Syzygy Sailing

(This post refers to events that happened throughout our stay in Fiji, though primarily Sept. 14th, 16th,  and Oct. 3rd)

Kava is a narcotic.  That it is a narcotic with only the slightest tiniest itsy-bitsy of narcotic effects to make one think ‘why bother?’ doesn’t deter the Fijians from passing time downing gallons of it, one coconut shell at a time.  That it tastes like dirty bath water is also not a deterrent.  For some reason neither is the fact that, in Fiji, the traditional preparation is for young boys to thoroughly chew on the pepper root, fully masticating it, spit it out, mix with luke warm water in the tanoa (the traditional container, an artistically carved wooden bowl on four legs) and serve via coconut shell.  Thankfully, the traditional preparation is no longer practiced except perhaps in the remotest of villages.  Every time I drink kava I make it a point to convince myself of this last bit.

I felt required by my compunction for experiencing local culture to try kava.  I also have a compunction for trying new mild (mild-only!) narcotics.  So when, on our first day ashore in Lautoka, I found myself wandering the market alone, I knew I would immediately get a chance.  City markets, the one in Lautoka in particular, are where men hang out.  And wherever men hang out in Fiji, there is probably a kava bowl being passed around.

In the market, I walked by dozens of yaqona vendors.  Yaqona is the dried but unmasticated (nowadays they more hygienically pound it) pepper root.  I learned later a longer root indicates a more aged pepper plant and in turn better kava.  Kava apparently is like wine, and gets better with age.  Two or three years is young but frequently used, five years is better.  Most of the yaqona at the market was about 18 to 24 inches, though I saw some four foot stuff that was artistically bundled into something resembling modern art.  Next to the vendors were the drinkers, twenty tables under a tent, all filled with men lazily sitting around.  At the first table I walked by, a man named Mesake cried out “Bula!” and invited me to join them at the table drinking grog.  The Fijians are extraordinarily nice; what else could I do but accept?

Despite being far removed from the traditional ceremony, Fijians still retain some aspects of the traditional kava ceremony.  Namely, they clap.  Guide books will say you have to clap exactly once before being handed the coconut shell of kava and after handing the shell back, clap exactly three times.  The claps should be proud, with an exaggerated motion.  While this might be true in the remotest villages,  I’m here to tell you, in the markets, pool halls, resorts and backpacker camps where I drank the grog, you can feel free to clap an indiscriminate number of times, loudly or softly, shyly or ostentatiously.  The only thing in common to all the places was the rhythm or pacing of the clapping. Think the pacing in a rock-paper-scissors game, slow it down just a touch, and you’ll about have it.  Certainly not standing-ovation-at-the-theater style.  At the pool hall, they simply pat a leg at the requisite speed.  When I asked why, laziness was attributed.

Mesake offered me a shell, and as I had read up on kava drinking, I knew about the clapping and that when I drank it, the kava is supposed to go down in one smooth go.  There are about three to five ounces of liquid in a normal shell, so anyone with experience from college shot-gunning a poor-tasting American light beer should have no problems smoothly drinking this poor-tasting sandy bath-water concoction.

I handed Mesake back the shell and thought, ‘maybe sandy bath-water isn’t so bad?’  My tongue went slightly numb, and with the two or three subsequent bowls the tiny tingling extended around my mouth and throat.  That was about it for effect, just some tingling, maybe some numbness.  The bowl went around, celebrating my joining the table.  Ten or fifteen minutes would go by and then the person in charge of the kava tanoa at the table would decide it was time for more kava and start passing the shell around again.  The time in between passed with Mesake and a woman seated across from me, Paulini, telling me about Fiji at large and more particularly the villages they were from in the Yasawa’s.  They gave me the names of people they knew or were related to in the villages they were from and insisted I ask for them when I arrived there.  Alas, we never made it to those villages, but the kindness was indelible.

