Month: August 2026

December 16 – 17, 2025

October 26.  A significant day.  For me, over the course of the past forty three years, it has been the day to celebrate Kris’ birthday.  Of course, for her, that celebration goes back even further.  

But, nearly a century ago on October 26, 1929, thirty nine years before Kris even drew her first breaths as a newborn baby, a contract was signed agreeing to build a $7 million luxury liner (approximately the equivalent of  $137 million in today’s currency).

One can only imagine the irony at the time, during the height of the Depression, of building a luxury passenger ship emblazoned with literal “$” signs on the vessel’s funnels (reflecting the Dollar Steamship Line that owned the ship) while people struggled just to survive.  Nonetheless, like a current day $400 million ballroom, it managed to emerge from the cauldron of extremely mundane and limited means to shine as a beacon for those wealthy enough at the time to afford carefree, pompous, and unlimited consumption.  It was christened on February 21, 1931 by the Second Lady herself, as the SS President Coolidge.

As it would turn out, October 26 was not only the day of legal conception for the SS President Coolidge.  Thirteen years later, in 1942, it would also be the day the Coolidge died.

Perhaps the most ironic and intriguing aspect of all this, is the story of how such an iconic and exotic symbol of decadent excess, could become such an iconic and exotic dive site, considered by many to be the most accessible and one of the best wreck dives on the planet.  A playground for not only the extraordinarily wealthy, but even for humble sea gypsies such as ourselves.

Authors note:  The information contained herein was gathered not through Wikipedia, AI harvested data, nor internet scrolling on a laptop—-but rather through visiting actual museums (the WWII Museum of Luganville), reading actual paper books (“The Lady and the President”), and actually diving the SS President Coolidge wreck…so there!

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THE BACK STORY:

The SS President Coolidge, originally built in 1929 as one of a pair of identical sister luxury passenger liners, was on the cutting edge of technology for its time.  It measured 654 feet from bow to stern, 81 feet in beam, with a draft of 34 feet and her twin screws were driven by 32,000 horsepower turbo electric engines that could propel the ship’s nearly 22,000 tons through the water at a cruising speed of 21 knots (compared to Exit’s 80 horsepower turbo diesel that propels its 23 tons through the water at a cruising speed of a whopping five to seven knots).  The President Coolidge and her twin sister President Hoover represented the largest merchant ships built in the US at the time.

No expense was spared when it came to the entertainment and comfort of the SS President Coolidge’s passengers.  It boasted elegant and modern accoutrements associated with the most lavishly decorated vessels of the time—two swimming pools, gymnasium, shipboard stock exchange, shopping arcade, beauty salon, barber shop, library, theatre, intricately carved wooden interiors and furnishings, ornate glasswork, private rooms with air conditioning as well as telephones and private baths, a two-deck first class dining saloon for fine gourmet dining stocked with china and silver and a musicians gallery, as well as a luxurious and vast first class smoking room complete with electric fake fireplace above which the The Lady (a sculpted decorative hanging wall panel that has become one of the icons of the ship and can still be visited by scuba divers today) looked down upon the privileged passengers.

Of its potential 988 passengers, pampered and looked after by the ships crew which numbered over 300, only about thirty percent were the rich and famous recipients of First-class designation.  The other sixty percent, those of limited means (or ‘oriental’ heritage as it was deemed at the time), were crammed into Special-class (a softer term for those with some money who would be offended by the title Second-class), or Third-class, or Steerage accommodations.

For years, SS President Coolidge made trans Pacific crossings between locations including San Francisco, Hawaii, China, Japan, Philippines, and Hong Kong, breaking numerous speed records for transit times while simultaneously wooing thousands of passengers with the epitome of luxury ocean travel.

However, despite the profitability of President Coolidge within the Dollar shipping line, in 1936, the Dollar line filed for bankruptcy.  After two years of creditor disputes, Congressional acts, and industry re-alignments, most of the company’s stock ended up being transferred to the government in exchange for debt liability relief.  Included in this ‘takeover’, was the President Coolidge itself, whose ownership was surrendered to the United States Department of Commerce on July 20, 1938.

Then, with the outbreak of WWII, as America began to see the writing on the wall concerning its inevitable future involvement, the US began converting a number of civilian vessels that was converted for wartime use by the military.  Two months after Pearl Harbor was attacked, President Coolidge’s refitting was complete, converting her from a luxury passenger ocean liner to a military transport ship carrying troops and supplies.

Modifications to the ship included installing deck guns, an increase in capacity to transport up to 5,000 troops, as well as conversion of endless cargo compartments to be capable of hauling everything from general and medical supplies, guns and ammunition, military hardware, and even jeeps and troop transport vehicles.  She now bore the drab grey colors of a warship.  Curiously, despite all the changes aboard the vessel as well as the fact that the Coolidge was now being used for military purposes in combat areas, while most luxurious fittings were stripped, some aspects of luxury were either kept in place or remained aboard in storage.

Between January and August of 1942, President Coolidge made three war runs, transporting troops and supplies to the South-West Pacific region including Australia, French Polynesia, Fiji, and New Zealand.  On October 6, 1942, she departed San Francisco on her fourth and final voyage.  She was fully loaded with just over 5,000 troops and 340 ships crew; the holds were likely full to capacity with weapons and ammunition (ranging from rifles to howitzers), artillery and ordinance, jeeps, transport vehicles, a few light tanks and tracked reconnaissance cars, tractors, ambulances, food, currency, military and medical equipment, parts, and supplies (including 519lbs of quinine, the entire reserve supply of the South Pacific Area for the prevention of malaria).  

As they passed under the Golden Gate Bridge, few aboard had been told where their ultimate destination was.  For two weeks, President Coolidge zig-zagged across the Pacific Ocean, completely alone and unescorted, with all lights extinguished at night, comforted by the unproven belief that the ship’s speed of over twenty knots was sufficient to outrun any submarines of that era.

