Two palm trees, three horses, and four sundowners
Updated: 2 days ago
Northern Lau Group – June 27 to July 6, 2025
We’d spent a little over a week in Savusavu. We’d visited all our friends, restocked our supplies, and were now finally more than ready for the real Fiji—just as you’d picture it in your dreams: small islands with a few tiny settlements, white-sand beaches lined with coconut palms, and turquoise, crystal-clear water. While there are plenty of places like this in Fiji, most are dotted with hotel resorts, packed with tourists, and the bays are teeming with yachts whose owners or charterers are spending their short vacations here.
The hidden, almost untouched paradise—far, far away from the tourist crowds—is actually located in eastern Fiji and goes by the name: Lau.
Fiji’s easternmost archipelago consists of about 60 islands, only about 30 of which are inhabited. They stretch across a vast area in the South Pacific and are famous for their seclusion, the warm hospitality of the villages, and a natural environment that still appears virtually untouched. The islands themselves are very diverse: some are flat and surrounded by lagoons, while others are volcanic and rugged, rising steeply from the sea.
Duff Reef
Just a day’s or night’s sail from Savusavu lay a very special island where we planned to spend our first night in the Lau Group: Cakaugalu, better known as Duff Reef. The reef itself is quite large, with a diameter of 6.5 miles, but it encloses only a tiny, isolated island—not even 0.2 nautical miles (about 370 meters) long—consisting entirely of sand. There’s nothing on it except two palm trees and a few rocks, under which millions of hermit crabs hide from the midday heat. Last year, I had even wanted to plant a third palm tree here, but the coconut I’d buried back then was nowhere to be found. Too bad. The only other significant visitors—besides sailors like us—seem to be turtles, which use the island as a nesting site at a certain time of year. While walking through the sand, we found the holes the animals dig to lay their eggs, and even two huge, empty turtle shells.
Since we hadn’t been swimming in the ocean since leaving Minerva Reef—the muddy Savusavu estuary hadn’t seemed very inviting—we jumped right into the cool water, which was still 28 degrees, as soon as the anchor dropped, to wash off the dust from the night’s voyage. The crystal-clear water immediately amazed us: the visibility was breathtaking, so we couldn’t help but grab our snorkels and masks and take a quick tour of the reef.
In fact, the first creature to greet us was something very special: a huge, purple jellyfish. Its long, elegantly flowing tentacles both fascinated and frightened me. I vaguely recalled a rare sighting in Indonesia where a similar jellyfish had even claimed a human life. Later research revealed that it was likely a “crown jellyfish” (Netrostoma setouchianum)—a rare species that stands out for its intense colors but is only moderately dangerous to humans.
In addition to the “classic” large and small reef fish, we even spotted a small ray burrowing through the sand with complete nonchalance. Have you ever seen a stingray eating? No? It’s really cute! 😀
As beautiful as the day had been, the night was just as unpleasant. Since the reef unfortunately hadn’t been able to protect the Yum Yum from the swell, the waves were slamming into the side of the boat, shaking us up quite a bit and leaving us barely able to sleep. Actually, we’d planned our visit to Duff Reef for those exact days precisely because the weather forecast had promised us a few calm, windless nights. But apparently, the weather gods had changed their minds at the last minute. So, reluctantly, after 24 hours in this not-quite-so-paradisiacal paradise, we set off for a bay that was a bit more sheltered from the wind and waves.
Morning, after our overnight sail. You can see the white sandy beach from afar. Mirko navigating using the mobile app. Splashhhh Even more water! The only two palm trees Thousands of hermit crabs were on the island. The water was crystal clear! Underwater exploring!
Bavatu Harbor
During the 25 miles we covered—mostly under sail—to our next destination, I kept wondering how sailors in the past managed not to run their boats aground on a reef within the first few miles. Fiji is made up of so many invisible reefs that you can only see them—and thus avoid them—using the nautical chart app (Navionics) on one hand and satellite imagery on the other. It involuntarily occurred to me that this island nation sometimes seemed like a natural underwater minefield.
During the crossing, we encountered neither a reef nor a fish. Our week-long streak of bad luck fishing began on that very day: a mahi-mahi that we’d hooked and, after a real struggle, hauled all the way onto the Yum Yum’s stern platform, still managed to slip away. Although we were annoyed at losing the tasty fish, we also felt sorry for the animal itself, whose chances of survival had dropped to zero due to the injury caused by our gaff (a large hook on a pole). On that day, it seemed only the sharks were lucky.
Bavatu Harbor is a narrow, picturesque bay in the north of Vanua Balavu Island. It is located on what is known as “freehold land,” which in Fiji means that the land belongs either to a private owner or to a foreigner—a so-called “Palagi”—and therefore there is no village where one must bring kava to the chief as a gift. So this “sevusevu” was still a ways off. Apparently, a large part of the island belongs to an Australian who also owns two marinas in other parts of Fiji.
Unlike at Duff Reef, there was actually land here with dense mangroves, a few beaches with coconut-less palm trees, and tall cliffs that sheltered us from the wind and weather and promised a few peaceful nights. Having no wind at the anchorage certainly has its advantages, but it also comes with many tiny drawbacks—namely, mosquitoes. Fortunately, Mirko had been resourceful enough in New Zealand to get a net with which we could turn our berth into a mosquito-free canopy bed.
Aside from a few failed attempts to catch a fish—either with a fishing rod or using a dinghy and a towline—we naturally went snorkeling and hiked up to the large plantation until we reached a magnificent lookout point. From there, we marveled at the other side of the island, whose bay is famous for its mushroom-shaped islands (actually “porcini mushrooms”—hehe)—the Bay of Islands.