I drank some kava again in the Nadi market while wandering around there with Allison.  I secretly presumed there would be grog there, that we would have a chance to try and wanted to see if she would.  And so we walked around longer than necessary as I tried to locate some kava drinking.  She demurred this time, hesitant at the cleanliness of the whole operation, which admittedly is suspect.  I can’t fault her on this point.  The same coconut shell is passed to everyone: one person drinks, and the shell is immediately dipped back into the kava in the tanoa and handed to a next person.  They certainly don’t clean the coconut shell in between uses.  She was, however, up for it at the welcome ceremony at Octopus Resort and she reported that yes, like pretty much everyone else, she thought it tasted like bath water and didn’t particularly like it.  I however, was developing quite a curiosity for it.

Two and a half weeks later, I went to Nadi International Airport with Allison to trade goodbyes and other newly learned Fijian.  She and I had had a fantastic time together, and I was certainly sad at the thought of not seeing her again for three months or so.  The taxi was headed back to a dorm room bed at the awkwardly named Nadi Bay Resort Hotel (comfortable beds and amazing food… best kokonda in Fiji!) It occurred to me that what better way to spend a melancholy evening than around a kava bowl.  I redirected the taxi to someplace where they drink kava.

I ended up in downtown Nadi at a pool hall.  A pool hall is somewhat of a misnomer as it invokes images of a location filled with pool tables, a dozen of them, maybe two dozen or more.  This place was certainly packed with pool tables, you had to nearly sit on one table to take a shot on another.  But there was just two tables.  I walked in warily but like I belonged and saddled onto a wall to check the place out.  All the way on the opposite side of the pool hall, eight feet away, a Fijian flagged me over and handed me a bowl of kava.  His name was Ben.

After another bowl of kava, the owner of the pool hall, Sue who also happened to be, I’m pretty sure, a prostitute who propositioned me, motioned I should put money down to play at the only table with action going.  It was a challenge table so you had to beat the previous winner, currently a young teen who had been winning ever since I walked in and was dispatching people quickly.  So I did, and played one of the best games of my life, banks, combinations, strategy, and a little luck.  One of those inspired moments of pool that only come after a couple of beers have steadied your hand and your gaze; instead of beer though, this time it was kava.  While playing, we would trade back and forth a few shots, I’d have a cup of kava.  In the end, I won and the kid stormed out perhaps upset that the popeye (white foreigner.  I hope not derived from the silly cartoon) drinking kava, when he was too young too, had run him off the table.  A couple more games saw me lose and I went to the bench to talk with Ben and another Fijian Joe about Fiji.  I bought some of the powdered yaqona for us to have more kava after we finished what was in the tanoa.  Interestingly, their tanoa was definitely not a traditional one.  Instead it was a flimsy blue plastic dish.  Flimsy like two-liter coke bottle plastic.  After ten bowls of kava I decided it was time to leave.  Sue asked if I wanted company; I politely declined and left to find a taxi.

Back at the hotel, lo and behold what do I walk in on but the bartender, a couple of his friends, the security guard and a couple of patrons around a kava bowl.   I earn an invitation.  One guy is from Kiribati on a fishing boat.  Another’s name is Damian, and after hearing I have a yacht, is interested in crewing to Australia.  Two hours go by, and with the security guard in charge of the kava bowl, everyone is consuming plenty.  After another ten bowls, I’m feeling woosy, almost certainly though, from it being 3 am, five hours after I normally go to bed these days, and not from the twenty or more bowls of kava I consumed.

The next day, I woke up early.  No hangover.  No residual effects.  There weren’t really any effects at the time either.  Which makes you wonder, if there’s no effect from drinking poor tasting dirty bath water, than why drink poor tasting dirty bath water?  My curiosity with Fijian kava was killed and I haven’t had it since.

Vanuatu kava, on the other hand….. two bowls lays a wallup, four bowls and you won’t be able to walk.  We’ll soon find out.

(This post refers to events that happened September 21st and 25th)

I had designs to dive on beautiful reefs and coral bommies in Fiji while our guests were here.  Fiji is proclaimed as the soft coral capitol of the world.  I don’t even know the difference between hard coral, soft coral and mean coral but ‘capitol of the world….’ That must be good right? Alas, a broken wrist prevented Allison from being able to dive.  And while we did some great snorkeling, I never motivated to pull out the dive gear to dive while others snorkeled.  I am motivation-less when it comes to diving.  It’s also hard to bring along the dive gear in the dinghy when five other people are in there as well.  Dive gear being bulky and all.