On October 20, the ship arrived for a four day layover in New Caledonia, before continuing to a secret military base (the largest in the South Pacific with an approximate 40,000 troop population that saw 500,000 servicemen passing through in total during the course of the war) at Luganville on the island of Espiritu Santo in Vanuatu (then called New Hebrides), after which the President Coolidge was to continue to Guadalcanal in the Solomon Islands, providing much needed reinforcement troops and supplies to the battered US Marines already stationed there.

Early in the morning of October 26 President Coolidge approached the tiny island of Tutuba, just off Espiritu Santo in Vanuatu.  Behind Tutuba was a bay that connected to Segond Channel on the southern edge of Santo, where the port for the massive military base at Luganville was located.  As had been the case all the way across the Pacific, attack from a Japanese submarine had been the primary concern of Captain Nelson and his officers, and they were still strictly abiding to running totally dark at night as they approached Luganville.  As a Japanese sub had shelled the island only days before, these concerns were well founded.

Following standard procedures during WWII, Captain Henry Nelson had been following routing instructions, given to all vessels before sailing from or to any port in a combat area which dictated specific routes to be followed offering the greatest protection from enemy engagement as well as identifying channels not obstructed by mines.  For some unknown reason, the incredibly detailed nine page packet gave precise instructions to a point on the southeast side of Tutuba named “Hypo”, but failed to specify the actual route around Tutuba.  

When asked by his First Officer if he planned to, ‘lay off Hypo and wait for a pilot or guide,’ Captain Nelson concluded that, ‘it’s too dangerous to be playing around outside with the probability of submarines in the area.’  Based upon the fact that no instructions or warnings had been issued, and no pilot assistance had been forthcoming, the ship headed straight into Segond Channel via the quickest and most direct route.  President Coolidge had been approaching from the southeast, which meant passing around the northern side of Tutuba was in line with their current course.  To pass around the southern side, the ship would be required to turn nearly ninety degrees to port from Point Hypo and proceed through a narrower channel.

On the surface, the decision seemed appropriate.  However, the critical, and most important, piece of information that Captain Nelson was missing was that entire bay approaching Second Channel had been mined and the only clear path through the minefield was accessed from the south side of Tutuba.  

At 0935 hours, as the vessel unknowingly passed around the north side of Tububa and aligned itself to enter Segond Channel, a naval shore station close to Luganville recognized the mistake and began urgently flashing the approaching vessel with a signal lamp.  The signal officer aboard the President Coolidge didn’t wait for the full message once he recognized the first four Morse code letters: S-T-O-P.  However, just as the order reached the bridge to ‘STOP ENGINES – FULL ASTERN’ and the two signalers completed writing down the naval shore station’s full Morse code message: ‘STOP. YOU ARE STANDING INTO MINES’, the entire hull of the ship shuddered from a violent underwater explosion.  

The President Coolidge had struck a mine laid by its own forces.  Less than thirty seconds later, their forward momentum carried them into a second friendly mine which exploded amidships and tore an additional hole in the massive hull.  Captain Nelson’s immediate assessment of the damage led him to the decision to use the headway the ship was still making to turn the ship directly into shore, which likely saved hundreds of lives.  Three minutes later, the President Coolidge struck the coral ledge less than two hundred feet from shore, and Captain Nelson called ‘Abandon Ship.’

Within twenty minutes, the shipwas listing 35 degrees to port, increasing at a rate of nearly one degree per minute.  Had the Coolidge run aground fifty yards in either direction, it would have rested on a bottom that shoals off gradually, allowing the vessel to settle above the waterline and potentially be salvaged.  As it was, in what became the ship’s final stroke of bad luck, it had actually struck the reef at a point that drops off abruptly to over one hundred feet and then to 240 feet. At 1052 hours, one hour and seventeen minutes after striking the first mine, the President Coolidge slid off the edge of the reef and disappeared into what would become her grave.  

Amazingly, some 4000 men were able to successfully abandon the ship before she went under.

Officially, there were only two casualties from the sinking of the President Coolidge: Fireman Robert Reid who was killed belowdecks by one of the mine explosions and Troop Mess officer Captain Elwood J. Euart who, after safely reaching his abandon-ship station, returned to rescue men still trapped in the hold.  Though the trapped men were rescued, Captain Euart did not make it out.  

Unofficially, the number of troops that died as a result of the sinking can never be truly assessed.  Many marines died on Guadalcanal waiting for troops and equipment support that had been aboard the Coolidge.  In addition to the personnel deployments that were delayed, weapons, ammunition and ordinance, equipment, supplies, and other items trapped in the cargo holds of the sunken ship never arrived at their intended destinations.  This included 519lbs of quinine (some 250,000 doses of anti-malaria medication), the US military’s entire reserve supply for the South Pacific Area.

Ironically, more people have subsequently died inside the President Coolidge as a result of poor scuba diving practices and bad decisions than did on the day she sank over eighty years ago.

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Fast forward to December, 2025.

Before diving the SS President Coolidge, we visited the fascinating WWII museum for some context and a better understanding of the events that led up to the sinking of the Coolidge.

Photos of the original military base in Luganville from 1942 .

Models and displays inside the museum, including relics and artifacts from the base donated by survivors and their families as well as recovered from the wreck.

Recognizable faces and names from history who passed through or were at one point stationed at the base on Espiritu Santo:

The ship’s bell that was recovered five years after the President Coolidge sank:

Allan Power and Reece Discombe…the two individuals probably most involved in the initial surveys, explorations, recoveries, and documentation of the President Coolidge wreck. Discombe was likely the first civilian to dive the wreck on scuba and Power logged over 20,000 dives at the Coolidge.

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And now it was our chance to visit this historic wreck…

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Words simply do no justice to describe the enormous scale of the President Coolidge which stretches more than the length of two football fields, not to mention the surreal experience of penetrating the wreck in scuba gear, and the somber reality of contemplating the incredible story surrounding its demise.  So I will rely largely upon visual imagery to try to capture the experience as best possible.

Day One of Diving: Dive #1 – January 16, 2025

January 16: Dive #2 – Penetrating the wreck

Day 2 of Diving the Coolidge – Dive #3 – Dec. 17, 2025

Visiting The Lady:

Inside the original first class smoking room, one of the grandest public spaces on the ship both in size and ornateness, was an elegant antique marble fireplace.  Above its mantle hung a decorative panel set in a dull stainless steel frame with moulded iron.  This decorative ceramic three-dimensional wall fresco, just under three feet square, is the ‘Lady on Horseback.’  