Surrounded by cows, pigs, goats, horses, and a few chickens, Mirko and I dared to take a few coconuts and a soursop with us. For the soursop (guabana), Mirko even climbed a tree while three grazing horses watched him suspiciously, and we imagined we could almost hear them snorting reproachfully.
I also tried using my yogurt-cheese maker for the first time to make my own cheese. I was disillusioned to discover that it’s simply impossible to produce “real” cheese with UHT milk. Because of the high-temperature pasteurization, the milk simply lacks the necessary “life”—that is, the good bacteria and enzymes needed for cheese-making. We probably would have had to milk one of the cows on the plantation, because fresh milk is absolutely nowhere to be found here on the islands—not even in the cities! At least there was a comforting alternative: ricotta and soft cheeses still turned out quite well. Hard cheese wouldn’t have been possible with the machine anyway.
It was a climb of 271 steps. Goats on the plantation. Impressive tree. There were even cows there! View from the viewpoint. The Bay of Islands in the background Fiji's Floral Splendor There were huge spiders, too. Project: Stealing soursop Do you recognize Mirko? It was delicious once again. The horses glared at us.
Little Bay – Tui’s Place
A little further east of Bavatu Harbor on Vanua Balavu lies another small bay with the very fitting name Little Bay. Even during the three miles we traveled while changing locations, our streak of bad luck when it came to fishing continued. Mirko and I were (for the time being) once again the only cruisers who had made it into this bay, and we were happy to have the whole bay to ourselves. Little Bay is a long, narrow inlet, nestled among mangroves and tall cliffs. Limited by the water depth, we couldn’t take the boat far into the bay, which meant we had to anchor in the front part. But the picturesque view and the small beach—where we even lit a campfire one evening—more than made up for it. Before we could set out to explore, it was time for Sevusevu—actually, for the first time since we’d been in Fiji.
Sevusevu is a ceremony in which the chief—or head—of the Fijian village to which the bay belongs formally recognizes you as part of the village community and grants you permission to engage in all the activities of a villager. These include, for example, fishing, anchoring, exploring the area, taking photos, and so on. Visitors (in this case, us) must bring a gift for the chief—which is always kava. The kava root is also known as “drunken pepper” and belongs to the pepper family. In the Pacific region, it is used to make tea, which is usually drunk on ceremonial occasions. Since the plant has a calming and slightly numbing effect, it is not legal in all countries around the world. In Austria, it is illegal due to health risks (liver damage), whereas in Switzerland it is legal.
Sevusevu is performed slightly differently everywhere, and, if you’re lucky, it may even include a round of kava. But one thing remains the same everywhere: to show respect for the chief and his traditions, both women and men must wear a sulu during the brief ceremony to cover their knees. In Fiji, a sulu is typically a traditional wrap-around garment, similar to a skirt or sarong.
So Mirko and I, loaded down with sulus and kava, set off in the dinghy into the depths of the inlet to visit Tui and his family and bring him the gift. For fifteen minutes, we wound our way past shoals and coral heads through the impressive inlet, which at first seemed flanked on the right and left by rock faces and later by mangroves. If you hadn’t seen the coral on the bottom, you could almost have mistaken it for a small fjord.
It wasn’t until we reached the very far end—when we thought we’d already gotten lost somewhere deep in the mangrove jungle—that a few scattered huts appeared ahead of us. Just before we reached the shore, a fishing net suddenly blocked our path; it was secured between the mangroves and was insurmountable for the YY (“WaiWai,” our dinghy). After searching in vain for another way ashore—and even hitting a rock with the motor that had been hidden in the water, which was murky from the mangroves—we gave up and headed back to the Yum Yum. Since the tide made it possible to sail all the way to the very end of the lagoon only once a day, we tried again the next day for the second and final time—without success. Later, other sailors told us they’d heard that Tui’s wife had just given birth, and that was probably why the family wasn’t at their remote home but at the hospital on the main island.
We took the chief’s absence as our cue to go ahead and explore the area freely. We drank sundowners on a small sandbar that only appeared at low tide, continued to try our hand at fishing with great enthusiasm, and chose a small beach as our campfire spot—just as Mirko finally managed, after many, many attempts, to reel in a trevally with his fishing rod.
But it wasn’t just the delicious fish that brought us joy. I was also looking forward once again to finding a suitable skewer to wrap our homemade “Stockbrot” (Austrian for “snake bread” ;) into a work of art and impatiently waiting until it was finally no longer doughy (= stomachache-inducing) but also not too burnt (= carcinogenic). For dessert, we even had real s’mores—for which I’d specially imported Leibniz cookies from Austria. For those who don’t know what s’mores are: they’re a perfectly grilled marshmallow, coated in melted chocolate and sandwiched between butter cookies—mmm!
The weather during our time in Little Bay was mixed. Sun and rain took turns, and as is often the case, it always rained briefly—but at the most inconvenient times. For example, it rained right during both anchoring maneuvers, right when we were about to light a fire, and of course right at the moment we’d piled our plates high with delicious grilled food and were about to take our first bite. As the saying goes, we’re not made of sugar, after all.
On the morning we’d decided to sail on to the southern part of the Lau Group, we were woken by the sound of an engine. Still half-asleep, I peered out of bed through the hatch and saw a small longboat with two curious Fijians chugging around our boat. The locals—or rather, the chief—had apparently finally returned. It was 6:30 a.m. for us, and without coffee, it was still a bit too early for conversation—and since it was our last day in the bay, it was also too late for the sevusevu that was actually still pending. So we cheekily decided to pretend to be asleep. Next time, there’ll be kava for Tui again—promise!
Little Bay from above. You can see the narrow entrance quite well from here. Stick bread over the fire Matching outfits on the beach On the way to Tui Delicious bowl
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