So while I never dove while others were snorkeling above me, or dove down to see beautiful coral, I did do two dives, both alone and to mundane non-beautiful things.

The first dive was just off Octopus Resort on Waya, the day Gary and Anna arrived.  I am willing to bet large sums no one had ever dove my dive site, and so I feel empowered to give it a name. The dive plan was to head straight down to the bottom, a depth of forty-five feet.   Swim with the current along the bottom for sixty feet.  Then shift in one direction perpendicular where you just swam by about 8 feet.  Then swimming parallel to your original track, swim back to where you started.   Due to large amounts of silt, visibility was a mere fifteen feet.  During the quarter of an hour dive I saw no fish. The bottom was flat sand, bereft of any life or even a rock to break the monotony of the bottom.  Completely bereft save one item.  Matt’s snorkel mask.  The one item I was looking for.  This dive site is named Matt’s Mask.  I would not recommend this dive as the major attraction to the dive is no longer there.  I felt compelled to take it with me.  (As an aside, the snorkeling off Octopus Resort is excellent, we were anchored a bit away from it)

The next dive site was located off Navadra Island.  There was actually some particularly nice coral to look at just a little ways away, in predominantly twenty feet of water or less.  Allison was up above snorkeling, so why bother dinking around in twenty feet once I was done with the dive’s purpose?  That purpose being to retrieve our $800 Fortress stern anchor because the line attached to the anchor had chaffed through during the night.  This dive lasted just over five minutes as our GPS point of the anchor location was exactly on.  The dive plan consisted of going down to the bottom at fifty feet.  Visibility was only thirty feet; the water was cloudy here, though near the better snorkeling, visibility seemed improved.  Once at the bottom, dig up the anchor which is excellently embedded in sand, two feet away from the large coral reef which chaffed the line.  This will reduce visibility to six inches, so digging must be done by feel.  And you will not see approaching sharks, which are probably large 25-foot man eating ones.  I don’t know if there were sharks approaching, visibility was six inches, but I assume there were.  None, thankfully, penetrated the six inch visual field.  None, not even tiny reef sharks, actually penetrated the entire visual field of anyone that day during a combined four plus hours of snorkeling.  While my visibility was six inches though, I am sure the man-eaters were approaching rapidly.

Once the anchor is dug up, tie on a line to the anchor and return to the surface.  Job completed.

Another two dives bring my total to an impressive six dives in the last five months.  Seven dives, if you include the pool in Denver where I took the refresher course.  Other things have taken my time, energy, focus, and enjoyment.  Perhaps Australia will bring more regular diving!

(This post refers to events that happened September 18th to the 21st)

These pictures are from Allison’s and my stay at Octopus Resort, which I wrote at length about here.

this post refers to events which primarily happened September 18th-21st)

“Did you notice how the masseuse, she giggled after saying -You must be Jon.  From the yacht.-”  I asked Allison after we emerged from our respective massages at Octopus Resort on Waya Island in the Yasawa island group of Fiji.

“Do you remember me telling you earlier today that everyone here calls you that phrase?” she dryly replied.

I protested that she hadn’t; she reminded me that she had today, and yesterday as well, and gave details to substantiate.  I had to concede.

I sighed a popular refrain of her visit here, “You’re right Allison,” and I think as I said it, she smirked.

In Fiji, a distinct classification between places to stay on the outer islands is the location is either a resort or it is a backpacker’s camp.  On the outer islands, there are few or no places in between.  Names can be deceiving as many backpacker camps will insert resort into their name as linguistic facade.  I have been unable to divine a hard rule to classify resorts from camps, but have settled on three guiding characteristics.  Backpacker’s camps have all three; resorts can sometimes have one, though in the end being classified as a resort is still no indicator you will enjoy yourself there.  1)  Backpacker’s camps are cheap.  2)  Backpacker’s camps have communal meal times where everyone has to eat each meal within a prescribed.  These times are normally shorter than is convenient to my style of lazy relaxation, ie. Breakfast is 7-9, lunch: 12-2 and dinner 6-8.  More importantly, tables at which to eat are also communal.  3)  Backpacker’s camps have some, but usually not exclusively, communal living space.  Dorms, mmm, fun.

