Month: October 2026

January 4 – 23, 2026

Before ever departing Nendo Island, we had known the sailing was going to be hit and miss.  In reality, it had so far been at least as much miss as hit.

Our attempt at a nighttime fire show while sailing past the active volcano Tinakula had largely been a bust.  Considering how dramatic it looked spewing smoke during our approach, we would have been better off if we had timed our close pass to also have the benefit of daylight.

The following day, our experiment trying to use the reaching pole for the first time in over eight years, right after we first purchased Exit was even a bigger bust.

Not a great track record of success on this passage so far.

Anticipating the high probability of somewhere between low and no winds, we had formulated a three prong option for the passage.  

Guadalcanal was the ambitious long reach option at right around 325nm.  Three to four days if we made reasonable progress.  A cluster of small islands known as The Three Sisters was option number two at 250nm.  Which left option number three, Ghunpunu, located approximately 225nm away from Nendo Island, right on the southeastern tip of San Cristobal.

Without using our engine, given the current winds, it would have taken us more like thirteen to fourteen days to reach Guadalcanal after leaving Nendo.  Having fired up the engine, we had already opted out of the two week crawl and, by the time we were considering a new game plan, we were almost at the halfway point… but it had been at a cost of over sixteen hours of motoring.  Presently, weren’t prepared to double down on diesel use.  We would get to Guadalcanal, just not yet. 

Option three wasn’t really a destination choice.  We didn’t have a particular reason to get there and was put on the list more as a bailout option. Ghunpunu was well off of our intended path and, being only 25nm less distance than the other possibility, it wouldn’t really gain us much.  Being so far out of the way, we would lose any advantage by the time we backtracked, especially if we ended up motoring again.

Which left option number two…The Three Sisters.  We were about 85nm away; half the remaining distance to Guadalcanal.  And it was right along the path.  We could stop there and await better wind…not a detour; just a layover.  Plus, we had a great  reason to stop there.  We had recently learned that the largest single coral organism on the planet had just been discovered at…The Three Sisters!  Serendipity indeed.

That evening, just over fifty hours into our passage, the display on our wind indicator finally started showing between eight and twelve knots.  With the wind angle near 150 degrees, this gave us just enough breeze to keep the sails filled…hallelujah.  An additional push of half a knot to one knot of favorable current seemed like a bonus gift from Poseidon.  

The next morning, as the sun began to creep up over the horizon, we could finally say, “Land ho!”…Malaupaina, the first of The Three Sisters could be seen in the distance.  

Obviously, our enthusiastic rejoicing displeased the sailing gods, who saw fit to remind us that they are always in charge.  Just before noon, the currents shifted and we suddenly found ourselves going backwards in an opposing two knot current.  Damn!

Our blasphemous language must have infuriated them even more.  They whispered quietly to the electronics.  Twenty minutes later, with less than two nautical miles remaining to go, our autopilot Jeeves decided he was done for the day and opted to sign off, informing us of this mutiny only through the shrill digital tone of an alarm signaling no one was steering the boat any longer!  

For the crew, this always results in a momentary coronary event, followed immediately by a mad scramble for the helm to take back control of the wheel.  Not acceptable!  Downright rude even.

With the engine running to keep us moving forward, and a human being at the helm to keep us moving forward in the actual right direction, we cautiously entered the bay knowing there was very little confirmation of chart accuracy.  Fortunately, our arrival right at midday allowed us good visibility of the bottom.  We inched about slowly until we found what appeared to be a good, clear spot with sand beneath us, and dropped anchor.  

Shortly thereafter, we were enjoying anchor beers in the cockpit.  We had arrived at Malaupaina, the first of The Three Sisters.

We had chosen Malaupaina, the first island along our trajectory, although the world’s largest coral was, in fact, on the middle island, Malaulalo.  Our understanding was that we first needed to make contact with the chief on Malaupaina, inform him of our arrival and intentions, and gain his permission to visit the islands.  Fair enough.  

Not long after setting anchor, we were introduced to Charlie, who paddled out to Exit in his dugout canoe.  He invited us to come ashore the next day where we could meet Chief William and have a tour of the village.  Additional dugout canoes paddled out to offer greetings and welcome coconuts.

The next day we were introduced to a stowaway we discovered had climbed aboard Exit. Likely from Lata, but possibly even Vanuatu. It couldn’t have been much before that…because he was just a wee laddie. We chose not to keel-haul the hitchhiker, and instead added him to the unofficial crew manifest.

That morning, we were met at the beach by Winston who immediately warned us of the crocodiles that inhabit the island, and then took us to meet Chief William, David, Kane, and a handful of other villagers who were present.  After being welcomed enthusiastically and granted permission to visit (we were told they don’t receive many outside visitors), William offered up a very shy young girl named Samira to lead us on a walking tour of the village, which stretched for maybe a quarter mile along the shore. 

We commenced with what amounted to a parade of about ten wide eyed smiling children in tow, reticent to interact while simultaneously vying for our attention.  Samira spoke excellent English, and pointed out feature after feature as our entourage of midgets led us through the village of scattered huts and covered platforms that must have housed at least a hundred people but certainly not more than two hundred.  The kids ranged from three or four years old to young teens, and each recognized endless things that they relayed to Samira needed to be pointed out.  One particularly friend  boy, maybe eight or ten years old, couldn’t articulate any words, but that certainly didn’t stop him from explaining endless bits of information and facts of interest.

Less than an hour later, the tour had concluded and we were back at the dinghy with our pack of energetic vertically challenged guides still surrounding us. Samira disappeared for a few minutes only to return holding a beautiful dress…a gift for Kris.  We launched the dinghy, headed back to Exit, and returned with a gift of our own for the kids who were now splashing energetically about in the water…a soccer ball.  Time consumed in total: approximately one hour…cost of the soccer ball: approximately $3…value of the whole experience: priceless!

The following day we picked up anchor and made the five nautical mile move to Malaulalo, where William had previously informed us we needed to visit his brother Chief Dennis at their village to get permission to dive. 

Thanks to information posted on our No Foreign Land app, we had a fair sense of where the village was located and how to get to it by dinghy, a general area where we could potentially anchor, and an approximation of where the world’s largest coral was located.  All very helpful info and a good place to start.  In actuality, the anchorage area, at the north side of Malaulalo, was tiny and we concluded there was really only a viable place for one boat to anchor without potentially damaging the surrounding coral (ok since we were the only boat); the village appeared to be about 2nm away on the far end of the island, which was going to require a pretty bumpy dinghy ride along an exposed shoreline; and the coral, though supposedly the biggest on the planet, was not going to be simple to find simply with an icon on an iPad that provided a far less than precise location.

