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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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