So by this system, Octopus Resort is classified as a backpackers camp, though given it’s priciest accommodations, one could claim it fails #1. Lonely Planet agrees with the outcome of my classification scheme in this instance, though it does say: “Compared with your average Yasawa backpacker camp, Octopus is more than a few notches up the coconut tree in terms of quality and yet still retains its unpretentious charms.”

A few coconut fronds indeed.  After a day wandering Nadi, followed the next day by a sail to Beachcomber Island (a tiny speck of sand with a decidedly youthful backpacker camp) and anchoring off Beachcomber that night, we sailed/motored our way to Waya Island.  At Waya, Matt dinghied us into the resort.  We arrived to large booms of “Bula!” The ubiquitous greeting of hello in Fiji, which all tourist-minded businesses yell towards new guests or passerby.  At the resort desk, I said I was Jon, and was interrupted with, “Ah, yes, Jon.  Jon from the yacht.”  Yes, I replied, I am Jon from the yacht.  On our reservation, I had put that we would be arriving by sailboat, and would not require the customarily included transportation from Nadi, and it only would make sense that the front desk would know me as such, I reasoned.

Checked in, we relaxed at our private bure, (no dorms for us, I already did college) for a while before a welcome ceremony for anyone who arrived today.  The bure was ocean-side and we watched the sun set over the Pacific Ocean from the hammock that hung not ten feet away from our little porch.  The welcome ceremony involved kava, a drink I had begun to enjoy.  After the welcome ceremony was over I stuck around.  Seated around the kava bowl, I talked with the Fijians who had run the kava ceremony and who were now idly playing a small guitar, singing, drinking kava or passing it to others.  After a question one of them couldn’t field, he turned to another man, who turned out to be the resort manager.  He asked if I arrived today and after I replied yes and motioned to Syzygy anchored a quarter a mile away, he intoned, “Ah, you are Jon.  From the yacht.” As he spoke, he nodded knowingly and the corners of his lips turned up in a smile.  This may have been from the kava.

That evening I approached the bar with two bottles of wine for the bar to hold on to, I had brought them from Syzygy and you were not allowed to keep any food and drink in your rooms.  (the single small downside of Octopus is it seems a few mice scurry about the resort).  The bartender said he would certainly hold onto them for me and asked where I had gotten them.  I said I had brought them from my sailboat when we arrived today.  “Ah! You are Jon!  From the yacht!”  “Yes,” I smiled, “I am Jon from the Yacht.”  “Of course we can hold this for you!” he said smiling.  They do this for everyone by the way.  Allison and I would saddle up to the bar many times over the next three days drinking a variety of concoctions.  Their pina colada was good; their mojito (called a wayan mosquito) just didn’t stand up to ones I make at parties (and written about in magazines, no lie).  It was a espresso-ice cream-frangelico combination though that we went back for again and again and again.  Delicious.

The waitress at our lunch the next day… same thing, “Ah, you are Jon.  From the yacht.”  Replete with little giggle.  When I asked another staff person at the front desk about a special lobster dinner I had booked when making our reservation, she replied, “Lobster dinner? You must be Jon! From the yacht.  Sabrina, this is Jon from the yacht, who gets the lobster dinner.  Can you help him schedule it?” And then all 4 women in the office I swear tried to hide a little giggle.  At the lobster dinner, our server came up to our table and exclaimed, “Bula! You are Jon.  Yes? From the yacht?”  I had finally caught on to the pattern.  Allison noted it the first time I believe.

Octopus is a laid back resort, there are a variety of activities to choose from, but the staff is supportive of being fabulously lazy.  Pool, dive shop, great snorkeling right off the beach, inexpensive, good food (lunches are best, and the lobster dinner is totally worth paying for)  traditional village visits.  On one of those village visits, Allison and I took the opportunity to go to a church service as Fijian village culture is renowned for church services with beautiful singing.  The Methodist service was quite impressive, if a touch awkward (for me) when many of the tourists (with the permission of our local guide) were taking pictures of the service.

Octopus Resorts is an amazing place to stay.  If you visit Fiji, I highly recommend staying there.