The ‘horse’ is, in fact, a unicorn whose tusk has broken off and the Lady is actually standing rather than sitting upon the animal.  While all decorative features were removed from the Coolidge when the ship was converted for military use, the ‘Lady’ was built into the bulkhead of the Smoking Room and could not be easily removed so she was, more than likely, covered in timber for protection. On the 26th of October 1942, the ‘Lady’ went down with the ‘President’.  Found by Allan Powers in 1981, after the timber would have rotted and collapsed leaving The Lady exposed, she has remained at her resting place at a depth of 150 feet in remarkably good condition and become an icon of the wreck of the President Coolidge.

During our pre-dive briefing, we were informed that an odd tradition has evolved for scuba divers visiting The Lady.  Men are expected to kiss the Lady on the forehead and women are expected to kiss…the Horse’s ass (technically, the Unicorn’s ass I suppose).  What can you say?  Ya gotta honor tradition…

Dec. 17: Dive #3 – Visiting “The Lady”

Paying our respects to The Lady…

Dec. 17: Dive #4 – The final dive on the wreck

Unbelievable.

Stunning.

Powerful.

Epic.

We have dived many wrecks during the last twenty five years.

Many have been small, inconsequential craft without a known back-story.

Some, such as El Águila (The Eagle) – a 230 foot cargo ship that sank in Honduras which was salvaged and later re-sank near Roatán in 1997 – were purposely placed as artificial reefs specifically for recreational scuba diving. Prior to scuttling wrecks such as El Águila, they are usually thoroughly prepped by removing all possible environmental contaminants and potential entanglement obstructions, welding hatches and doors open or closed for safety, and often cutting additional holes in the vessel for accessibility.

Others, such as the SS Yongala – a 363 foot passenger ship that sank in a cyclone in 1911 that lies in 100 feet of water off the coast of Australia – sit untouched, exactly where and as they were when they succumbed to ill-fated circumstances. Because of the SS Yongala’s current state of structural decay, as well as the fact that all 122 passengers and crew who were aboard the ship when it went down are still buried inside, the wreck cannot be penetrated.

Still, no other wreck we have ever visited matches the immense scale of the SS President Coolidge in sheer size, the accessibility for recreational divers to its interior spaces, the incredible collection of relics and artifacts that one is actually able to dive amongst, as well as the unbelievable history and sobering story that help define its past.

The chance to do multiple dives on the SS President Coolidge was truly a once-in-a lifetime experience. One of those you don’t fully realize or appreciate until after the fact…a vivid memory that will always stick with us.

And yet, we also realized there were less than two weeks left of December and 2025. Well into the cyclone season and still below 15 degrees of latitude…south of the 10 degree latitude line we should have already crossed.

It was time to move on…to the Solomon Islands.

November 9 – December 15, 2025

Time was ticking. Not with a fixed schedule. Only the realization that we were already a week into the 2025 cyclone season. All the shit weather that seemed to originate down south around New Zealand had little chance of getting this far north. But the cyclones in this area seemed to materialize between here, Australia and the Solomon Islands. Not far off. That meant a constant hint of something possible developing…something that would already be right on our doorstep if it built up.

The upside was a lot of space with very few people.

Places like Paul’s Rock, only fifteen nautical miles from Port Vila. Calm conditions. A beautiful view. Warm water.

Hard to ask for much more than that…without feeling greedy.

Coral scattered everywhere on the bottom once again made us appreciate the technique of floating our anchor chain. The winds were so light and the water was so clear we could see all four floats doing their job just off Exit’s bow.

A school of inquisitive squid hung out just off our anchor chain. Not an uncommon occurrence; however, in Vanuatu they seemed even more common and persistent. We would later learn they had intentions other than just looking (apparently an anchor chain is an irresistible temptation for squid looking for a safe place to lay a clutch of eggs).

After deciding not to spend a lot of time exploring the island of Efate, we bounced up to a bay on the southwest shore of Moso Island (less than ten miles from Paul’s Rock) where we dropped anchor and spent a relaxing day meandering around in the dinghy. It would make a good launching point to start our northern trajectory.

The following day, sailing just five miles further along the north side of the island brought us to Embas Beach.

Since departing Port Vila, we hadn’t seen anyone. The isolation was both strange and refreshing.

And then we began to, once again, start seeing people. Though, unlike in Fiji, this wasn’t a precursor for expected offerings of kava.

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We had first tried kava in Tonga, where we were told it was a deep rooted custom and social tradition.

In Fiji, it seemed like a national past time.

In Vanuatu, the kava is said to be the strongest of anywhere in the Pacific. And, although kava drinking is still a popular and common custom in Vanuatu, the Fijian tradition of outsiders presenting kava for sevusevu as a gift to a village chief in order to receive the chief’s blessing and permission to visit the area, is not a recognized practice in Vanuatu. However, because many of the outlying and remote villages have very few shops and stores – and those that do may only see supply ships once a month or less – the Vanuatu islanders do indeed love to trade.  Fuel, fishing equipment, school or medical supplies, clothing, construction materials, balls or coloring books for the kids, even sandpaper and magazines, are all held in high demand.  

That being said, things are rarely asked for as gifts.  Instead, something is seen as a commodity to be traded for local fruits and vegetables, assistance, or services.  On more than one occasion people returned to our boat after a visit, not because they were looking to get more things; but rather, because they apparently had decided they needed to bring more fruits and vegetables to match the value of items they had received.  A win, win situation.

Before departing Fiji, we had done some shopping intending to build up a bit of a potential trading inventory. It took some time to actually discover what would really be considered valued goods. Some sought after items changed from location to location. Other things would always turn out to be a hit.

As it turned out, here at Embas Beach on Moso Island, the need was a bit more basic.

