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!