Fortunately, we sorted the anchor spot and then successfully navigated the dinghy to the other side of the island (ending up unscathed and only slightly wet) where we then received better intel from a local standing on the shore on how to get inland through a sandbar/reef channel and maze of shallow bits than lead us to a larger bay with dugout canoes and a powerboat on the far shore…obviously the landing point and beginning of a path.  At the shore we were met by a different man who guided us along a long path where we finally reached the tiny cluster of huts and met Chief Dennis.

Everyone seemed very friendly and hospitable though it was also a bit awkward and odd.  Dennis informed us that it was only very recently that the coral had been discovered and a short time after that most of the villagers had been moved to a different island (something about creating a protected area here). Currently, only Dennis and a handful of others lived there.  On one hand, they appeared very passionate about conservation and preservation of environment…on the other hand, they seemed quite enthusiastic and focused on both the opportunity for the global  attention and influx of tourists, as well as the accompanying income windfall that the discovery could potentially bring them.  

They had already put together a list of fees they were ready to implement for anchoring, snorkeling and diving (understandable, but we refrained from pointing out that the specific dollar amounts seemed a bit absurd).  Even stranger, one of the people on the island that day was a surveying and architectural engineer that they had brought in to plan the immediate construction of a helicopter pad to provide fast accessibility in and out for government officials and VIP guests (something about Leonardo DiCaprio not being able to get here for a potential documentary because of the difficulty and time involved for boat transport)…hmmmm.

We explained our background in both diving and environmental efforts, offered our two-cents on a number of different things from the perspective of sailors, tourists, conservationists, and foreigners, and requested permission to scuba dive the coral to see for ourselves.  We offered an on the spot video interview in which we could provide enthusiastic support and testimony as sailors, divers, conservationists, and tourists for all their efforts, as well as video footage and photos of the coral from the dive itself for whatever purpose they might choose, and an additional post-dive interview.  They seemed to like the idea, and agreed with the only stipulation being that they would accompany our dinghy with their own boat to show us the exact location and monitor us during the dive from the surface.  Hell ya!  We accepted immediately.

That afternoon we were guided to the exact location where we did a quick reconnaissance with only masks, fins, and snorkels. 

The following day we returned for a better look with full dive gear.  

The biggest single coral organism on the planet (apparently determined by the well-known and respected global research vessel Argo that had been doing unrelated work in the area and only randomly discovered it by chance just before departing) was pretty fucking big.  And healthy.  Not much as far as fish and marine creatures but, hey, it was well worth the stop.  

Hard to know what will ultimately become of the best laid plans of Chief Dennis; especially since, only a short time afterwards, we heard that someone else had recently announced that they had just discovered the largest single coral organism in the world at their location.  You never know…but we still wish them well.  

---

After two nights at anchor at Malaulalo, we picked up anchor and headed towards Guadalcanal.  It turned out we stopped at San Cristobal after all, at Maro’u Bay, on the opposite side of the island we originally considered.  It was exactly half way to the southern tip of Guadalcanal, and stopping there for a night meant we could avoid a night arrival at Guadalcanal.

Maro’u Bay was just an afternoon and overnight stop, so we didn’t get the dinghy down and even attempt to go ashore.  Consequently, nothing really memorable occurred…with the exception of the endless number of kids – in traditional dugout canoes, strange outriggers, and even one pair floating on an inner tube – who paddled out for nothing other than to look look at the strange white people who had arrived at their bay in an odd metal sailboat.  Not just a couple of onlookers…closer to a dozen. 

Every one of them friendly and smiling, and excited to simply stare or maybe say a few words if they were really brave. A number of them even brought gifts out to the boat – coconuts, limes, green beans…fortunately, we had just enough cookies to go around.  

This was the first of what would become a rather comical (and often exhausting) experience at nearly every location we anchored…a seemingly never-ending parade of lookers, gawkers, curious spectators, and fascinated conversationalists who wanted to simply witness the spectacle, ask questions, or practice the English they were learning in school.  

Oh ya…and the relentless, unforgiving swell that night.  Because the bay was absolutely exposed to the open water, we found ourselves pitching back and forth so severely from the wraparound swell that it felt as if we were at the top of one of those antique pyramid metronomes with the metal rod that goes back and forth…tick, tock, tick, tock.  It got so bad that, by 2:30am, we couldn’t take it anymore. Actually picked up anchor and headed out.

Due to our unforeseen evacuation, we arrived at the minuscule island of Paipai on the southern tip of Guadalcanal, 35nm from “Metronome Bay”, well before noon that morning.

On the upside, we now found ourselves officially above the magical 10°S latitude line than supposedly made us immune from cyclone harassment (at least be insurance standards).  About time.  It was now almost halfway through the cyclone season.

On the downside, the lack of potential cyclone winds was, in fact, partially the by-product of a lack of winds in general.  As we would come to learn in spades, sailing in the Solomon Islands between November and April could largely be a concept of pure fantasy.  Especially, sailing in a westerly direction. Motoring through the Solomons, on the other hand, seemed a much more likely reality.  

Also on the downside, a coolant leak (we suspected from the freshwater cooling pump) which had first appeared as a minor inconvenience was now beginning to become a less minor issue.  An initial intermittent stain on the absorption cloth under the engine, caused by an occasional drip, was becoming more constant…at this point we had resorted to catching and recycling a now much more substantial volume of coolant into a container placed under the leak.  Shit. This was going to have to be dealt with sooner rather than later.

But, for now…another day in paradise.  For the most part.  Paipai was undeniably a beautiful location.  The challenge was being anchored in a quite narrow channel in front of an island with ripping currents in both directions, depending on the tides.  The result was a lot of movement with not a lot of space.

Apparently, at some point in the past, a number of visiting cruisers had been harassed by a handful of seedy locals in the area while anchored at the island.  The owners and caretakers of Paipai had decided the best solution was to designate the youngest son as chaperone and guardian to make sure trouble didn’t return.  He was a friendly enough fellow; but it was quite weird watching him paddle across the large bay every morning only to sit on the island after a brief conversation with us, largely trying not to look obvious.  At the end of each day, he would paddle back home.  Awkward for everyone.

