August 9, 2002-Being in the Pacific
wingssail image-fredrick roswold
Trade Wind Clouds, Papeete
Anchored in Noumea Harbor the mountains behind the town reminded us we were in the Pacific. We've seen mountains like this on countless Pacific islands from Tahiti to Taveuni, from Samoa to New Caledonia. As the trade winds blow over the mountains of New Caledonia the clouds leave their shadows on the green, rain eroded sides. Maybe this is the archetypical Pacific scene, a blue shaded, wind swept harbor, anchored yachts with flags of every nation whipping at the gaff, a town with red roofs and radio towers, and behind them, the mist shrouded mountain with colors dulled by the dark moisture filled trade wind clouds.
We watch the weather and the time goes by and we look at the charts for the best route to the next port, wondering when we will feel like pulling up the hook and facing those trade winds blowing solidly just outside the harbor's gates.
Baie Moselle, in New Caledonia, is a French place, but it has that South Pacific feel with locals fishing and laughing on the quay. These locals, Melanesians, they always wave friendly like, as we pass them, motoring into town in the dingy for fresh bread and whatever other provisions we think we can afford, French prices are high. We wonder if the locals fishing on the pier ever catch anything. They're part of the scenery to us, just part of another town in the tropics, to us, one of so many, hot and quiet and dusty in the streets when we have to carry our bags back to the dingy, and cool out in the bay, where the waves splash us and the wind never seems to lessen.
In the morning we turn on the radio and tune in on each pre-planned sked, or radio schedule. At 8:00 it's the vessel Ulu, and at 17:30 at night it's Kokomo. Through the static a voice comes in, "Where are you?" "Baie de Prony, and you?" "Still Port Moselle, but we might leave Sunday. What's it like in Prony?" " Nice, but the winds hasn't stopped, we think we'll go to Ouvea tomorrow or the day after, but we're waiting for a west wind." So is half the fleet, we think, ourselves included. " Well, if we get out that way we'll see you. Have a good sail if we don't see you." Tenuous contact, at best, but you hang onto that contact, the radio is your life line, over the wind driven cloud enshrouded mountains of the Pacific islands, these lonely outposts where the cruisers hang out.
This afternoon we went out in the dingy. We visited Astor and traded books, so we'd have a new supply to read on the next passage, or in the next hurricane hole where we might be waiting out the weather. Then we stopped at Egress II, and renewed an old acquaintance, but we didn't stay, and then we got some weather information from John on Ostrica, which weather fax stations he prefers and where he gets his local weather, preferably not in French. "From John on Norfolk Island" he says. We chat for a while about tides in Havannah Pass until his dinner guests arrive. And then we went back to Wings for our own supper, a pasta dish, and we drank some red wine and filled up on fresh French bread. If we head out on Sunday we'll take as much French bread as we can eat before it gets stale, and then maybe we'll find another town in another harbor underneath another Pacific island cloud swept mountain where the locals wave from the pier and the store has French bread, if you get there before noon.
We motored several miles up a long channel into the mountains of New Caledonia, not a fiord, but into the mountains nevertheless, and we anchored in a very quiet place with the name Carenage. In the Carenage the hills surrounded us and the water was still. We wondered what it was like outside, back in the open reaches of the lagoon, but that was idle curiosity, since up here, that didn't matter, it was a different world.
Anchored nearby was a French boat, a ketch, steel, from the looks of the chines, with one tan mast and one white, which was slightly strange, but so are many French boats. Behind her was a Kiwi vessel, you can tell them by their shapes too, with a distinctive sheer and a house which stepped higher as it went aft. We saw the flag, red with the union jack and the Southern Cross, which confirmed the New Zeeland registry. We motored over in the dingy. A smell of fresh paint reached our noses as we fell in behind her stern, and a bare chested man greeted us, "Guday". Sounded Aussie but the flag said otherwise. Geoff introduced himself, and we reciprocated with the name of our vessel and our own. His partner poked her head out the hatch,
"That's Chris." He said, "I've been doing a bit of maintenance".
"I could smell the paint," I said.
"We've been smelling it for a week" was his answer.
"How long have you been up here?"
"About ten days." Chris nodded agreement.
Geoff and Chris told us a little about their boat, Wakaya, which is a classic, wooden, New Zealand boat over 50 years old, and they've had it for 20, and they invited us aboard for a tour. After admiring their Kauri wood and Mahagony, and seeing the other beautiful timber work, and being amused at the quaint 50 year old houshold electric switches we thanked them for the coffee and cake and then we asked them about the local sights. They told us where the trails were around the bay and we thanked them, and we motored off.
We went up a couple of river mouths in the dingy, one to a creek with some small waterfalls and pools, and a place to tie up the dingy. We followed a trail up the hill and then onto an old road that led around the bay. We found a place were we could look out over the bay and see Wings anchored below. We went back to the waterfalls and stripped down and bathed in the cool fresh water, conserving ship's water that showers onboard would have otherwise required. Then we motored up the other river, this one slightly bigger, with mangroves and a lazy current, until we came to some rapids. We stopped the motor and let the current take us back down stream, listening to the birds on shore as we drifted.
