The environment inside Panache was horribly filthy. Disgusting. Otherworldly. Ten months of inactivity in the tropics will do that to a boat, and it was my duty to scrub Panache clean and get her going again. Everything I touched transferred a level of grime that made me shutter. Everything I look at made me squint. Not because it was bright, but because it was so fucking dirty that there could be no way it was that fucking dirty. As my eyes narrowed and my head moved closer to the surface in question, my jaw dropped. “How the..” Pardon my language. Water-blasting every cranny of Panache with a steal melting acid was the only reasonable way to clean the boat, but all I had were a pair of rubber gloves, all purpose cleaner, white vinegar, and a roll of synthetic Chinese plastic towels. Plastic towels, not paper. These rolls of genius had zero absorbent qualities and only smeared the grime around rather than picking it up. To complement the plastic towels uselessness, I also had in my arsenal some cheap Chinese garbage bags that couldn't seem to hold the heaps of trash I was jamming in them. This is a triple-bagged job mind you. The black plastic was one billionth of a micron thick and could barely hold its own weight. It is always the simplest things that become the most annoying when they don’t work out. These tissue thin bags were a perfect example. Maybe it was the stress of the insurmountable work ahead of me, or maybe I was just high from using too much of the unequivocally lethal spider spray, but my body was overheating and my mind was starting to skip. The hot, sticky heat wasn’t helping. After a full day of cleaning, I had made Panache livable for only a hobo. I dragged my body on deck and threw myself into the water. I crashed through the water uncontrollably, shattering through the barrier between work and weightlessness. It was like time slowed. I let the air in my lungs and my body fat - mother natures lifejacket - pull me to the surface, and after a few moments I started to feel human again. The dirt, sweat and chemicals dissolved off my skin and I was ready for a break. This was day one.
Because I still had yet to sort out cooking gas, dinner was on Bella Star. Bella Star, like Panache, had also gone through some visual changes, but unlike Panache they were all good. The shell collection had grown, and most all of the electrical components were upgraded due to a lightning strike they suffered in Costa Rica. The cooking, however, was as delicious as ever. Bella Star was almost like a home away from home until I got Panache in livable order. We all wanted to go out for a day trip to the surrounding anchorages, but I was still too anxious to leave Panache in her current condition. We all decided to table the trip and continue working on boat projects. Bella Star had her share of work too. I rowed back to Panache in my dinghy (one of the few things that needed no elbow grease), put on some sleeping clothes and curled up into the v-berth, doing my best not to be bothered by the smell of mildew that cocooned the cabin. The first cleaning was just to create a workspace for the more pertinent projects; the actually cleaning was going to take place further down the line. At least until I could get power and running water. At points during the night I thought I felt a spider on my skin, but every time I jolted up and turned on the light nothing was there. I would close my eyes again and will myself to sleep. There are no spiders, Zack.
Fiji Gas re-labeled.
Standard operating procedure.
At first glance the recycle center looked more like a car graveyard. At second glance you could see that there were designated spots for different types of trash. Trash is a problem everywhere in the world. Space is finite, but trash creation is infinite. Or at least seems that way. Most of the world has the luxury of shipping trash out of sight and out of mind, but on island nations this conundrum can’t be ignored because space is so scarce. The popular option in some of these countries is just leaving trash wherever, or simply burn it, both of witch are shitty options. Vava’u, where this recycle center is located, has a footprint of only 119 square kilometers (about 45 square miles). These recycling centers were being proactive about the issue. Gio Recycling was organized by a Tongan who understood the dangers of trash buildup. A bit of a pioneer to start collecting recyclables and other harmful components, like batteries, to prevent poisoning the water table and general way of life. This guy showed off his facility and then brought me full circle to my new batteries. He made sure to ask for my old ones, and I gratefully added them to the massive pile of spent energy cells. While these new batteries would hold a full charge, they were a serious downgrade. I was pretty excited to get the batteries back to the boat to start testing circuits. The damage to Panache was a bit of a mystery, and the key to unlocking it was the power I had just purchased.