Especially one afternoon, when we found ourselves with an anchor chain in need of repositioning after it had began to work its way around a large boulder of coral.  We had already been floating the chain, but with Exit being pulled back and forth in the narrow channel with the shifting currents, the situation was inevitable.  Best to deal with it before our chain truly ended up tangled and caught up – a scenario that would potentially cause damage to both Exit and the coral, as well as a lot of unnecessary stress.  However, instead of opting for the logical choice – gear up with full dive equipment – I decided to put on only a weight belt and go down with a regulator attached to a scuba tank held under my arm (a silly attempt to merely conserve the fresh water that would be required to wash the BCD afterwards).  I immediately found out just how much more difficult lifting and moving an anchor chain underwater could be with only one hand available, all while trying to not let go of the air tank I was breathing from…duh.  After a great deal more effort and struggle than it needed to have been, the task was finally completed and Kris was able to reposition Exit with me now floating on the surface, watching the chain’s progress below.  We realized afterward that our chaperone/guardian had been watching the entire fiasco play out, trying to ascertain just what in the Hell was going on…partly just perplexed, partly thinking some kind of emergency was unfolding.  Awkward for everyone.

One amazing thing about Paipai…every evening, thousands of frigates would fly over the island, creating an unbelievable swarm just before sunset. By the time it was dark, every one of them had found a tree branch to spend the night on. By morning, every one had flown away. This was a daily occurrence.

Meanwhile, our newest crew member appeared happy as a clam. Growing at an alarming rate, apparently he (or she) was finding plenty of insects to feast upon.

Much less happy was our dive compressor. Though certainly having nothing to do with our location, its fate became the catastrophe cementing an overwhelming feeling we were in the midst of a stretch of bad luck we seemed unable to shake.

Just as had been the case after first installing our solar panels, water maker, and Starlink – acquiring our dive compressor was an absolute game changer in regards to our self-sufficiency while living full time aboard Exit.  However, unlike our solar panels, water maker, and Starlink (which all worked flawlessly from the outset) our Coltri dive compressor had become more of a love-hate relationship.  

Purchased used while we were at Shelter Bay Marina in December 2021 just before crossing the Panama Canal, it had been a post-Covid gift to ourselves.  Being able to fill our own dive tanks anytime was an absolute godsend…until it died two years later while we were in the Sea of Cortez.  We found ourselves having to cough up another $2000 to replace the entire compressor pumping unit in La Paz just before crossing the Pacific in April 2024…which worked great until the compressor developed a cracked cooling tube less than a year after that in Tuvalu – a minuscule island located just beyond the middle of nowhere…leading to another repair (minor, but only after months of downtime and a logistical nightmare to sort out).  And now, with us currently just south of the middle of nowhere, the damn thing stopped working…yet again.  This time it wouldn’t even turn over.  It had seized up completely.  No doubt about it, our compressor was dead!  We would now have to deal with this also.  Just not here.

Shit.

After five days at Paipai, an ominous weather forecast predicting higher winds, combined with Paipai’s currents and tight space, along with the weirdness factor of our ongoing chaperone situation, and feeling that things had just not been going our way recently, all converged, leading us to the conclusion that it was time to move.

We decided to pick up and motor and couple of miles to Conflict Bay, which turned out to be a sound idea. The wind kicked up the next day.

Once the wind settled back down, we saw a lot of visitors. In this case, they were almost entirely children who would venture out in dugout canoes they skillfully navigated, despite oftentimes being barely big enough to hold onto the paddle.  Quite a comical appearance.  

Some were simply curious and fascinated, approaching cautiously and wide-eyed, but hesitant to get too close. Some, still on holiday from school, wanted to practice their English skills, asking a million questions, giggling with every sentence. Others were full on capitalists-in-training. They brought out coconuts, bananas, limes, papayas, chilies, guava, rambutan…and the fact that we had no cash at all was absolutely irrelevant.  Even better…we had a bag full of notebooks and pencils as well as a stack of coloring books and colored pencils to use as currency. Better than gold, especially when the venders are all under the age of thirteen and the commodities they are offering have been hand-picked, rather than purchased.

Though not quite as much of a “picture postcard setting”, Conflict Bay, as a name, seemed to be a rather inaccurate reflection of what we experienced.  It provided us a far more comfortable anchorage – plenty of space, better protection from wind and swell, and no currents dragging us back and forth. 

One high priority task to accomplish while we were sitting around required undertaking a surgical procedure on our utility wagon, “Bluetooth Walker” (name inspired by the old red metal Radio Flyer wagons).  

Our sturdy blue utility hauling cart had been one of our first purchases after first moving aboard Exit almost nine years; and it had unequivocally turned out to be a brilliant investment. However, years of hauling groceries, fuel and water jugs, or anything else too heavy to carry, on endless miles of primitive roads, sidewalks, paths, and jetties, had taken a toll on the poor wagon. Its wheels, now essentially worn completely through, were on the cusp of giving up the ghost.  

Fortunately for us, new wagon wheels were among our inventory of spare parts. It took the better part of an afternoon to engineer exactly how to get the new wheels to fit and function properly. On the boat, it seems that nothing is ever a quick fix or swap. But, eventually, “Bluetooth Walker” was off the operating table and good as new. Woohoo!

After a week of relaxing, doing mundane boat chores, and providing endless entertainment for the local midgets, the wind decided to finally become a bit more cooperative.  Cooperative in the sense of no longer howling like a banshee…however, not cooperative in the sense of blowing enough to sail.  Yes, we’re pretty picky that way.  This wind thing was really becoming a Solomon Islands feature.

Still, it was time to get moving.  We picked up anchor the following morning.  

Iron Bottom Bay…the main bay at Honiara, our destination.  Named as such for all the wrecks, junk, and debris resting on the seabed – some dating back to fierce and bloody battles that became the legends and nightmares of Guadalcanal during WWII…the casualties of war; some the victims of bad storms and poor holding during the subsequent seventy years…the results of poor decisions by sailors or simply the bad luck of maritime misfortunes at the hands of Poseidon; a lot of it just everyday garbage, industrial refuse, construction rubbish, and fishing debris…nothing more than reminders that human beings are more than content to dump their shit anywhere. Supposedly, there are over one hundred WWII wrecks alone in the channel…both Allied and Japanese warships, destroyers, cargo and transport ships, submarines, planes. The list goes on and on.

The last thing we wanted to do was to try to anchor in Iron Bottom Bay.  The horror stories we had read about were abundant.  Bad holding.  Boats dragging.  Endless opportunities to foul or even lose your ground tackle on an unfathomable amount of crap scattered across the seabed.  Anchors getting caught on uncharted wrecks.  Chains wrapping around who knows what.  The long list of grief-inducing possibilities seemed to suggest that Poseidon, Neptune, Mother Nature, and all the other harbingers of potential maritime disaster were just daring us to tempt fate and roll the bones.