Late in the afternoon a small boat with three fishermen approached Exit. They were very friendly and polite, asking where we had just come from and what country we were originally from. After a brief conversation, they sheepishly informed us that they were a bit worried they may not have enough petrol to get back to their village tomorrow after a night of fishing. It had been less than a week since our departure from Port Vila, where we had fully topped up our diesel and petrol stores. The Honda generator was full of fuel, the dinghy tank was full, and we had ten extra gallons in jerry cans.

These guys obviously had not brought potential items for trade. They were a small local boat loaded down with fishing gear…workin’ guys. Instead of turning them away, we opted to pay forward some good will, putting faith in the principle that what goes around comes around. For five dollars in fuel, we made new friends and banked some karma credit. We even leant them my mask and fins for the night. A leap of faith.

Not everyone is a thief.

Early the following morning, they showed back up at our transom with smiles and a boat full of fish. They offered gracious thanks and proceeded to hand over two highly prized live slipper lobsters in appreciation for our goodwill gesture. We thanked them back and said our enthusiastic goodbyes.

Author’s confession: After the three fishermen disappeared around the corner of Moso Island, in a second good will gesture of karma and conservation, I decided to quietly give the two slipper lobsters a reprieve and second lease on life by setting them free. Yes, they would have tasted fabulous, but it was the first slipper lobsters we had seen since the Bahamas, and they are rather rare to find. I will consider it karma payback next time we see them diving.

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That day, a relaxing six hour sail brought us thirty nautical miles north to Sulua Bay on Emae Island.

Sundowners in a new anchorage almost always seem enhanced by a stunning sunset.

The following morning we picked up anchor again and sailed thirty seven nautical miles to the north where we stopped at Epi Island.

Lamen Bay. Another quiet spot that it appeared we had all to ourselves. The implication on Google Maps of an airstrip, as well as a number of bungalows and even a restaurant, existing in the area all turned out inaccurate. We saw no one at all.

Not a soul.

But jus ’cause d’ ain’t no restaurant don’t mean d’ ain’t no bar-b-q’d double decker cheeseburger on d’ menu…ya huh! Yum, yum.

Since we had left Port Vila, after stopping for three days at Paul’s Rock, our momentum finally began to build. We had spent only one night at each of the previous four anchorages. Now, for the fifth day in a row, we picked up anchor first thing in the morning and pressed on.

Five hours and twenty three nautical miles of brilliant sailing later, Exit arrived at Uilendeuv Sand Bank nestled in the Maskelyne Islands at the southern tip of Malekula, the next major island west of Epi Island, which we had left that morning.

It was in the Maskelyne Islands, at southern end of Malakula, where we hoped to finally spot the shy and elusive dugongs Kris had been talking about swimming with since we were in Fiji.

A short time later, Exit was visited by a man who paddled up to our transom and quietly said, “Hello.”  We had seen him earlier with a few other men in multiple canoes nearby working as a team with their fishing nets. They had waved but had clearly been busy with the task of catching dinner. 

His traditional dugout canoe, about eight feet long and barely wide enough to sit in, had obviously been hewn from the trunk of a single tree.  After welcoming us and asking us where we were from, with a friendly handshake, he introduced himself as George.  He informed us that his village, just back from the shore on the other side of the bay, was little more than a cluster of huts and a school.  George’s family had been here for six generations. 

Briefly, he tied off his canoe to our stern, and we had a great conversation.  His English was excellent and he was very keen to ask us about how we had ended up so far from the United States, as well as tell us about the area and even give some tips about viewing the resident dugongs in the area.  Nearly an hour later, before returning to his fishing companions, he offered to bring us some fruits and vegetables from the village later for which we gave him some old nylon line, extra fishing line and a few fishing hooks. 

Just before sunset, he paddled all the way back from the village, just to deliver the bounty he had promised earlier. 

Though we didn’t see any dugongs nearby over the next couple of days, we did visit a small sand spit we were anchored next to that appeared and disappeared with each tidal exchange.

Eventually, we moved to another more enclosed and protected bay within a few miles, where George informed us a number of dugongs and their babies live and feed.  The water was very murky and the dugongs are very shy, only surfacing for a few breaths, so we didn’t snorkel or chase around the bay in the dinghy trying to get closer.  However, over the following few days, we continuously got fleeting glimpses of dugongs surfacing around Exit to take a few breaths before disappearing back into the bay’s murky water.

For a couple of days, Kris diligently paddled around the bay, patiently watching, inching the SUP along slowing. And, though the weather could be less than cooperative, the dugongs were pretty consistent, shyly poking their heads up every few minutes, oftentimes from the opposite direction you happened to be looking at that moment.

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After three days, we decided to pick up anchor and sail to Crab Bay on Malekula Island, thirty nautical miles away. Along the way, while I was below decks checking on the watermaker, I heard Kris in the cockpit yell out, “Friends!”

Immediately, I knew we had not stumbled across another boat. Rather, we had been visited by a small pod of inquisitive dolphins.

With only a week remaining in November, we pressed on another ten miles to Uri Island.

It was already three weeks into cyclone season, though you never would have guessed that based upon many of the beautiful days we were experiencing.

Not long after setting the anchor, we were visited by a local boat carrying a few adults and a half dozen smiling and giggling young girls. After a brief conversation which included a warm welcome as well as an invitation to visit their nearby village, we offered them one of the three most prized trade commodities we were carrying aboard as a goodwill gift – a soccer ball. The smiles that instantly appeared verified that we had been just been elevated to the status of friends.

A photo worth a thousand words…

For the first time since departing Port Vila, we found ourselves in close enough proximity to a petrol station to justify undertaking a fuel acquisition excursion…almost always an adventure.

After loading the dinghy with three empty five gallon diesel jugs, an empty five gallon petrol jug, and our little blue wagon, we motored over to a cement dock that Google maps indicated should be within walking distance to the petrol station.

A short time later, lo and behold, we found the petrol station alongside the road.

Essentially a fuel pump stashed inside a shipping container…it looked more like a bank vault than a gas station. But, then again, they seemed just as amused by us as we were by them.

On the way back to Exit, we made a detour to a small bay we thought was nearby the village that the people on the local boat we had gifted a soccer ball to the previous day were from.