Later we sat in the cockpit, drinking rum and fruit juice with ice, a luxury on Wings, since the refrigerator we had for years wouldn't make ice, but the new one will, so we savored it. We watched the water reflect the last light of the day, and enjoyed the stillness of a quiet anchorage far into the mountains. When we had looked at the mountains behind Noumea harbor we knew that was a typical Pacific island view, but this scene was just the opposite, not typical of the Pacific at all, more reminiscent of an anchorage in British Columbia or Alaska than the South Pacific.
After a couple of days working on boat projects and taking various short hikes to waterfalls around the Carenage, we left this beautiful anchorage and sailed out of the New Caledonia lagoon through Havannah Pass and overnight to the Loyalty Islands.
The Loyalties, part of New Caledonia but separated from the it by 60 miles of ocean, are less populated, less developed, and less European than the mainland of New Caledonia. Mick and Chris on Ulu told us to expect to feel like we were back in the tropical Pacific islands. Sounded good, so off we went.
This trip called for an overnight passage to get the timing right at the pass and to arrive at the destination in daylight. This meant sailing slowly all night, otherwise we'd get there at 2:00 am. We didn't use the jib and we had the main reefed, deeply, and even overtrimmed to reduce the sail's efficiency. We still arrived at Mare Island in the Loyalties before daylight and we wound up reaching back and forth in the offing waiting for enough light to get into the anchorage. The night sail was OK though, easy enough, but still, we would rather be in a snug anchorage and sound asleep in our bunks than sailing all night.
Does this feel like the Pacific? In a different way from the mountians behind Noumea, yes. It looks like Nuku' alofa in Tonga, flat and green and small collections of houses in the follage ashore. So this is another side of the Pacific, the low islands. The water is clear and there are coral patches in the sand all over our anchorage. The water is so clear, in fact, that we were dodging coral heads coming in here which we later figured out were down 60 feet, but it looked like 15 feet. Then we had to find a patch of sand to anchor in, and we evidently missed because right now the anchor chain is dragging across a rock patch and making a racket. Maybe we'll move.
On the beach is a Burre, one of the open walled, thatched roof, family meeting houses which we last saw in Samoa, and there is a market day in one of the neighboring villages. The market only goes until 11:00 though, and we don't have time to get there. Maybe Mick and Chris will bring us a loaf of bread. Now that is pretty much what cruising in the Pacific is all about.
Fred & Judy, S/V Wings, Loyalty Islands
Click here for more photos from New Caledonia
Trade Wind Clouds, PapeeteAnchored in Noumea Harbor the mountains behind the town reminded us we were in the Pacific. We've seen mountains like this on countless Pacific islands from Tahiti to Taveuni, from Samoa to New Caledonia. As the trade winds blow over the mountains of New Caledonia the clouds leave their shadows on the green, rain eroded sides. Maybe this is the archetypical Pacific scene, a blue shaded, wind swept harbor, anchored yachts with flags of every nation whipping at the gaff, a town with red roofs and radio towers, and behind them, the mist shrouded mountain with colors dulled by the dark moisture filled trade wind clouds.
We watch the weather and the time goes by and we look at the charts for the best route to the next port, wondering when we will feel like pulling up the hook and facing those trade winds blowing solidly just outside the harbor's gates.
Baie Moselle, in New Caledonia, is a French place, but it has that South Pacific feel with locals fishing and laughing on the quay. These locals, Melanesians, they always wave friendly like, as we pass them, motoring into town in the dingy for fresh bread and whatever other provisions we think we can afford, French prices are high. We wonder if the locals fishing on the pier ever catch anything. They're part of the scenery to us, just part of another town in the tropics, to us, one of so many, hot and quiet and dusty in the streets when we have to carry our bags back to the dingy, and cool out in the bay, where the waves splash us and the wind never seems to lessen.
In the morning we turn on the radio and tune in on each pre-planned sked, or radio schedule. At 8:00 it's the vessel Ulu, and at 17:30 at night it's Kokomo. Through the static a voice comes in, "Where are you?" "Baie de Prony, and you?" "Still Port Moselle, but we might leave Sunday. What's it like in Prony?" " Nice, but the winds hasn't stopped, we think we'll go to Ouvea tomorrow or the day after, but we're waiting for a west wind." So is half the fleet, we think, ourselves included. " Well, if we get out that way we'll see you. Have a good sail if we don't see you." Tenuous contact, at best, but you hang onto that contact, the radio is your life line, over the wind driven cloud enshrouded mountains of the Pacific islands, these lonely outposts where the cruisers hang out.
This afternoon we went out in the dingy. We visited Astor and traded books, so we'd have a new supply to read on the next passage, or in the next hurricane hole where we might be waiting out the weather. Then we stopped at Egress II, and renewed an old acquaintance, but we didn't stay, and then we got some weather information from John on Ostrica, which weather fax stations he prefers and where he gets his local weather, preferably not in French. "From John on Norfolk Island" he says. We chat for a while about tides in Havannah Pass until his dinner guests arrive. And then we went back to Wings for our own supper, a pasta dish, and we drank some red wine and filled up on fresh French bread. If we head out on Sunday we'll take as much French bread as we can eat before it gets stale, and then maybe we'll find another town in another harbor underneath another Pacific island cloud swept mountain where the locals wave from the pier and the store has French bread, if you get there before noon.