And suddenly, a most fortuitous outcome surprisingly emerged from the current situation with our flat-lined dive compressor.  The Queen of Good Fortune, “SereN.Dipity”, stepped boldly forward to offer a helping hand.  We had already reached out to a dive shop in Honiara, hoping that they might be able to put us in contact with a compressor repair person.  And just as we were approaching Honiara, we received a call from Dave…an American expat who was not only an employee of the local dive shop Emperor Divers, but also the manager of the company’s live aboard dive boat, as well as, it turned out, the only certified dive compressor repair tech in the entire Solomon Islands!

Furthermore, he informed us that Dive Emperor’s live aboard, Bilikiki, was away having some work done on it at the moment.  Consequently, the mooring it normally sat on was  vacant for at least the next few days and we were welcome to use it if we wanted!  And, not only did we not have to anchor in Iron Bottom Bay, Dave was also available to take a look at our compressor if we could just get it ashore.  

Hot damn…things were starting to look up!

January 2-4, 2026

There would be no obvious departure indicator.  We could wait here for weeks and keep seeing the same story unfold in the weather forecasts – marginal winds shifting between barely sailable and no wind whatsoever.  The shift could happen within twelve to twenty four hour periods or within twelve to twenty nautical mile distances.  Furthermore, forecasts that looked promising three days in advance consistently fell through in the following day or two.

The reality we were coming to grips with was that there was not going to be an optimal moment to leave.  There was no way we were going to motor for two or three days to get to Guadalcanal, three hundred twenty nautical miles to our west, but it was looking more and more like we would have to be prepared to motor for part of it.  The question was how much?

We had just celebrated New Years.  It was already January 2026.  True…Lata was on the edge of the cyclone box our insurance company had designated a no-go zone from December through April.  But still, it was barely inside that box.  Cyclone season technically became active in the Pacific starting in November.  We were now two months beyond that.  While the chance of cyclones here was certainly lower than other places, more than a few locals, in Fiji and Vanuatu and now the Solomon Islands, had pointed out that they had experienced cyclones in the location we were currently standing. That carried a lot of weight. It made us realize that instead of playing it safe, we were in actuality playing Russian Roulette.  And eventually the chamber would not come up empty.

In Fiji, in Vanuatu, even over the past week in Lata, we had repeatedly watched weather systems materialize into nerve racking spirals that either skirted around our location or dissipated before passing directly over us.  We had already pressed our luck for too long.  We simply needed to get to Guadalcanal, the first landmass fully north of 10.000 degrees south…outside “the box”.

When we made the decision to go, it wasn’t because of a definitive weather window.  It just wasn’t going to get any better.  The forecast models indicated what we could conclude was a best comparable chance for minimal motoring…as good as we were going to get.

So with expectations of, at best, nine or ten knots of wind interspersed with more likely six to eight dropping below five at times, ranging from ninety degrees on the beam to more likely reaching between 100-150 degree – far from optimal for minimal winds – we made our final preparations.  It was time to shit or get off the pot.

On the up side, as we weighed anchor late in the afternoon on January 2nd, we expected no rain during our passage and minimal waves.  Only a yet to be determined swell – hopefully gentle with a decent interval – remained to be seen.  

We had decided to forego exploring the Reef Islands; they were in the wrong direction to the east.  But the plan was to detour slightly to the north…twenty five nautical miles to the north in order to sail right next to Tinakula, an active volcano we had been watching spew steam from its summit since anchoring in the Shaw Point inlet, directly across the bay from Lata.

There was no where to anchor along the shore; the sheer walls of Tinakula’s classic cone shaped plummeted into the depths.  But we had been told that, on the far side of the volcano, “fire rocks” could be seen, occasionally being coughed out of the caldera.  We timed our departure so we would pass within a mile of the volcano between 10pm and midnight, hoping that a potential glowing light show would surpass anything we could see during the day.

With the added colors of a magical sunset, our approach to Tinakula became more and more dramatic.

Reaching Tinakula, the night sky was fully illuminated by a moon which rose directly over the volcano, only one day away from reaching its “full wolf super moon” crescendo.  While plumes of steam could clearly be seen intermittently belching from the caldera, we witnessed no red glow or catapulting “fire rocks”.  As we passed by Tinakula and turned west, we couldn’t help but to feel a slight disappointment in what turned out to be a bit of a dramatic void.  Worth the detour, but not quite the show we had hoped for.  Oh well…after experiencing the aftermath of Mt. Saint Helens forty five years ago, volcanic drama is maybe something we should know to avoid.

The following morning, twenty hours underway, we were both mentally exhausted after struggling through our first night of passage.  The conditions were as benign as one could expect on the open ocean…too benign.  Not a moment of double digits on the wind speed display; mostly between six and seven, fluctuating drastically in direction.  Overnight, our true wind angle ranged from 100-160°.  Not fun.

We were currently in about 10,000 feet of water. Less than thirty nautical miles to the south of our projected course, the Coral Sea plummets down to 23,000 feet. The Santa Cruz Trench. Somewhere out there it apparently reaches a depth of 30,000 feet. Our current situation could be summed up as: a whole lotta wata but notta lotta wind.

Sigh.

While one can, to a certain degree, be exceptionally thankful for a night of no rain, squalls, lightning, high winds, mechanical trouble, or other boat traffic – all the makings of true boredom – it is undeniable that one of the most  challenging aspects of sailing is actually sailing downwind when there is almost no wind to sail by.  Other circumstances are well and away more stressful, dramatic, or even terrifying…but maybe not more challenging.

Nevertheless, regardless of whatever trials, ordeals, or struggles an overnight passage may generate, there is no better reward than seeing the colors of a new sunrise emerging above the horizon.

Even through the following morning, we continued struggling to keep the boat speed above even two knots, ecstatic to see anything over three knots on the display, all the while dealing with sails endlessly flogging as the wind collapsed and then re-filled the sails with each passing swell crossing our beam.  It becomes hard to distinguish what’s more frustrating…the  non-stop banging and noise, or the full awareness of how hard it is on the sails and rigging.

The actual track created by our true course, randomly zig-zagging alongside the perfectly straight line which represents the theoretical course generated by our electronic chart plotter, gives the appearance that a drunken sailor is at the helm.  It also is a brutal reminder of all of the extra miles being logged due to the current impossibility of trying to navigate in a straight line. At one point we found ourselves actually going backwards…Arrrrrgh!