A brief wander brought us to the village where we were taken on a tour by the village chief. As it turned out, it was the same man who had stopped by Exit a few days before.

We also had what seemed like half the village’s children acting as tour guides.

Over the course of our tour, we learned of a number of issues they were having ranging from a problem with one of the small boat’s outboard engines, to a failure of the solar charging system for the church’s electrical power, to broken guitar strings for the chief’s acoustic guitar.

The following day we returned with a bag full of diagnostic equipment, tools, and spare parts.

In the end, we managed to sort out the outboard engine, guitar, and solar issues, which were fortunately all rather minor. In exchange, we became the VIP guests for a small lunch and the recipients of a couple of bags of fresh fruits and vegetables to take back to Exit.

All in all, a good day.

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After the better part of a week anchor at Uri Island, we decided it was time to move on.  November had nearly slipped past and we were knocking on the door of December.  Already a month into the cyclone season.  Having watched the weather in this part of the Pacific for over a year, we were well aware that, until May of next year, the area around Vanuatu, Fiji, Tonga, and New Caledonia seemed to be a magnet for cyclone activity.  Throughout the season, cyclones seemed to always be threatening one or more of these countries. Not the wisest place to roll the dice.

On the upside, Luganville, the last significant community with a population measured in thousands rather than hundreds of dozens, was less than fifty nautical miles away.  It would likely be the place we would clear out of Vanuatu before making for the Solomon Islands, some 350nm away, where we planned on sitting through the cyclone season.  

Potentially, it was an option that we could sail another 100nm further north of Luganville and clear out at a tiny community called Sola.  However, Sola is not a major port by any stretch of the imagination.  Even during the cruising season, it does not see much traffic from boats clearing in or out.  And so, the nearer it got to Christmas, the more skeptical we were that an immigration or customs official would even be on the island to clear us out.  Having to turn around and slog our way back to Luganville to clear out after discovering this minor inconvenience was at the bottom of our wish list…consequently, clearing out of Luganville the first time we were here seemed like a much more prudent approach.

As our family and friends back in the States celebrated Thanksgiving, we sailed seven hours to Tutuba Island, less than ten miles from Luganville.  It gave us one last opportunity to enjoy being at anchor in a completely remote and picturesque location.  We didn’t visit the nearby community, a tiny congregation of houses with no more than a church and small primary school to define it as a village, however a number of locals, both adults and children, came paddling by in dugout canoes offering waves, smiles, and friendly “hellos” as they passed by Exit which sat alone in the narrow waterway between the island’s shore and an outside reef.

It was another fascinating and often hard to reconcile example of the strange dichotomy between various locations in Vanuatu, and much of the Pacific for that matter.  A minuscule dot on the map where people have lived in much the same way for generations and hundreds of years, technologically advanced only from the standpoint of potentially having cell phones and a solar panel that might power a light or two.  Ten  miles away sits Luganville, with its cars, power plant, airport, and bustling sea port offloading cargo ships full of the latest gadgets and conveniences of the modern world.  Not a metropolis, but a population of less than 20,000 people, living on the remains of what was once one of the largest US military bases in the entire Pacific Theatre during World War II.

Which brings us to another reason for visiting Luganville…the opportunity to dive the SS President Coolidge.  As one of the most famous military transport ships to sink during the war, it provides a fascinating story for WWII history buffs as well as one of the best wreck dives on the planet, just off the shore at Luganville.

We would later hear a story of another sailboat that had been anchored at almost the exact same spot we were currently at on Tutuba Island who was approached by one of the villagers in a canoe.  During the course of their conversation, the villager told the sailors that, eighty years ago, his grandfather had watched from that very spot as the SS President Coolidge passed by, only minutes before running into a mine and sinking.  Even stranger, in one of those goosebumps-on-the-arm-what-the-fuck moments, the sailor turned to the villager and said, “My grandfather was one of the soldiers on the deck of the SS President Coolidge when it hit that mine and sank!”  Eighty years later, the two grandchildren randomly met each other…crazy.

Now, for us to dive the Coolidge, we first had to get to Luganville.  

And as it turned out, getting to Luganville was only part of the challenge.

Once in Luganville, we were treated to some of the posh benefits of returning to civilization — markets, restaurants, shopping, provisioning options. It was the first city (well…at less than 20,000 people, maybe more of a town) we had been in for a month, since Port Vila, where we had first cleared into Vanuatu.

However, we also were once again reminded of the risk of being inside the Pacific’s cyclone zone during cyclone season.

We began to see the threats of a potential cyclone in the forecasts. Granted, forecasts more than a week in advance regularly turn out to be nothing. But they also sometimes turn out to be something…and the prudent sailor always keeps at least one eye on that which may come to be.

Three days later, the unlikely started looking much more likely.

Likely enough that we started seriously considering picking up and heading for the open ocean to the west. Always an impossible equation to try to weigh. Being away from hard things such as lee shores, other boats, and potential projectiles always seems like a good idea…until you start weighing the possibility of being chased down and caught out in the open ocean by a cyclone that changes course from its anticipated trajectory.

During a taxi ride into town I mentioned to the driver the potential cyclone that we were monitoring in the forecasts. Glancing into the rear view mirror, he warned me of the danger of such conversations. “Just speaking of things can make them come to pass. It is better not to talk of such matters. If you do not talk about cyclones, they are less likely to come.”

I had momentarily forgotten where I was. This was not a U.S. community that fixated on daily CNN or FOX breaking news reports of high drama that had just occurred or might occur in the near future…it was a Pacific island steeped in the history of black magic and religious power. Feeling stupid, I shut up.

It may have been too late. Despite trying to avoid any additional mention of cyclones, the forecasts still seemed to indicate the gods of weather and fate had already heard me.

But the signals were mixed. Right on a razor’s edge. Potentially only winds in the teens with gusts in the thirties…or potentially eight foot swells where we were anchored with twenty-four foot waves to the east.

We were still considering the option of sailing west. But we’d have to clear out of the country and once we were out in 10,000 feet of water, there would be no going back and no where to hide for a week.