(this post refers to events that happened on September 14th)

We ran aground.  It wasn’t our fault.   We were within the channel markers, so perhaps Port Denarau was to blame for faulty markers.  We were giving a little space to a high speed catamaran that impatiently steamed by us, so perhaps South Seas Sailing is to blame.  Visibility into the water was zero feet, so perhaps god was to blame.

Anyway you slice it, we ran aground.  Thankfully, it was a slow, easy, decrease in speed to zero, dirt and mud gently easing us to a stop.  Hard coral or rock would have been more jarring and unforgiving to our boat.

As the high speed catamaran passed, the crew were motioning to come closer to them, a motion which is not at all clear as to its intent when viewed from fifty yards away.  We had turned slightly to port to cede more room to them, their large boat and their large wake, but when I realized what they were motioning for, I quickly tried to turn to starboard and sped up a touch.  Neither helped, and we gently came to a rest.

Matt sprung into action, quickly getting out 200 feet of line, jumping into the dinghy which we happened to be pulling behind us, and clipping out orders for Karen and I to follow.  Get the anchor off it’s mount.  Tie the line to the anchor.  Move the line to the bow roller.  Tie on another line.  And with that off he zoomed with the anchor into the middle of the channel where he dropped the anchor.  Back at the boat, with Karen at the helm, it fell to me to pull us through the mud towards the anchor.  Pulling us primarily forward would allow us to use the engine to help propel us forward, assuming the mud wasn’t all the way up to the prop.  When I had pulled as much as I possibly could, we then wrapped the line around the anchor windlass and with Karen tailing, I cranked away, pushing and pulling the lever on the anchor windlass with all my might trying to pull us closer to the anchor Matt had dropped, and hopefully not simply pulling the anchor closer to us.

We were inching closer when we caught a break.  A mid-size troller was exiting from the marina through the channel.  We tried hailing them to warn them of our anchor in the middle of the channel but they didn’t respond.  They did however, increase speed which through up a larger wake.  The larger wake allowed our boat to rise and break free of the mud.  As we rose, I desperately cranked the line as fast as I could go to get us over deeper water.  And then we were free.

It was over in less than ten minutes, and Matt was particularly proud of our fast reaction that led to getting freed.  But we got stuck in the mud.  How embarrassing.

(this post refers to events that happened on September 6th)

I have a litany of electronics that I have ruined because they were not waterproof and I took them near water.  Two video cameras, one camera.  Two phones.  A jump drive.  So I was overjoyed to have purchased a waterproof camera to use on this trip, where I’m surrounded by water.

The Olympus Stylus Epic 1030SW.  Waterproof to 10 feet.  SHOCKPROOF to 6 feet.  It was awesome!  No worries about getting it wet.  Spray from sailing was no concern.  Wet trips in the dinghy no concern.  Swimming on the surface was no concern.

I failed however, to properly be concerned about diving down to beyond ten feet to take pictures.

And so the last pictures my camera managed to take were of Swallows Cave.  Which was spectacular.

And almost worth the price a new camera will cost.  Allison brought one out that was quite enticing… The Olympus u-tough 8000, only available outside America.   And Olympus has another, its newest version, the Olympus Stylus tough-8020!  Shizamm!

Anyway, here are pictures from Swallows Cave.

(this post refers to events that happened on September 6th)

In between going to Swallows Cave and Mariners Cave, we went out to the coral gardens west of the reef between the islands of Vakaeitu and Nua Papu.    The founder of Moorings, a world wide sailboat chartering company, was quoted as saying the following upon snorkeling here:  “Any reef I look at after this one will appear dead to me.”  Apparently it was going to be colorful.  I figure she has done a fair bit of snorkeling in her day in exotic locations, what with setting up a world wide sail-chartering company and all.  So we were determined to see it.

And we needed to be determined, because it wasn’t easy.  As we approached, the tide was low and you could walk across drying reef from Vakaeitu and Nua Papu.  Waves were hitting the western side of the reef where we needed to enter the water.  Now, this wasn’t like walking down a gently sloping sandy beach through waves to enter the water, maybe a few obsticles around.   Water was surging back and forth across deep channels cut into the reef, creating a strong tidal motion back and forth.  Later, when in the water, the tidal surge would push you towards the reef edge sometimes upwards of 6 feet and you would zoom along with the fish who were also pulled by tidal surge, the coral below you skimming by showing your nearly uncontrollable progress, only to be tugged back away as the tidal surge drew away, and you and the fish would again go zipping along back out to where you started.

