A Big Ocean Passage from Wallis to Fiji

Squalls, beam seas, and 72 hard hours of sailing to Savusavu

Some days at sea are just survival. You’re out there, and you can’t make it stop – so you just do what needs to be done.

Last week we left the island nation of Wallis and Futuna for the archipelago of Fiji. Our sailing route was a direct line, 269 nautical miles from outside the pass on the south end of Wallis Island to the Nanuku Passage on the northeast side of the Fijian archipelago. We were leaving the Inter-Tropical Convergence Zone (the ITCZ), which is band of cloudy, squally weather that fluctuates between latitude 15° N and 15° South. It is persistent in the area from Samoa to Wallis and Futuna, and everyday was at least partly cloudy and most days it rained. A lot. It had been fun to explore such a remote place, but we were ready to leave the rain and cloud behind.

The night before we left was a very stormy one on Wallis, with lots of rain squalls and thunderstorms, but the morning was brighter, and we got underway at 08:00 under partly cloudy skies. On the way to the pass on the south end of the island, we unfurled the mainsail out to the top spreader, as we anticipated 20 – 25 knots of consistent SE trade winds for most of the trip and didn’t want to be over canvassed.

We made our way out of the pass just before slack tide, and it was a smooth exit. Once clear of the reef we got the staysail out and tuned our sail set. We put a preventer on the boom and got it securely fastened. A preventer is a line that goes from the end of the boom, through a chock forward on the deck and then back to a big winch on the aft deck. It is used when the mainsheet is eased way out to “prevent” the boom from coming back hard across the boat in what is called an “accidental gybe”. In heavy air, there is a tremendous amount of pressure on the mainsail, and with a big boom like ours, an accidental gybe could cause a lot of damage. When short-handed sailing, it’s just a good safety measure, and we feel better knowing the boom is always under control.

There is an old-time saying, “Men and ships rot in port”, and it’s oh so true.

The start of the trip was a bit rough as we had been at anchor for 5 weeks. Everything that felt normal on the last passage is forgotten, and it takes time to regain your sea legs and get used to the constant motion again. Even for those of us that live full time on the water. Everything has to be well battened down, both on deck and inside the boat. We ensure all the lockers are securely fastened, and I stuff pillows and paper towel rolls in the cupboards to keep bottles and cans from bashing around. Anything you put down will go airborne, and you always need to keep your balance and hang on.

By 4:00 on Sunday afternoon we were halfway to Futuna – about ¼ of the total trip. The wind had been fluctuating between 16 – 20 knots, the seas were about 3 meters, plus a 1-meter wind wave. We were running on a broad reach, with average speed between 6 and 7 knots. Our sail set was conservative by design – when short-handed, going into what we know is going to be big wind and seas, we prepare by setting sails that can handle the conditions. We didn’t want to have to reduce sail after dark, so we were willing to be a bit underpowered at the beginning of the trip.

Looking up at the mainsail from a top hatch in the pilot house - original photo by LJ

The sea increased steadily overnight, and by the morning, we were sailing on a beam reach, with the wind on our port side, and a beam sea of 4+ meters with 1.5 meters wind waves. We were sailing fast on a straight line to our destination, but we paid a big price. The beam sea was brutal; it was like a bucking bronco ride. We were getting pasted with waves over the deck every 10 seconds or so – big square breaking waves that would rear up and smack the boat so hard it would reverberate through the hull, sometimes 2 or 3 in a row.

We were taking a lot of spray, sometimes a sneaker wave would send water over the windshield on the pilothouse, and even across the aft deck. Other times the waves would just pass under the hull, lifting us up and pushing us over until we were heeled over hard, literally staring down into the water on the starboard side of the boat. But Duende was remarkably stable with our reduced sail set and always came right back up, and the waves would roll past, leaving a swath of white foam in their wake.

Staring down at a wave from the shelter of our pilot house - original photo by LJ

As for being under canvassed? No way. Our sail set was perfect. We sailed fast – hitting steady 7’s and 8’s, even as much as 9 and 10 knots when the rain squalls passed us. Which they did, frequently. We could see them coming, big black clouds that went right down to the horizon. They came fast, with a blast of cooler air and an increase of wind to 30 knots. Then the visibility would go to zero, the rain would pelt us for 5 or 10 minutes. Duende just absorbed the gusts. Our pilot house is 8 feet above the waterline, and with the panels and side doors closed, we are protected from the sea and shielded from the rain. And then when the squall passed over, we’d jump up and unzip the enclosure panels and open the doors as it quickly got so hot and sweaty in the 100% humidity.

With each passing hour we slowly moved out from under the convergence zone. At sundown on Monday, the sky started to clear and we had glimpses of blue sky as the clouds scuttled past.

The blue/green/grey shading are clouds and rain. We are the blue dot, just breaking free of the convergence zone, heading for the red dot. - Screen shot by LJ

As darkness fell, we saw stars for the first time and things started to improve. The wind dropped to about 15 knots, and the sea went down to about 1.5 meters. It was still a beam sea, and we were still rolling, but there was no more spray over the deck and only the occasional slamming wave – just to keep us on our toes.

We reached the Nanuku Passage at about midnight, and the rest of the night passed with increasingly clear skies and no more rain squalls. The few clouds that remained were black against the bright stars in the clear patches, the first stars we’d seen for days. The moon came up to light our way for the rest of the night.

Our first Fijian sunset - original photo by LJ

After sunup we were well inside the Fijian archipelago, and conditions were much calmer, but we still had another 100 reef-strewn and poorly charted nautical miles to go to Savusavu, our first port of call in Fiji. The distances here are great, and at sailing speed it’s impossible to get to port in a single day, so timing is critical to arrive at your destination in daylight. We sailed slowly for another 24 hours and made our way through the Koro Sea, down the coast of Taveuni Island and then west to Savusavu Bay on Vanua Levu, the wild north island of Fiji. We made landfall at 0900 hours on Wednesday – 73 hours from anchor up.

While we always felt safe, it was still a hard trip. We didn’t sleep much, and meals consisted of small snacks that required no cooking and could be eaten with one hand. We hadn’t sailed in a big beam sea or such wet conditions for a long time. Rough and wild passages like this are hard on the crew – physically and mentally. The bashing of the sea and the sound of the wind growling and whistling through the rigging is relentless. You wish it would calm down, but there is nothing you can do to stop it. It’s not as extreme as a Vendee Globe sailing experience in the Southern Ocean, but we are in a place that is just as remote, and we don’t have a support team watching our every move. It’s just the two of us, doing what we need to do to get to our destination, as safely as possible.

Yes, this was a wild ride, but it was also a remarkable sail. We were on one tack the entire way, we didn’t have to change our sail set, and we sailed right along the rhumb line with hardly any adjustment to the course. Occasionally, when the big waves pushed us sideways, the autopilot would give a “beep, beep, beep” alarm, but it always corrected and held steady.

Duende proved herself once again to be the best blue water sailing yacht we could possibly ask for. It was exhilarating to feel her power in extreme offshore conditions – crushing through waves that would stop some boats in their tracks. It’s not something we would choose to do every passage, but a thrilling experience, nonetheless.

We arrived safe and sound, to yet another landfall in yet another new country in our logbook.

Just one big salty boat and two tired but happy crew.

Sail On Fearless Crew! LJ

To all my constant readers, thank you for coming along on this voyage with us. It’s really fun for me to share our adventures with you, and I hope you enjoy my stories. Please invite your friends and family to join us. All are welcome onboard SV Duende.

If you are new to the crew, you can see where this adventure started with the Duende Origin Story Part 1 (and 2, and 3, and 4).