Dismantling the old distribution panel was a bit like trying to pick up a wet cracker -- the corroded aluminum was literally crumbling to pieces. Inside was a massive unlabeled bus bar that routed into the breaker panel. Ok, I had some homework to do before I could test any circuit. Within an hour I had run a continuity test on each circuit and determined their origin from the panel. It felt like progress, but it was really the precursor to progress I had yet to fix anything. Since I had two new pre-fabricated panels to replace the large, old, rusted one, I needed to find a piece of material to mount the new ones into. Metal was out of the question and wood would just get warped, but some kind of composite plastic would work perfectly. While turning the problem over in my head I glanced at a cutting board I used to make two backing plates for the self-steering system. Bingo. A quick stop at the Chinese market, and I had a brand new cutting board roughly the same size as the old panel.
Drilled, filed and mounted, I had a decent looking setup. The Chinese had redeemed the terrible quality of their bags and plastic towels! Snip out the circuits from the old board, crimp on the new board, and I was ready for a test drive. Well, almost. The cables that were connecting my battery bank in parallel were all corroded, and I needed some replacements. While working on Panache, I have found that the best hardware store, tool rental facility and restaurant, is Bella Star. If I hadn't already overstayed my welcome, this request surely would tip the scale. Sure enough, Aaron had extra battery cable he said he was never going to use. I hope its not too much to ask, but do you mind carrying me back to Panache while scratching my back?
Ok, batteries connected, new circuit breaker connected. Let’s test some circuits! First things first. Does the stereo work? Continuing on any voyage beyond Vava’u would be useless without tunes. I flip on the starboard cabin and accessory 2, and I hear the hum of the stereo come to life. A chill followed by a grin followed by some seriously loud music. I cranked the stereo up for all the anchorage to hear. It was like a battle cry - “I’m ready for more!” One by one I went through every circuit, and one by one they all worked. I ended up re-wiring a few, but I barely used any of the 100’ of cable I brought down from Seattle. I saved the most important circuit (after the stereo) for last. The engine. While I was positive the circuit was fine, the real question was the condition of the engine. Would it turn over? Would it start?
I have had very little trouble with my single cylinder engine, and thank God because I am no mechanic. I know enough to get around, have enough spare parts to re-build the darn thing (not that I know how) and have a book that can troubleshoot almost any problem. In preparation of starting the engine, I did the one thing I knew how, I checked the oil. Aaron came over to watch the historic moment. I flipped the switch on the breaker and turned the ignition to its first position. The rattle of the fuel pump went on, but the low oil pressure alarm didn’t sound. Hmmm. Ok, is this a serious problem? Who knows! Turning to the second position the engine started to turn over but didn't start. I release the ignition, and Aaron and I exchange a glance of approval. “Keep turning it,” he yells, winding his hand in a circular motion. After about a minute of it turning over, the boom of compression started. I let go of the ignition and burst out of the cabin to check if water was circulating through the engine and out the stern. Brackish water was sputtering out Panache’s rear creating a slight oil slick that looked like a sad dead rainbow. Holly hell this thing still runs. After all I put the engine through since owning Panache, on top of abandoning the boat for 10 months the thing still runs. Diesel engines love abuse. Giving an evil smirk while rubbing the engine compartment I promised to give the engine many hours of abuse in the near future.
We let the engine run while checking the alternator’s output, everything seems to be in order. I went in the cockpit to try putting it in gear, but the transmission seemed to be frozen. This was a different battle for a different day. I had crossed most every “To Do” off my oil stained list, and it was time for a swim and a cold beverage. While I had discovered new problems with completing my list of projects, I now had a working electrical system on board and an engine that ran. A huge weight was off my shoulders.
The next day I discovered that the frozen gear lever was not a problem with the transmission - I could manually push it in and out of gear at the engine. Upon closer inspection I discovered that the lever itself was frozen. I managed to dismantle most ever bit of the apparatus thanks to some tools from SV Bravo, but at the end of the day all it needed was the majority of a can of liquid wrench and a huge amount of torque in the form of a pipe wrench. I could now move it in and out of gear, but it was a serious workout that left my sides on the verge of a hernia. I can live with that.