We decided to sit tight and have faith in the forecast’s expectation that the cyclone was slowly edging further and further east. It would be close, but not that close.

We were lucky this time.

However, even after the cyclone had passed, we still found ourselves unable to immediately dive the SS President Coolidge wreck.

What had seemed like an insignificant hangnail on my thumb during the potential maelstrom of a Pacific cyclone, slowly grew into an angry return of staphylcoccus aureus…a bacterial infection that had plagued me more than ten years ago while working at Scuba Junkie in Malaysia.

Our initial visit to an ambulance bay with on-duty Luganville first responders resulted in the recommendation that I simply clean it, cover it, and sit tight. Fortunately, a local medical clinic staffed by a small group of international doctors was able to see me immediately. After I explained my history of nasty and persistent staph infections, the doctor agreed to more drastic measures…an aerosol numbing agent and scalpel. Fucking painful, though effective.

An hour later, we were enjoying local beers at the resort next to the beach we were anchored near, hoping the alcohol wouldn’t reduce the effects of the anti-infection medication I’d just been prescribed.

After all, we still had the wreck of the SS President Coolidge, just off a nearby Luganville beach, waiting patiently for us to dive.

October 27 – November 8, 2025

Author’s Twilight Zone time travel note: Alas…it is not October, nor is it 2025. We are not currently in Fiji…nor are we currently in Vanuatu…nor the Solomon Islands. In fact, we are in Australia. However, due to the untimely and certainly inconvenient demise of our laptop in early 2026, all of our blog posts had to be put on a temporary hiatus. It was only after returning to the US that we were able replace what turned out to be an unrepairable computer. A grueling five week haul-out once we returned to Australia further delayed any additional blog work. Finally, I was able to start filling in the blank spaces and incomplete posts. So, we now take you back in time… to where we previously left off...

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Regarding the weather and sea conditions we would encounter underway to Vanuatu, our departure from Fiji turned out to be a pretty accurate preview of coming attractions.

Mild with the constant reminder of potential storms in the distance.

Overall, one of the more benign passages we have ever experienced. Not to say there wasn’t excitement…maybe just less than usual.

The 150 hour passage from Savusavu, Fiji to Port Vila, Vanuatu covered 775 nautical miles, averaging a pretty typical 5.1 knots of speed.  What possibly made it more interesting was the fact that, during our nearly six and a half days at sea, we managed to harness the power of the wind for over ninety percent of the journey.  The sails were down for only about one hour in total and Exit was required to fall back on its trusty Perkins diesel engine to assist in motor sailing for a mere eleven hours. 

Burning any diesel is regrettable.  Nothing would make us happier than following in the footsteps of our dear friends and sailing inspirations aboard SV Cetacea by completely forgoing what they referred to as their “infernal combustion engine” for an electric motor.  Kudos to them for having the ambitious vision of truly breaking free from the chains of petroleum slavery and actually seeing it through to reality. Unfortunately, as of yet, we have been unable to sort out a logistically feasible and financially digestible means of providing the battery power and adequately sized electric motor that our hefty twenty three ton aluminium girl would require to have a auxiliary electric propulsion source we would consider safe, reliable, and prudent.  

Oh well…there is always hope.  For now the answer is simply not firing up the engine whenever humanly possible.

Electronics, on the other hand, we fully embrace.  The scientific and technical advances of the past century we utilize on Exit – depth sounders, boat speed sensors, wind speed and direction transducers, electronic navigational charts (like Navionics) and navigational assistance electronic apps (like NoForeignLand), GPS and AIS location tracking (of both us and other boat traffic), electronic autopilot, radar, VHF and SSB radio communications, Iridium and Starlink satellite connections, downloadable real time weather data and forecasting models, Internet technology and resources, solar energy collection, watermaking capabilities…and of course the stereo – all make life aboard a tiny boat in the middle of the ocean both safer and far more pleasant. 

Which is why it felt like a kick in the nuts when it all started going awry.  Barely more than twenty four hours into our passage, just as we were coming around the northern tip of the Yasawa Islands (which we had never made it to during our time in Fiji), all of our electronics died (depth, speed, wind information, GPS location), followed immediately by our autopilot, followed by the water maker (which had been happily converting sea water into drinking water for the past hour).  Damn…talk about a fuckery trifecta!

Nothing but blank screens on all of the electronics displays…a heart-stopping beeping alarm indicating that our autopilot (who we refer to as Jeeves) has gone on strike and no one is steering the boat…as well as a second quieter alarm from below decks subtly telling us the water maker has experienced a “System Stall” and is no longer our friend.

After two hours of troubleshooting, sweating, swearing, and general pants crapping, we managed to resuscitate the electronics – apparently it had been victim to a temporary possession involving connections and electrical voodoo.  Shortly afterward, Jeeves, who it seemed had decided on a short term strike or unannounced nap, decided to return to work.  The water maker (who we refer to as Larry, because when it’s working right is “happy as Larry”) had developed a not-insignificant leak at one the fittings.  The leak was containable after the water maker was powered down, but the repair would require us to be at anchor.  This meant no more water making until after we had reached Vanuatu.  Fortunately, the two one hundred gallon water tanks were already almost full and it would not be an issue.  

We took the Meat Loaf victory – “Now don’t be sad, cause two outta three ain’t bad” – and considered ourselves lucky to have the two most important things up and running again.

We got back to concentrating on sailing.  

Twelve hours later, as midnight approached, our charts indicated us currently tracking over the North Fiji Basin. To say the least, even in good conditions it is a truly surreal and eerie sensation one experiences realizing in the blackness of the night that there is between ten to sixteen thousand feet of ocean between you and the sea floor.  If nothing else, it provides a poignant reminder that, no matter what, the most important thing on a boat is keeping the air in and the water out.

Forty eight hours into the passage the entry in the ship’s log simply reads:  This is what it’s all about.  

As we completed our third day at sea, we briefly celebrated the achievement of having surpassed 26,000 nautical miles travelled aboard Exit.

After four days of floating by ourselves on a sailboat in the open ocean, as Dena and James of SV Cetacea affectionately say, we had “gone feral.”  I’m not certain, but I take that as a good thing.  