We decided to undertake an experiment with a piece of equipment attached to the front of our mast which had never been utilized in our eight and a half years of sailing…the reaching pole. While, in theory, it could help alleviate many of our light air downwind headaches, we had always simply managed without it.  Granted, it could be argued that while at anchor might be a wiser place to sort out the logistics of setting up the pole…still, though it had never been attempted, we had already researched things quite a bit.  And, after all, mother is the necessity of invention.  Need drives motivation.  So…off we went.

Three hours later, we declared the experiment a complete failure.  Despite being successful at setting up and rigging the reaching pole on a pitching deck, it simply didn’t help a bit.  Too little wind.  The wind angle kept shifting.  The pole didn’t seem to be the correct size for the genoa so we redid the entire thing again for the solent sail.  It didn’t seem to be the correct size for the solent sail either.  Nothing we did seemed to make things any better.  At the end of the miserable three hour experiment, all we had managed to accomplish was burning Kris’ off-watch time (she had now been going for twelve hours straight since 3am) and achieve a major facial sunburn and near case of heat-exhaustion for me.  Fuck.  Maybe two to three knots of speed wasn’t so bad after all…

As we settled in for a traditional under passage single sundowner beverage in the cockpit, we could only smile and toast our previous day’s “under-achievement”:  one of the slowest twenty four hour paces we had ever experienced underway – eighty four nautical miles in total; and considering that included six hours of motoring…not so impressive.  An average of 2.7 knots of speed sailing for eighteen hours.  Ick.

That night, the sun disappeared over the horizon in another brilliant sunset that splashed a stunning array of colors across the slowly darkening sky.

Simultaneously on the exact opposite horizon the “full wolf super-moon” emerged.  The sunset was just off our port bow.  The full moon just off our starboard stern. 

Thirty minutes later the last remnants of reds, oranges, and purples had faded from the sky.  Still, for two hours, as the unusually large moon slowly climbed upwards, it seemed as though a spotlight was shining directly into the cockpit from behind us, with the surface of the water behind us completely lit up.  Even after the massive white orb had climbed outside of my line of sight, blocked by the bimini above the cockpit, the sky all around remained eerily bright.

Typically, when we are on passage overnight, I prefer when the moon is in front of us.  Shining downward, it creates a surreal wash of light between itself and Exit, illuminating a perfect path for us to follow.  During such times, the corridor before us can be nearly as well lit as if it were daytime and, suddenly, the trepidations that accompany sailors venturing into the dark unknown can be washed away by the fleeting moonbeams that appear to guide us.  Even without the moon directly in front, the overall ambient light of a full moon in a clear sky brings with it a calming peace of mind.

Sadly, though the full moon brought psychological comfort with its illumination, it failed to bring a breeze to sail by.  Just after midnight, with the display on our wind speed indicator seemingly unable to show a number higher than five and the display indicating our boat speed even more depressingly showing a measly 1.8 knots, I momentarily turned on the chart plotter and immediately found myself having to stifle a scream that would have caused Kris to instantly bolt up in bed from her off-watch slumber.

The cockpit display calculates our boat speed using an electronic transducer connected to a paddle wheel attached to the underside of our boat.  The chart plotter, on the other hand, gets its data via a gps connection pinpointing our actual speed over ground, which at the moment showed 1.5 knots.

Arrrrrrgh!  A speed of 1.8 knots was bad enough.  But that didn’t even account for the third of a knot of current going against us…we were moving even slower than I thought.  

If Jesus had been walking on the water next to us, not only would he have frowned at the litany of names I tossed at his father, he would have also walked right past us without even breaking a sweat.

Reluctantly, I fired up the diesel engine and put it into gear.  It would be nearly eleven hours before our trusty Perkins would rest again. 

Sigh.

December 25, 2025 – January 1, 2026

Having grown up in the Pacific Northwest, where a Christmas without snow was a rare event, finding one’s self in a tropical setting during the holidays certainly makes for a surreal experience. Even after experiencing this more times than I can count on my fingers, the realization that the only trees you have the option of decorating already have coconuts hanging from them brings about a very strange feeling.

Now, some 5,300 nautical miles away from Washington State, we found ourselves celebrating just such a surreal Christmas at Nendo (Ndeni), in the easternmost cluster of the Solomon Islands. Having already completed all of the necessary clear-in procedures for the Solomons immediately after our arrival on Christmas Eve, this left us all day to relax and enjoy the tropical holiday vibe.

We didn’t have snow.  We didn’t have a decorated tree.  We didn’t have singing carolers outside.  We didn’t even have any presents to exchange.  It may have been 28°…but only if you were measuring in Celsius.  Still, that didn’t stop us from having a celebration that consisted of holiday pasta, a bottle of wine, and two iPads propped up on the cockpit table – one with a continuous loop of a crackling fire and the other with a loop of snow silently falling in a forest of evergreens…everything we needed for another memorable Christmas.

Having heard that the Solomon Islands are renowned for their intricate and beautiful carvings, we weren’t immensely surprised when, less than twenty four hours after our arrival, we were visited by a local carver named Paul, who paddled up to our transom in his dugout canoe with some of his wares.  After introducing himself, wishing us a Merry Christmas, telling us a bit about the island of Ndeni (or Nendo), as well as the town of Lata across the bay and the people who make up the surrounding communities, he unwrapped some of his wooden carvings. 

Because we had no Solomons cash, we were pretty limited in our shopping capability.  Nevertheless, using items for trade that included clothes, some spare tools, sandpaper, old lines we didn’t need as well as a few other random things, he left us with some fresh fruit and veggies, mint (!), a carved walking stick, a small raft he had constructed (apparently modeled after a outrigger used to land sharks in the open ocean), a fascinating smaller stick that had been wrapped with vibrant feathers, some traditional food he had with him, and a beautiful shell we would never buy but he offered as a gift.

The feather-wrapped stick, he explained, was a hair pin traditionally worn by local women to announce to others, depending on what side it was worn on, whether they were “available or already with someone.” 

The feathers, from a beautiful little bird indigenous to the area called a scarlet honeyeater, used to also be the basis for currency in the Temotu Province (the Santa Cruz Islands region).  He elaborated that the birds could be lured by mimicking their call, after which only two feathers would be taken, leaving the bird unharmed.  Once enough feathers had been gathered, they would be woven into various lengths of fabric to create rolls, which would then be used for trade as currency.  Fascinating.

One of the additional tidbits of local knowledge Paul shared was telling us about a natural spring located in the trees just inside the shoreline next to where we were anchored.  We motored over in the dinghy, tied off to a tree branch, and within five minutes of looking around we located the spot.  It was a small pool fed by the spring water that was just big enough to warrant a refreshing dip.

