We left Middle Percy Island noon on May 2nd. Anxious to get to the Whitsunday’s, famed to be the best sailing grounds of Australia, we had spent only one night on Middle Percy, a beautiful though nearly completely deserted island. It’s one claim to fame is a hut with various sailing paraphernalia from the last 50 odd years. Every boat it seems, leaves a little artifact and quite a collection has built up.

Anxious though we were, the wind was not so in a hurry. With both the drifter and jib up we slowly putted along on the glassiest of seas barely breaking 2 knots. We already knew we were in for an overnight sail, and so I didn’t feel like turning on the engine.

We spent the time in various ways.

First and foremost, Justin cracked a beer at precisely noon to celebrate our speedy passage making.

spent some time grinding on our new (for a second time) anchor windlass handle. A welder in Bundaberg charged me an obscene amount for a new handle and then attached a piece that was 50% too thick to fit into the windlass. Alas, I discovered this 50 miles away at Lady Musgrave when we tried to anchor. To date we’e made do with our dilapidated rusting back-up until now. No more. With no rocking and no boats around, I set about to grinding.

Justin made me lunch.

We relaxed with more beers at two in the afternoon, a gentle breeze at our backs, enough to keep us cool, but not enough to push us any faster than 2.5 knots.

Justin played some video games.

And finally, I set about to thinking how I could rig up the hammock. I normally set it up on the forestay, (the wire holding up the mast in the front of the boat) but since the jib was rolled out, this wasn’t possible. See pictures below for my set-up. As I lazily swayed in the hammock, drinking a beer and watching the water meander underneath me, I may or may not have thought about how things couldn’t get much more relaxed.

And in homage to Greg Sutera, Justin brought the 2-step to Australia.

One aspect, however, of the nanny state will please my parents, even if it is annoying to me. Boats are required to check in with the Coast Guard as they move from one Coast Guard region to the next. This happens about every 10 miles. I’ve heard boats checking in with Coast Guard just to move from one side of an three mile wide island to the other. You are required to give your origin, destination and approximate arrival time, boat registration number, number of people on board, We have dutifully checked in with the Coast Guard as we have travelled north. Other boats have told us they found us particularly humorous when we would call for a particular Coast Guard, only to have to switch to calling for “Any Coast Guard in Range!” Our VHF it seems is not particularly powerful.

Here is Justin having some fun. Doing his best Australian voice impression and checking in with the Coast Guard.

Romeo that.

Note: Of Matt, I only make fun.  It is only because of the thousands and thousands of hours that Matt labored on Syzygy that I am able to sail her here in Australia. I jest because it is so obviously hilarious to think Matt somehow did not maintain Syzygy to the highest of standards.

Upon hearing of our male-beer-evening, a female cruising friend living down the dock from us commented that the sole topics of conversation among single men when lacking female company seem to be 1) women and 2) alcohol. Given that we are no longer single (I am married; Jon is in a relationship), she was curious about exactly what we might discuss.  A ready defense of the quality of our conversation jumped to the tip of my tongue, because I recalled that on the evening in question we had an unusually philosophical back and forth for at least two hours.  I paused before answering, however, when I realized that we had started the event at 4 and continued until 1–a duration of 7 hours–minor mental calculation says that 2 out of 7 hours is not a significant portion.  Upon further reflection, I recalled a spirited debate regarding the top three brands of each and every type of liquor present on the shelves of the bar.  And what else did we talk about? Oh, right.

I was forced to admit that the primary topics of mature non-single male conversation remain 1) women and 2) alcohol. At the same time, I regret nothing and make no apologies.

For another exhibit of male arcana, I present the preferred method for one dude to cut another dude’s hair.  I think you will agree with me that it is a paragon of efficiency: note in particular the minimal amount of male-male contact and the utter lack of escaping stray hair.

To the 15 of you who contributed before I (Jon) joined in June, I will get pictures soon from Matt of the inebriation you sponsored, and you too will get your day in the blogosphere contributing to an unhealthy non-tax-deductible cause. Not all of the people who have contributed since June are listed in the drink tab. Don’t worry, it is our fervent desire and plan to continue with our up-until-now well executed plan of steady alcoholic consumption. We are embarrassed at our lag time with posting thanks and pictures, but generally blame it on you and the intoxication you made possible, and hope you will forgive us by buying us beer.

JONATHON

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.

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!