However, our first potential drama since the electronics fiasco began to unfold.  We had been watching scores of AIS (automatic identification system) targets on our chart plotter display scattered around the ocean in front of us for days.  Some of these were fishing boats or cargo ships, but we believed most of them were electronic markers for the fishermen’s longlines –  dozens and dozens, if not hundreds of miles of fishing lines with thousands of fishing hooks hanging from them at regular intervals.  

A brutally effective means to get marine life from the ocean into the hold of a fishing boat…unfortunately with an equally brutal disregard for what is being hooked. Unintended by-catch resulting from longline fishing ranges from twenty to forty percent. Sharks, turtles, dolphins, rays, seabirds…all fall into the category of: “Oops”. But that is subject worthy of an entirely separate conversation.

The AIS targets visible on our electronic charts are likely floats attached to the longlines transmitting their location at the surface for the fishing boats to track.  After being placed, the longlines drift in the currents just under the surface, randomly hooking and killing anything that happens by.  Not only is it one of the least efficient fishing methods, allowing insane amounts of unintended by-catch to be killed, it also creates a gauntlet of potential hazards for sailors like us to avoid.  

Our understanding is that the AIS transmitters are attached to buoys floating at the surface (they can’t transmit their position from underwater) which obviously represent potential collision hazards, however, the longlines stretching between the AIS markers are supposedly deep enough under water that boats can sail over the top of them.  A plausible theory…and yet, not something that we wanted to prove, nor a concept that provides any peace of mind when you are looking at the veritable army of objects in your path.  Especially when the lines of AIS obstacles seemed different every time we downloaded a new screen.  We expected them to drift slowly with the currents, not appear and disappear randomly or change location drastically overnight. 

And while the zig-zagging path we followed between Fiji and Vanuatu may have appeared to be either the evasive maneuvers of a yacht trying to avoid the minefields of longlines or simply the random meanderings of a drunken sailor, in actuality it was largely a never-ending series of gybes  meant to cope with the direction of both the wind and swell.  Essentially, we were crab walking our way to Vanuatu while trying to minimize rolling and maximize comfort.  Ya gotta do what ya gotta do.

One evening, in the midst of enjoying a particularly striking sunset, rather than dwelling on concerns regarding potential longlines, we found ourselves more annoyed at an exceptionally belligerent booby bird who seemed hell bent on finding a place to spend the night on Exit.  Rude.

Curiously, as we ran the longline gauntlet, we only saw the actual lights of a single fishing boat in the distance during one night.  Never a longline buoy.  In the end it seemed we had lucked out as, day after day and night after night, a clear corridor appeared in front of us on the navigation screen, despite being surrounded by AIS targets.

It was not our only stroke of luck during this passage.  After six days at sea, we still had not seen a single drop of rain since before leaving Savusavu, Fiji.  We had also not seen winds that ever exceeded twenty knots.

Then, while still fifty nautical miles offshore from the nearest land, we were surprised to suddenly see what appeared to be a stretch of shallows just in front of us…shallows that were definitely not supposed to be there. 

It was a brief period of wtf…trying to assess what it was we were approaching.  Until we passed through it.  What looked like an area of shoaling turned out to be a nasty expanse of algae blooms.  Or red tide.  

At the time, we were thankful that our currently non-functioning water maker had not been operating.  Red tide had wreaked havoc on our water maker back in the Sea of Cortez.  Little did we know that what we were currently seeing was merely a preview of things to come. We would experience the same grief over the course of our stay in Vanuatu. A bad flashback.

Ninety minutes later, there was no mistaking what we were seeing on the horizon…land ho! Vanuatu was just ahead. More specifically, the island of Efate and the town of Port Villa, where we would clear into the country.

Over the course of the next four hours, we made our way around Efate to the back side of the island where we could enter Mele Bay and access Port Villa.

Just before the sun began to set, Exit dropped anchor in the bay right next to the town of Port Vila, where we would clear into Vanuatu.  We had just completed one of our most benign passages to date.  Not the fastest.  But steady.  Nearly eight hundred nautical miles in less than six and a half days.  And that was worth a sundowner toast.

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Vanuatu, like many other Pacific island chains, long existed under the strong influence of Western explorers.  It was renamed twice in the 1700’s (from Great Cyclades to New Hebrides) and didn’t actually gain full independence from the century long joint rule by both Great Britain and France until it became Vanuatu in 1980.

The eighty three islands (thirteen larger and seventy smaller) that comprise the country of Vanuatu, actually show evidence of human habitation stretching back some five thousand years.  Though its first inhabitants were tied closely to the sea, with time they developed extensive agricultural skills, taking advantage of the heavily wooded mountainous areas, fertile valleys, and extensive rain forests.

The current population of Vanuatu is around 200,000 with about eighty percent living in rural areas. The split between those living near the sea versus farther inland is about half.  As for urban centers, Port Vila (the country’s largest port) on one of the larger islands of Efate that we had just arrived at, has a population of about 30,000.  Luganville, by comparison, on the northern island of Espiritu Santo, has about 11,000 people. 

We arrived in Vanuatu knowing full well that our timing would, in all likelihood, be at fault for some potential shortcomings and disappointments in our visit.  It was late in the cruising season…more accurately, the season had effectively ended a month ago.  Not that countries schedule things around the presence of yachts, but yachts often schedule their appearance based upon the goings on in an area.  And by the time we had arrived in Vanuatu, everyone else was pretty much gone. In and of itself, a good thing. And yet, the timing also carried with it some less than ideal realities.

Mount Yasur, on Tanna Island, is one of the biggest attractions of Vanuatu. The glow of this active volcano, which has been erupting for hundreds of years, was apparently what first attracted Captain Cook in 1774. Those that visit its thousand foot diameter summit invariably walk away with a once in a lifetime memory as well as some of the most iconic video footage one can obtain without actually becoming magma. However, it is located in the very southern end of Vanuatu and, for us, this posed a problem. The timing of our arrival would coincide with a shift in winds from the southeast trade winds to winds typical of the cyclone season from the north and the west. The farther south we placed ourselves, the harder it would be to make our way northwest through the Solomons. In addition, the fact that we were arriving already after the official start of the cyclone season meant that our risk increased the further south that we placed ourselves. Not ideal.

