviously, they had never had a conversation with the Town Council…or if so, ignored everything they said, as everyone else in Tuvalu seemed to do.
At long last, at 4:20pm on April 12, 2025, as we lifted anchor and Exit headed towards the pass, the gray skies and lack of wind did nothing to dampen our spirits.
It had been four and a half months since our arrival in Tuvalu. Despite all of our dramas, we still had no regrets about our decision to come here. And yet, we were equally adamant that it was time to go.
The stereo was fired up and there was no fucking “Hotel California” playing. Rather, it was our go-to favorite tune after clearing out as we were getting underway. The band was Triumph… and the song was “Movin’ On”.
Our problems have disappeared
Vanished one by one
We've got to keep on movin'
Until we're done
We've been through so many changes
All along the way
Maybe that's the reason we're here today
Movin' on, movin' on
Movin' on, everyday
Movin' on, keep on movin'
Movin' on, tomorrow is another day
-Excerpt from "Movin' On" by Triumph, 1979
sv-exit.com 