Matt was the first to attempt to enter, walking out a peninsula of reef as far as he could.  Waves pushed water all around his feet, and balance on the slippery wet reef was precarious.  Spray from larger waves would kick up around him occasionally.  The timing needed to be just right, and when a surge came in, raising the water level within the slots between the reef, Matt stepped off the peninsula of reef and into the water.  He immediately began swimming quickly away from the reef as the surge receded to avoid being unavoidably pushed back into the reef when it surged back inland again.

Karen and I followed repeating the process.  She and I had both worn our Chaco sandals, as opposed to Matt cavorting around in his bare feet, which I think made walking the reef slightly less painful.  Carrying the sandals while snorkeling was a small price to pay for less damage to the feet.  How his feet weren’t covered in cuts I don’t know.

The snorkeling was worth it, not just a spot of coral here and patch there as is typical of most places.  This was a huge continuous tract of coral unbroken the entire third of a mile between Vakaeitu and Nua Papu and which looked to go on longer in both directions.  From five feet in depth, as it slowly angled down to 75 feet in depth, there was beautiful coral the entire way.  It was unfortunately partly cloudy but when the sun cut through the clouds and shown onto the coral, it burst with color, a vibrancy we had not seen anywhere in the South Pacific.  It was a stunning display.  Coral fans stretched 12 feet wide, larger than I had ever seen.

We lazily swam the 1/3 of a mile from where we entered at the edge of Vakaeitu.  I had never enjoyed snorkeling for so long.  Then once reaching near the Nua Papu shore, we turned around and pushed back to our entrance/exit point, hoping that getting out of the water would prove easier and less scary than getting in.  It was not.

I initially tried taking off my flippers to put on my Chaco’s, reasoning that with footwear I would more easily be able to get my feet on the reef and walk out.  Walking with flippers is best done by clowns with experience in such things, and while I may be clownish, I have little experience in such things.  But once I took the flippers off, I had no mobility and propulsion in the water, and I needed both to judge the surge as it pushed you towards the reef and then pulled you away.  So back on went the flippers.  I edged closer and closer to the reef, and on a final surge put my feet up on the edge of one of the peninsulas of reef that jutted away and grabbed on with my hands.  Water was at my waist and was in the lull between the surge in and the draw out.  I tried to move my feet up higher, but the flippers tripped me up.  And then the water turned and drew out.  Water rushed out the slot in the reef of which I was on the edge of and moved with a terrific force so that all I could do was simply hold on.  At the lull at the bottom I again tried to move and the flippers again tripped me up.  A larger surge then the one I landed with came in; the higher water pushed me off balance knocking my hands off the reef causing me to reflexively grab at anything I could hold.  I moved up the side of the reef bit, half crawling, half climbing up a couple of feet.  Another surge drew out and then came back in, sucking at my legs trying to pull me away from the reef, then pushing me off balance towards the slot in the reef the tidal surge pushed into each time.  I was desperate to be able to effectively move my legs and so took one flipper off and then another tossing them to Matt who was on higher ground.  With flippers off, I endured another larger swell knocking me off balance and then pulling me hard.  At was on top of the peninsula of reef at this point, effectively horizontal ground, but the tide was higher and water easily washed over the peninsula point and so despite being on all fours, crawling, when the tide drew out, I was holding on like I might while rock-climbing, such was the force of the water sweeping out.

Once Karen was out as well, I assessed the damage.  A half a dozen coral cuts on my hands, a couple more on my ankles and knees.  A price to be sure for the best snorkeling we’ve done.

(refers to events on September 5th and 7th)

Swallows cave and Mariners cave in Tonga were amazing.  Along with exploring these two caves, the last three days we were in Tonga we also snorkeled what is widely regarded as some of the best coral reefs in all of the Vava’u island group, and I hiked/bushwacked to a deserted beach (barefoot as it was a spontaneous decision after swimming to shore).  So our last days in Tonga were busy and packed with fun.