The other huge attraction of Vanuatu are the land divers of Pentecost. This is an amazing ritual where men leap off of wooden towers twenty to thirty meters tall with nothing more than two tree vines wrapped around their ankles. Many consider the tradition to be the source of inspiration for modern bungie jumping. However, the ritual only occurs between April and June, when the vines are at their most elastic. Sensibly, during the rest of the year when the vines become more brittle, locals refrain from what would effectively be jumping off a three story building only to land head first in the dirt…a much harder tourist sell, and landing.

Still, after so many years of travel, we have learned that it is rare to have a couple of top tourist attractions make or break a country. Despite having to forego a visit to the active volcano of Mount Yasur, as well as missing the legendary land divers of Pentecost, we expected Vanuatu would still be well worth the visit.

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Following an uneventful and painlessly smooth process of clearing into Vanuatu, which included a visit to the customs office as well as meeting with both the immigration official and bio-security officer at a table in one of the waterfront restaurant/bars, we moved onto a mooring ball at Yachting World Marina as we had heard security at anchor in Port Vila could sometimes be a concern. We ended with the same view as a $300 a night island resort we were right next to.

Afterwards, we were able to enjoy a bit of an introductory wander through the town.  Port Vila’s sprawling population of 30,000 or so people hardly qualifies as a big city by most standards, and yet it seemed like quite a metropolis compared to what we had become used to at Savusavu, with its 3,000 inhabitants.

The market we visited was not only a jackpot of fruits, veggies, flowers, and produce of every kind, but also a stunning display of every color under the sun, all gathered under the towering roof of a huge permanent structure. Compared to most buildings that house local markets we had seen in other remote islands of the Pacific, to say this location was plush would be a vast understatement.

One of the pleasures of returning to civilization, especially after being at sea for nearly a week, is the ability to get off the forty seven by fourteen foot island you have been floating on and have someone else cook your meals for you.  After arriving at a new location, part of the adventure is determining where the best location for that is.  

Throughout the Caribbean and Central America – Honduras, Guatemala, Mexico, Panama – the cost of a beer was often a good preliminary indicator.  If an establishment offered beers for a buck, they had our attention.  However, once we crossed the Pacific, things changed quickly.  When it comes to remote islands in the middle of the ocean, hundreds or even thousands of miles away from large distribution hubs and networks, apparently it costs as much or more to deliver the beer as the beer itself costs.  Even in grocery stores, two dollar beers are far and few between.  So the buck a beer threshold for restaurants and bars is immediately out the window.

Another good indicator in choosing a place to eat is whether the tables in the restaurant are actually occupied.  An open establishment full of nothing but empty tables can speak volumes as to what other people already know.  If nobody is eating there, it may be for a very good reason.  Even those full of tourists may have merely a stellar advertising presence while still serving shit food.  The real test is whether or not the locales are eating there.

Even so, there are no sure bets…as we would be reminded later during our stay in Vanuatu.  The world is full of many more generalities than absolutes.  All part of the adventure. 

In Port Vila, we found ourselves at a place called The Beach Bar.  Not a very unique name, but it appeared to be popular with the locales. With rustic tables and chairs scattered under numerous funky trees overlooking the sandy beach and Mele Bay, where Exit was moored, the outdoor restaurant/bar had a great vibe.  Energetic music, a friendly bartender, excellent  pizza and fries, as well as cold local Tusker Premium beers (three bucks each), all combined to provide a perfect atmosphere.

We enjoyed it so much that we returned a second time, and were treated to a traditional fire poi show.  Both exciting and memorable. 

On the other hand, less than a month later in Luganville, we would be reminded that local popularity does not always dictate success when we tried a place called The Sand Bar (a more clever name than The Beach Bar in Port Vila).  Reviews indicated it had phenomenal steaks and pizzas.  When we arrived, it was full of locales…a good sign.  However, when we asked for a menu, we were informed that it was buffet pizza night.  Either you could pay for an eight slices and help yourself to any of the pizzas on the menu, all lined up at a buffet table, or buy a whole pizza.  No steak available tonight.  We had walked quite a ways to get to The Sand Bar, and weren’t too keen on walking back on an empty stomach, so we decided what the heck.

Kris often refers to me as a human garbage disposal…I prefer the term any-tarian.  I will eat just about anything put on a plate.  However, as a vegetarian, Kris’ options are much more specific.  We opted to share a whole vegetarian pizza.  Unfortunately, the whole pizza for a single table apparently was a lower priority than getting a dozen pizzas on the buffet table for the rest of the restaurant.  Forty five minutes later, with eight empty beer bottles (at three bucks a piece) sitting on the table, our vegetarian pizza arrived.  To Kris’ dismay, it was covered with peas, diced carrots, and green beans…fresh out of the can.  I laughed and proceeded to shove multiple slices down the garbage disposal (my mouth).  Kris was not nearly as amused. But I now find myself diverging by jumping ahead in the story…

Another Port Vila restaurant named “Three Pigs” (complete with a carved wooden pig on our table) delivered in spades. Ahhhh…the simple pleasures.

Finally, after a week or so of urban decadence and guilty pleasures, we were ready to go exploring Vanuatu.  We had fully stocked our provision lockers less than two weeks ago while still in Savusavu, Fiji so we had little need for shopping, even though we couldn’t help having a wander through the massive grocery store Bon Marche (Vanuatu’s equivalent of Safeway).  Nor could we miss the front window display of one of the liquor stores we passed by that, of all things, had one of our favorite bottles of Black Spiced Kraken Rum prominently and proudly featured on display.

All that remained to be done before escaping the trappings and expense of civilization was to fix our water maker…a full day’s task that required disassembling a large portion of it in order to access the leaking fitting and broken sensor.

After successfully reviving the water maker, we decided it was time to get off the mooring, depart Port Vila, and see what Vanuatu had to offer.

The only question was, “Where to go?”