Handy small hands
When I was in Hiva Oa, French Polynesia, I replaced the backing plates for the self steering and many stainless steel bolts that held the aluminum apparatus together. Over time, these bolts, along with many others, were failing. Panache effectively had no self steering. Aaron brought over a tapping kit to re-thread all the bolts holding the unit together, but new larger stainless bolts were still needed. I like using the term “we,” but in reality the proper pronoun would be “I.” Maybe this was one of my tactics to reel in Bella Star’s help. Aaron, Nicole, WE really need to fix the self steering. It’s in pretty poor shape. After visiting three stores that might have stainless hardware WE found nothing. Real shocker. Another unforeseen problem. As a last ditch effort WE shuffled to an outfit called Trouble in Paradise located next to the customs wharf. This place was busy, and not just in Vava’u standards. Right at about this point in everyones cruise through the South Pacific every yacht starts to show some serious signs of wear, and these guys were working their butts off to keep up with all the trouble in paradise. Luckily they did have some stainless screws that would work. They were used, salvaged off some other boat or project, but they were marine-grade stainless! The cost? A case of beer that amounted to about fifteen dollars US. An easy trade.
BFFs
I spell this good too!
Big barracuda
I already found Nemo.
Motor sail with Bravo and Bella Star to a fancy tuna dinner.
Rick from SV Nyon and friend. It's more funny if I don't explain this.
With most all of Panache’s main systems functioning it was time to start enjoying my surroundings rather than being a victim of its unrelenting temperature. Bella Star and I rented a car and decided to take a day tour of the island. The car was super compact in the shape of a dog’s head and faded pink. Our first stop was at a botanical garden, cultivated by a local for the majority of his adult life. Sounds like a yawn fest, but we received several positive reports about the tour, specifically the tour guide, so we decided to give it a go. The experience didn’t disappoint. Our guide, Hanateli Fa'anunu, has quite the quiver of stories, and does not stop talking until they are all told. The garden itself was not traditional in that there were rows and rows of specimens. It was all just sort of jumbled together, and the tour was more like a casual walk with a friend who talks too much. Most plants had a unique tale of how he came upon them. Some plants were extremely endangered in Tonga, some were prized for their taste and some allegedly cured cancer. Throughout the tour each of us made attempts to relate to some of his stories, but he just smiled and went on talking about the next specimen. He just really liked to talk I guess. If you were so inclined, you could make a donation to the garden and get a path or “street” named after you. It was pretty funny to view the prized vanilla plant along ANZ Bank Street. Very fitting considering how expensive the vanilla bean is.
The tour turned out to be a satisfyingly long walk and allowed a man hunger to settle in my belly. It ended at the dude’s restaurant where he gladly sold us beers and taro chips. He sat down next to us with his own beer and I prepared for more of his stories, but he stated asking us questions about our respective sailing trips. Refreshing, considering we couldn't get a word in edgewise for the past two hours. Aaron and Nicole were doing most of the talking while I stuffed my face with taro chips. I had to be careful because we had a full lunch ahead of ourselves.
Nicole got the skinny on where some good vistas were for our lunch from a 4WD cart safari business out of Neiafu. I guess the owner was a little apprehensive about giving up their secret spots only Tongan dollars can unveil, but with a little Maraschky charm his prickly demeanor dissolved and Nicole added our lunch destination to our itinerary. It was only a short drive from the garden, but the last stretch was “only accessible” by 4WD. I slowly weaved our pretty pink dog head around pothole after pothole, but after almost driving into a burning trash pit it became obvious our car wasn't going to cut it. No worries! The walk felt good after being cramped up in a boat for so long, and it slowed the passing of our surroundings to a point we could actually appreciate them rather than passively nod from our air-conditioned dog head bubble. We caught glimpses of many of the specimens found in the garden, including a soursop - a green oblong spiky fruit. This was one of the specimens that was claimed to cure cancer, and I obviously had to have it.