Swallows cave is a enormous 50 foot high entrance in a limestone cliff at sea level on the northern tip of Kapa.  The dinghy fit easily and with it, we explored all the recesses of the cave we could.  The water was crystal clear and you could see the bottom with crazy limestone towers and arches, albeit completely bereft of life.  The urge to explore continued to pull and we tied up the dinghy to some limestone and continued walking back into the cave.   Scrambling/climbing skills proved useful to avoid a bit of water.  Midway through the cave it opened into an enormous cavern which had a small opening to the sky.  Long ago, important chiefs would lower down guests and food 100 feet through this small ten foot wide hole and hold feasts.

After exploring the recesses of the cave as much as we could, we arrived back at the dinghy.  It was time to explore the water, which we did after only a tiny bit of hesitation due to the four foot long sea snake we had seen on the scramble back to the dinghy.  Sea snakes are, apparently, quite venomous, though their mouths are too small to bite you.  I’m thinking, surely they can get their mouths around a pinkie finger or something?  Wouldn’t that be awful.

Under water was perhaps even more beautiful, limestone pillars jutting up 30 feet from the bottom, arches and tunnels had formed underwater.  Towards the entrance was beautiful, and we took many pictures of us silhouetted against the bright sun.

The next day, we went out to the coral gardens west of the reef between the islands of Vakaeitu and Nua Papu, which will enjoy its own post.  The day after snorkeling, on our way out of Tonga, we stopped at Mariner’s cave on the northern point of Nua Papu, a 1/2 a mile south of the narrow pass between Kitu and Nua Papu.  For some reason, we decided to go through this narrow pass.  Our charts show it to be 97 yards wide, a football field, which might seem like plenty of space when our boat is only 4 yards wide.  97 yards felt like 97 feet as turbulent water mixed about and strong currents pushed our tiny boat around.  I can’t throw a rock 1/2 a football field, but I just knew I could easily hit the shores with even a modest try.  Yet through this narrow pass we engined our way.

We then slowly motored the 1/2 a mile along the coast of Nua Papu, looking for the coconut tree on the ridge line and the dark orange patch on the vertical cliff face that would mark the entrance to Mariner’s cave.  Mariner’s, you see, is not visible from above the surface of the water.  You must swim under water through a tunnel in the limestone and surface again inside the island to find Mariner’s cave.  At the correct spot, the water was a dark hue of blue, and you could faintly see the outlines of the limestone entrance underwater.

Matt and I jumped off to explore, while Karen stayed aboard and motored about.  The cliffs drop off sharply into the water and plunge straight down for over a hundred feet.  There was no anchoring to be had anywhere near by, so someone would have to stay with the boat.  We poked around the entrance diving down into the water just to look at it first.  The entrance stretched from six feet under water to fifty and was another thirty feet wide, creating an enormous underwater passageway.  And as we swam through, you could turn to face up and watch your bubbles pooling on the limestone underwater, most scurrying across the surface finding their way to the air’s edge on either side of the passageway, some becoming trapped there in tiny crevices.

After a fifteen foot long swim, the longest fifteen feet I’ve ever swam underwater, we emerged inside Mariner’s cave.  It was much darker than Swallows, an eery blue light coming only from the passage way from where we came.  With our dive flashlight, we scanned through this much smaller cave and found little more to explore through like Swallows.

To Matt’s glee though, clouds were spontaneously forming inside the cave.  When the surge from the ocean outside rises up, the water inside the cave rises as well.  As their is no other entrance or escape for air, the volume available to the air decreases.  This increases the air pressure and causes water vapor to condense out of the air and effectively form a cloud.  The mist would slowly build as water surged in and what was once visibility dropped from the hundred feet or so across the length of the cave to only a few feet as everything faded, hidden in the mist.  With a quick snap though, when the water turned and began to draw out, the process reversed, but instead of the slow building of mist, it quickly snapped away.  This repeated itself with every surge, though the random larger surges of the ocean created the effect more spectacularly.

We exited, and just for fun, I swam back and forth through the passage way from oceanside into the cave and back a couple more times.  I then rejoined the boat, to allow Karen to go through the caves.  And with that, at around 2 pm, when all we really wanted was a beer, we began the five day passage to Fiji, saying goodbye to a Tongan experience that was extremely frustrating but ultimately rewarding and unforgettable.