Later that day we were visited by yet another dugout canoe; this time a pair of men who brought us more fresh fruits and veggies as a welcome gift. 

They chatted with us for a bit, offering friendly local insight and advice as well as a number of stories.  At one point they asked if we had seen the dolphins that visit the bay yet.  When we said no, one of them said he would call for them…he proceeded to sing few lines of music and, I shit you not, a small group of dolphins started leaping out of the water in the distance!!!  We were flabbergasted, to put it mildly.  As we looked on with stunned expressions, he quietly explained that a number of the locals can speak to the dolphins.  Had we not just witnessed it, we would have thought, “Bullshit!”  As it was, we could only muster, “Holy shit!”  A short time later, they paddled away with us still dumbfounded about what we had just seen.  Later, at another island in the Solomons, we would hear from people who claim to speak to the crocodiles.

A few days after clearing  in, we had to venture across the bay to the main town of Lata in order to pick up our now completed paperwork from the customs office.  After a slow crawl across the two nautical mile stretch (we had been unable to get the dinghy up on a plane for some time due to an ongoing carburetor issue that would probably require disassembly to sort out), we arrived at a small cove that gave us access to the shore.

We decided that Kris would remain with the unsecured dinghy while I went ashore and attempted to locate the customs office.  

With a “sense” of orientation provided by Google Maps, I headed off.  A few locals also walking on the road provided me additional general guidance. Within thirty minutes or so I found myself standing in front of the office door.  

It was locked and there was no one to be seen. 

Shit. 

After another fifteen minutes of waiting I gave up and started heading back.  Along the way someone informed me that the customs officials might be down at the dock processing goods that had just arrived on a ferry.  I remembered walking past the dock area earlier so I knew exactly where to go. 

When I arrived, the dock area was teeming with people; some unloading the cargo, most milling about talking and laughing.  It was quite a community event.  I didn’t see the customs guy who had visited Exit to clear us in anywhere, but started walking towards the ferry planning to ask around once I got closer.  I obviously stood out as someone who looked lost or confused as I walked through the crowd, because the only other white guy I could see in the throng of people made eye contact with me and walked over, asking if he could help me find anything.

He introduced himself as Kyle, also an American who had sailed into Lata aboard his boat, Shangra La, a number of years ago.  It was the rather dilapidated looking sailboat, and only other vessel, at anchor in the Shaw Point inlet where Exit was anchored.  He introduced his wife Sharon, a local woman whose family was among  the island’s highest nobility, who immediately took me over to an elderly woman sitting in the shade of a small tree next to a pile of coconuts.  Sharon said something I couldn’t understand to the woman, who proceeded to expertly make a few swift chops with a large machete and hand me a coconut with a large hole in the top, ready for drinking.  

After a brief conversation, I led Kyle and Sharon back to meet Kris, who was still waiting at the dinghy, less than a couple hundred feet away.  An extremely generous invitation to ride back to their house in their car while they prepared a snack and located the customs official was graciously accepted.  We had instantly made new friends who were not only very hospitable, but also possessed a wealth of information.  Over the years, Kyle had become quite the local celebrity, especially after hooking up with Sharon, who has been exceptionally active in local and regional politics, cultural education, and conservation.  Kyle insisted that Sharon is on a fast track to become a local leader, a parliamentary representative, and eventually the first female Prime Minister of the Solomon Islands.  Considering the way she carried herself and the way interacted with the locals, we had no reason to doubt this at all.

After tracking down the customs officer and giving us a back to his office to pick up the paperwork we had originally come for, they surprised us again by inviting us to join them the following day for a massive community event.  They elaborated by telling us about a local custom regarding funeral headstone dedications.  Sometimes, after a person passes away, it takes the family a bit of time to either acquire the resources to purchase a headstone or to actually have it constructed.  The community organizes a clergyman’s visit to come dedicate and bless a number of these headstones at one time, turning the event into a massive multi-community celebration comprised of a church service and a walking parade to multiple cemeteries to visit each headstone receiving dedication, followed by a community feast and outdoor gathering.  It may be months or years before the deceased receives this honor.  

One of Sharon’s relatives had just received a headstone at her grave and was being included in the ceremony the next day.  Sharon and Kyle were not only kind enough to invite us to join the celebration, they also asked us to sit with them and other VIP guests both at the church service and subsequent feast.  Despite not considering ourselves at all religious, we felt honored and eagerly accepted the invitation.

The next day we crept back across the sloppy bay in our sluggish dinghy, changed into our best clothes on the beach, and joined the community for a very moving ceremony and celebration.

Though Lata is made up of a half dozen or more tiny communities stretched all along the circumference of the bay, reaching from the shoreline back into the island’s hilly jungle, you couldn’t make that distinction at the time.  Everyone was gathered for the same reason…to pay their respects to those no longer there, who obviously had a profound impact on their lives.

A church service. A procession to each of the cemeteries for the headstone dedications. A community feast. All followed by drum circles, singing, and dancing.

An emotional tsunami of so many people both grieving the loss of loved ones while simultaneously celebrating the day’s event as a community.

Quite moving. Quite magical.

With the community celebration and feast continuing well into the evening, we snuck off early with Kyle, but only after Sharon had presented us with a massive helping of chicken, pork, taro, cassava, and other vegetables cooked in the traditional earth oven…leftovers from the feast, that would last us days, all wrapped up neatly in banana leaves.  Traditional Solomons food, prepared traditionally, and stored using traditional natural materials.  No plastic.  No rubbish.

Kyle wanted to take us to a nearby beach so we could see an exact replica of one of the traditional sea-faring catamarans that had been used to explore, colonize, and voyage through what eventually became established long-standing inter-island marine trading paths between communities across the southeastern archipelago.  

It was one of three catamarans built in the easternmost Reef Islands by a handful of modern local shipwrights; individuals among only a handful who have retained the knowledge and skills required to accurately replicate the ancient design utilizing almost exclusively traditional construction designs, methods, and materials.  

Along with the other two catamarans, currently at Guadalcanal having sailed the same route as their ancestors, the catamaran now before us represented some three thousand years of maritime history and technology. 

It is a bit hard to wrap one’s head around the fact that the Solomon Islands have been settled since sometime between 30,000-28,800BC.  The southeastern archipelago now known as the Santa Cruz Islands in the Solomon’s Temotu Province, our current location, was settled by Austronesian Lapita peoples who arrived using advanced voyaging canoes somewhere between 1200-800BC, heralding the birth of the area’s sailing and maritime heritage.