When we got to the turning point for the lookout, we had an option; we could weave our way down to the beach or continue on to the overlook. Unanimously we decided on the beach. The sun was so bright and the sand was so white that my eyes literally couldn't adjust, and even while hiding in a patch of shade my sunglasses were still required. With lunch served, accompanied by a splash of wine, relaxation mode kicked in, and I passed out. The sound of sea breeze finding its way through the trees was a perfect serenade. This is what I have been missing. This is why I’m here. I woke up refreshed, and managed to sleep though the “exploration” portion of our beach time. We only had the car for a day and had to move on.
Before going back to the car we swung by the lookout to get a new perspective on our lunch spot. This view gave us an unobstructed view of a majority of the north end of Vava’u. Tropic birds and flying foxes were playing in the updraft, but no matter how high they flew, they were still below us. It felt like we were on the top of Vava’u.
Running out of ideas for maximizing the use of our rental car, we managed to stop, or rather were stopped by a remote beach that marked the end of the road. Nothing much to see here with the exception of a MILLION little piggies. Pigs are a staple of the South Pacific. Some of the first explorers seeded the islands with livestock so future voyagers would have a decent meal. Today, wild chickens, pigs and goats are all deliciously common throughout the Pacific, specifically in this town. While they appear to be running around wild, several Tongans have told me that they are, in fact, all owned by someone. As much as I wanted to tackle a little piggy for myself I guess that was off the dinner table.
Sea turtles, however, were not off the dinner table. A group of fisherman parked at the beach were flinging around a very live, and very pissed off hawksbill sea turtle. One of the fisherman walked up to us and asked if we wanted to buy the turtle. “How much?” I asked, expecting to hear a couple hundred TOP ($100ish USD), and the guy replied “$60 TOP.” Wow. Nicole, with an unwavering death stare on the turtle-wielding fisherman muttered under her breath “I’ll buy it.” Her lips were pursed. It seems like a good deal to me, but it might be setting a shitty precedent. Aaron talked her out of it, and the Tongan dude eventually walked off laughing. Poor turtle. I talked with an environmental agency in Vava’u and asked them about our little turtle incident, and apparently it’s not uncommon for Tongans to try and sell live turtles for ransom to soft shelled tourists. That was definitely me. The lady went on to tell me about a family who would buy one almost every day because they were guaranteed suckers among Tongans. After spending gosh knows how much on returning helpless turtles back to the ocean (probably the same darn stupid turtle each time), they finally said no, and that’s what everyone should do. If there is no market for the turtles, nobody will bother catching them. It’s hard to say no, but just say no to sea turtles!
The sun was starting to fade, and our last planned stop was at a fresh water cave on the way back to town. It was no more than 30 paces from the road and lined one of the many bays that make up Vava’u. A little hesitant to jump in at first, I counted to three and did my best not to think of sea monsters. The feeling was amazing. I had been sweating and breathing nothing but salt air for too long, and enveloping myself in cool fresh water was a real treat. You could just barely taste the hint of salt, but it was an afterthought, and I was too busy feeling like I was in an Irish Spring soap commercial minus to soap and set in the South Pacific.
After so much fresh water the only reasonable thing to do is make a massive taco dinner, drink heavily, draw hand puppets on each other and attempt to play ping pong on a table that is four times too small. I’m glad I had a camera for this, but unfortunately the pictures were ruined by Nicole’s hand/Aarons fine art. Good times were had, but my time in Vava’u was becoming too lengthy. Panache was for the most part fixed, and I was running out of excuses to stick around. A hard date was set for my departure, and I vowed not to withdraw any more Tongan dollars. Before my drunken departure back to Panache, Bella Star and I started scheming on where to go next before we left our separate ways. I was doing my best to convince them to head to Fiji before their jump down to New Zealand, but I was having difficulty convincing both my eyes to look in unison and knew deep down that my next passage was going to be made alone.