We motored several miles up a long channel into the mountains of New Caledonia, not a fiord, but into the mountains nevertheless, and we anchored in a very quiet place with the name Carenage. In the Carenage the hills surrounded us and the water was still. We wondered what it was like outside, back in the open reaches of the lagoon, but that was idle curiosity, since up here, that didn't matter, it was a different world.
Anchored nearby was a French boat, a ketch, steel, from the looks of the chines, with one tan mast and one white, which was slightly strange, but so are many French boats. Behind her was a Kiwi vessel, you can tell them by their shapes too, with a distinctive sheer and a house which stepped higher as it went aft. We saw the flag, red with the union jack and the Southern Cross, which confirmed the New Zeeland registry. We motored over in the dingy. A smell of fresh paint reached our noses as we fell in behind her stern, and a bare chested man greeted us, "Guday". Sounded Aussie but the flag said otherwise. Geoff introduced himself, and we reciprocated with the name of our vessel and our own. His partner poked her head out the hatch,
"That's Chris." He said, "I've been doing a bit of maintenance".
"I could smell the paint," I said.
"We've been smelling it for a week" was his answer.
"How long have you been up here?"
"About ten days." Chris nodded agreement.
Geoff and Chris told us a little about their boat, Wakaya, which is a classic, wooden, New Zealand boat over 50 years old, and they've had it for 20, and they invited us aboard for a tour. After admiring their Kauri wood and Mahagony, and seeing the other beautiful timber work, and being amused at the quaint 50 year old houshold electric switches we thanked them for the coffee and cake and then we asked them about the local sights. They told us where the trails were around the bay and we thanked them, and we motored off.
We went up a couple of river mouths in the dingy, one to a creek with some small waterfalls and pools, and a place to tie up the dingy. We followed a trail up the hill and then onto an old road that led around the bay. We found a place were we could look out over the bay and see Wings anchored below. We went back to the waterfalls and stripped down and bathed in the cool fresh water, conserving ship's water that showers onboard would have otherwise required. Then we motored up the other river, this one slightly bigger, with mangroves and a lazy current, until we came to some rapids. We stopped the motor and let the current take us back down stream, listening to the birds on shore as we drifted.
Later we sat in the cockpit, drinking rum and fruit juice with ice, a luxury on Wings, since the refrigerator we had for years wouldn't make ice, but the new one will, so we savored it. We watched the water reflect the last light of the day, and enjoyed the stillness of a quiet anchorage far into the mountains. When we had looked at the mountains behind Noumea harbor we knew that was a typical Pacific island view, but this scene was just the opposite, not typical of the Pacific at all, more reminiscent of an anchorage in British Columbia or Alaska than the South Pacific.
After a couple of days working on boat projects and taking various short hikes to waterfalls around the Carenage, we left this beautiful anchorage and sailed out of the New Caledonia lagoon through Havannah Pass and overnight to the Loyalty Islands.
The Loyalties, part of New Caledonia but separated from the it by 60 miles of ocean, are less populated, less developed, and less European than the mainland of New Caledonia. Mick and Chris on Ulu told us to expect to feel like we were back in the tropical Pacific islands. Sounded good, so off we went.
This trip called for an overnight passage to get the timing right at the pass and to arrive at the destination in daylight. This meant sailing slowly all night, otherwise we'd get there at 2:00 am. We didn't use the jib and we had the main reefed, deeply, and even overtrimmed to reduce the sail's efficiency. We still arrived at Mare Island in the Loyalties before daylight and we wound up reaching back and forth in the offing waiting for enough light to get into the anchorage. The night sail was OK though, easy enough, but still, we would rather be in a snug anchorage and sound asleep in our bunks than sailing all night.
Does this feel like the Pacific? In a different way from the mountians behind Noumea, yes. It looks like Nuku' alofa in Tonga, flat and green and small collections of houses in the follage ashore. So this is another side of the Pacific, the low islands. The water is clear and there are coral patches in the sand all over our anchorage. The water is so clear, in fact, that we were dodging coral heads coming in here which we later figured out were down 60 feet, but it looked like 15 feet. Then we had to find a patch of sand to anchor in, and we evidently missed because right now the anchor chain is dragging across a rock patch and making a racket. Maybe we'll move.
On the beach is a Burre, one of the open walled, thatched roof, family meeting houses which we last saw in Samoa, and there is a market day in one of the neighboring villages. The market only goes until 11:00 though, and we don't have time to get there. Maybe Mick and Chris will bring us a loaf of bread. Now that is pretty much what cruising in the Pacific is all about.
Fred & Judy, S/V Wings, Loyalty Islands
Click here for more photos from New Caledonia
Labels: Loyalties, New Caledonia
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