It was both fascinating and humbling to recognize that, though we see our individual family and blood history as being Swedish and Norwegian, that may not be such an accurate assessment for acknowledging our sailing heritage.  Despite a viking history steeped in maritime tradition, often being thought of as the cradle of sea voyagers, more than fifteen hundred to two thousand years before the Norwegian Vikings sailed west and the Swedish Vikings sailed east to indisputably reign over the waterways, the Lapita people of the Solomon Islands were building sailboats and venturing forth into the ocean, exploring and seeking the adventures of the seas.

At the end of the day, we returned to our own floating home with both full bellies and full hearts.  Once again, we had met amazing local people in a remote corner of the planet and were better for it.  It had been less than a week since we had first sailed into this bay and cleared into the Solomons.

And yet, we also realized, though brief, our undeniably moving and memorable time here was already nearing an end.  We would remain at anchor for another few days, quietly ushering in another new year as sea gypsies and scuba vagabonds aboard our boat in a more private celebration.

In very short order, Exit – though a modern design monohull built with modern techniques and materials, loaded with modern technology and electronics – would set out on the exact same ancient course as the Lapitan catamarans, headed towards Guadalcanal.  

For now, we were content to enjoy the slice of paradise we had discovered in Lata. Though our visit had been brief, it had poignantly reminded us of the pleasures that could still be found in a simple existence…especially one among friends and family you truly care about.

December 20 – 24, 2025

Author’s Note:  Having shared (in the previous two blog posts) our personal experience with AI as well as my own two cents worth regarding what, at the moment, suddenly seems to be the hot topic in every form of media and information source (I thought this was incredibly important, though I didn’t realize I would be part of an avalanche), we can now travel back in time and resume our previously scheduled programming…

During our travels through Vanuatu, we experienced very little difficulty regarding communication. While there are technically hundreds of local distinct indigenous local languages spoken across its eighty-three islands (apparently the highest per capita linguistic diversity in the world), its three official languages are English, French, and Bislama (the national creole language, or pidgin).

On our last day ashore, stopping at one of the restaurants, we got a big laugh trying to decipher the sign hanging above the restroom sink which explained, in pidgin, the proper way to wash one’s hands.

While initially quite confusing, if you literally read the words as they appear, the translation largely happens on its own.

This had been the case on numerous occasions – at Uli Island, when we saw the translated instructions for staff dealing with customers posted at the fuel station, as well as a sign outside the small village we helped out with some repairs that indicated catch restrictions for fishermen; a sign on the door of a business reminding people to pull on the handle, not the glass; and even on one of our beer koozies at a bar that said “this beer cooler belongs to me!”

Not sure if that meant me or the bar…regardless, translating the pidgin was almost always good for a laugh.

---

There wasn’t much provisioning to be done before clearing out of Luganville and heading towards the Solomon Islands. A small amount of fuel, some fruits and veggies, and a few other minor things. All in all, a relatively painless endeavor.

In theory, the passage didn’t seem daunting at all. Less than four hundred nautical miles in all.

However, we have learned repeatedly that complacency is almost always the predecessor of a major shitstorm. Best to be cautious and pleasantly surprised.

Studying our Predict Wind and Windy weather apps, it also appeared that the weather might be less than cooperative along the way.

We often joke that often these weather “forecasts”, in actuality, are nothing more than a “two-cast”. This is most typically the case when things look optimistic. In this instance, it turned out that we were looking into a very accurate crystal ball.

As we departed from Luganville the morning of the 20th, the only wind moving the flag flying below our lower starboard spreader was being generated by our forward momentum…and our forward momentum was being generated only by our diesel engine.

We skirted along the shoreline exactly in the opposite direction the SS President Coolidge had motored over eighty years ago, right where it had struck two friendly mines. Looking back towards the shore, we could see the exact spot that it now rests, where we had dived only a couple of days earlier. Just beyond that was the famous “Million Dollar Point”, where WWII American forces spitefully dumped millions of dollars worth of military equipment into the water when they left rather than leaving it for the English and French troops who remained.

Fortunately, there were no uncharted mines still floating in the water to endanger our vessel and we passed without incident.

Also fortunately, a rather ominous looking cloud off our port bow which appeared to bring a nasty squall in the distance provided us just enough breeze to raise our mainsail and help us along.

The downside of that same cloud became apparent moments later, when our wind indicator began to freak out erratically, showing what appeared to be a cyclone force wind building instantly around us.

Obviously, this was not the case. Some sort of electrical static voodoo field was wreaking havoc on our wind indicator. We immediately shut down the electronics, fearful that we had already fried something. Thankfully, when we tentatively turned things back on a short time after the sinister and belligerent clouds had passed, we were lucky enough to see everything come back on, functioning exactly as it should…whew.

All indications in the forecasts had been that we would have minimal winds to sail with as we worked our way up the coast of Espiritu Santo. But, once we cleared the northern tip of the island, we expected decent winds of ten to fifteen knots from just behind the beam. Nothing to gloat about, but adequate enough to keep the sails up and the engine off.

The second half of our projected trajectory didn’t look promising, but that was still at least a couple days away. We hoped things might fill in a bit by then.

Amazingly, we ended up sailing more than motoring during the first day.

Still, within twenty-four hours, the forecasts on Predict Wind looked pretty dismal. No wind at all for over a five hundred mile patch…the exact direction we were headed.

The forecast models on our alternate weather forecast app Windy looked just as depressing for both the 21st and 22nd.

However, things looked much more hopeful by the 23rd.

We just needed a place to kill time for a little while until some kind of winds returned.

We had decided a month ago that we would not attempt to clear out of Vanuatu at the tiny town of Sola on the island of Vanua Lava, just north of Espiritu Santo, because we were worried that the process would be impossible to organize so close to Christmas at a location that really didn’t get that much yacht traffic.

Now, despite having already cleared out at Luganville, we decided to try and anchor quietly on the west coast of Vanua Lava, the side opposite Sola, and wait for wind of any sort to fill in. Technically, questionable from an immigration standpoint. But this was weather related, we would not go ashore, and there were no communities or probably any patrol boats nearby that we thought might raise a fuss.

We chose to quietly sit tight and chance a random encounter with someone, planning to plead ignorance or ask forgiveness if it became necessary.

Ignoring any indications of potential anchor spots on our electronic charts, we chose an isolated spot just in front of a massive waterfall and simply dropped the anchor. It turned out to be a perfect private anchorage with an absolutely breathtaking view.

Amazing how some of the best and most incredible locations are the ones you find all by yourselves.

We didn’t even approach the shore, although we did jump in the water briefly to check our anchor and chain…as well as capture a quick shot of Exit floating peacefully in front of the densely forested backdrop.  Fortunately, no boats carrying either locals or authorities passed by, and we enjoyed our private anchorage without incident.

After a quiet night at anchor instead of a noisy night motoring, we were ecstatic to wake up the next morning not only to an incredible view, but also to winds that had filled in to between ten and fourteen knots…better than we could ask for and sooner than we had hoped for.

Not knowing how long our good fortune would last (the forecasts had improved since the night before but were obviously finicky and fickle), we chose lift anchor and optimistically press on.

Part of our decision to head out may have also had slightly to do with the fact that we had also briefly looked at the forecasts further ahead. Now, to be fair, we recognize that weather forecasts that often only amount to “two-casts” become even less certain the further into the future you look. As a matter of fact, even though some of the weather models may make predictions more than a week or ten days in advance, we typically go one step further call those “no-casts”…inferences of what may come to pass that almost never have any chance of happening. We look at these primarily as self-scare tactics to remind ourselves just how fucked up things have the potential to get if you grow complacent, not necessarily what is actually coming.

Anyway…the “no-cast” gently prodded and reminded us what time of year it was. And it whispered a rumor of shit potentially hitting the fan from Port Vila all the way up to where we were currently anchored in ten days time. It was as if the powers that be were telling us that the Solomon Islands was the place to be…not here.

We didn’t necessarily believe…but we listened.

By afternoon, Exit was cutting through indigo waters five thousand feet deep sailing brilliantly with a full main and solent sail under an incredible blue sky filled with a scattering of puffy and unthreatening white clouds.

Another one of those “can’t beat that” moments.

By dusk, the water had darkened and the blue sky had begun a color change as well, though not in an ominous way and certainly no less beautiful.

To the contrary, the sky became even more magical as the sun dipped lower and lower on the horizon. Above an ocean that now appeared almost pitch black, as the last glimmer of sunlight disappeared, orange, red, and yellow streaks cast across the sky quietly shifted and evolved, transforming into a vision that would have made Bob Ross proud.

It had been a great day, and the sky seemed to promise it would be a great night as well.

Fourteen hours later, it was rinse and repeat.

Another day of sailing in conditions you couldn’t hope to improve.

We weren’t breaking any speed records, but who cared. Things were exponentially better than we had expected before departing Luganville and we were already more than two-thirds of the way to Lata.

Before anchoring in front of the waterfall at Vanua Lava, we had motored for thirteen of the twenty-six hours we were underway. Now, twenty-four hours after departing Vanua Lava, our trusty Perkins had been resting for all but one of those hours. Nice.

On the morning of day three after departing Luganville, we had just over one hundred nautical miles remaining of our passage to reach Ndeni (also called Nendo) Island and the Solomon Islands.  The winds had been quite variable, between six and seventeen knots depending on passing bands of breeze, since our overnight stop.  However, our overall progress had stayed consistent under almost entirely sail power.  It had turned out our decision to stop briefly and await better winds had been sound.

As the afternoon progressed, it was looking more and more like we might arrive just before sunrise on Christmas Eve.  

We had been skeptical of being able to clear out of the tiny town of Sola in Vanuatu near the holidays.  Arriving to the Solomons on Christmas Eve would be just as uncertain as far as the authorities being available.  Lata is a small community as well.  The primary difference in this case being that we would be arriving instead of departing.  Much easier to sit on the boat with a “Q” (quarantine) flag raised relaxing after a passage and await being able to clear in than being all revved up with no place to go if we couldn’t clear out. 

We’d just have to see how things played out once we had the anchor down.

At 5pm, we had the unique pleasure of sailing beneath blue skies and barely ominous clouds with no rain coming down on top of us, and yet a rainbow both behind and ahead of us.  Perfect.

Just before sunset, we had to fire up the engine for ninety minutes when the wind briefly disappeared and we nearly found ourselves adrift in under four knots. But other than that, after the sun dropped below the horizon and a light breeze returned, we experienced another silent night with nothing more than an occasional noise from the breeze in the sails or rigging.

And speaking of silent night, the rising sun of the following morning heralded that it was Christmas Eve, and we couldn’t have asked for a more glorious welcome to the day.

The following photos are completely unedited.  What you see are the unaltered best attempts at a digital capture of an absolutely amazing sunrise.

How does a sunrise generate such stunning colors? I don’t know…but the video shows how they can shift instantly just from one’s perspective.

Directly underneath the stunning skies of a Christmas Eve dawn awaited Nendo, the largest of a small cluster of islands on the far eastern edge of the Solomon Islands.

By 8:30am, we were motor-sailing through the large bay which was completely quiet except for a few individual fishermen sitting in their dugout canoes, who waved at us from as distance as we passed by.

We dropped anchor at Shaw Point, a beautiful little cove across the bay from the town of Lata, and sent an email to the immigration and customs officials, wishing them both a good morning and Merry Christmas, as well as letting them know we’d just arrived.

Honestly, we didn’t expect to hear back from anyone for a couple of days, which was fine with us. A bit of time to rest and recuperate from our 350nm passage with a quiet and private Christmas celebration would suit us just fine.

The timing of our arrival couldn’t have been better. Less than thirty minutes after dropping anchor, the skies opened up and a deluge of rain unleashed upon us. Exit was happy…she needed a shower after the passage to wash off all the salt.

As for clearing in, we assumed the rain would make it even less likely that we would see anyone.

To our surprise, we received a remarkably quick response to our email. Not only that, the customs and immigration officials (three of them) hopped in their small boat shortly after the rain had subsided, motored from the small town of Lata across the two mile bay, and cleared us in before afternoon had even arrived! 

Understandably, there was a small fee for clearing in on a holiday in addition to the nominal clearing in fees.  The funny thing was they weren’t the ones who would receive it.  How did we know?  Because we couldn’t pay them any money at all.  

Having just arrived on a sailboat, we had no Solomon dollars!  

Hmmm.  

In fact, we learned there was not a single ATM in Lata nor was there one on the entire island.  The locals just use the bank.  

“Not a problem,” said the officials.  “This happens with all the sailboats that clear in here.”  The officials simply log the information in their computer system and we would settle up when we cleared out of the country farther west in the Solomons. 

Not only did that simplify things.  It also meant this was more than likely going to be the least expensive holiday we had ever experienced aboard Exit.  And that was truly something that deserved a hallelujah!