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Preparations for the Pacific crossing. The Pacifico—the vast Pacific Ocean—awaits us. Once we leave the mainland of Ecuador, the next island is about 3,400 nautical miles away, or roughly 6,100 km. Depending on the wind and weather, the crossing will take between 25 and 30 days, perhaps even longer. Then we’ll be in the South Pacific, with countless atolls, islands, and sandy beaches bearing evocative names like Bora Bora, Moorea, Samoa, Tahiti, or Fiji. The journey to New Zealand or Australia is just as far, but with shorter legs. But first things first. 40 km south of Panama City, at the Vista Mar marina, Thierry and I wanted to haul the Yum Yum out of the water to repaint the underwater hull. Since the boat is in the water all the time, algae grows and mussels attach themselves to the hull. To combat these microorganisms, a toxic underwater coating called antifouling is applied. It had already been two years since the Yum Yum’s last coat of antifouling, and the hull looked the part—a beautiful coral garden right beneath us. When we arrived at Vista Mar, however, the dockmaster wouldn’t acknowledge our reservation; the next day, we were even denied permission to take the boat out of the water. Apparently, the distance between the end of the keel and the end of the hull was too great. The risk of damaging the rudder was too great for the marina—and, after giving it some thought, for me as well… though I was getting a little fed up, since that was the very reason we’d sailed there in the first place. After a lengthy discussion with the marina manager, we were given a week’s free stay at the marina. We took advantage of this offer, of course, and did quite a bit of work on the boat. For one thing, we expanded the storage space for provisions—specifically, we installed a new shelf; we replaced the long-overdue toilet hoses; we arranged for the refrigerator’s cooling plate to be replaced; we removed the barnacles from the hull; and we began our big shopping trip for the Pacific crossing. So it happened that the two of us spent over five hours walking up and down the shopping center and filled a total of 18 shopping carts. Since we bought so much, our entire purchase was delivered by truck to the marina—luckily, though, not until the next day, because stowing everything on the boat took another full day. For anyone wondering what we bought, here’s a small sample (the supplies should last for the next 5–6 months): After that, we decided to sail to Ecuador—partly to finally take the boat out of the water and partly to travel around the country for a few weeks. The journey to Ecuador was very arduous: no wind, strong winds, headwinds, and at times the feeling that we’d never arrive. Check out the video for yourselves: Finally there and relieved, we were then able to haul the boat out of the marina in Puerto Lucia. The whole process took less than 45 minutes, and before we knew it, the Yum Yum was on land and we could get to work. First, we cleaned the boat with a pressure washer, then scraped off the remaining barnacles with a putty knife—scraping, scraping, and scraping some more. Then, equipped with protective suits, face masks, and gloves (the antifouling paint is toxic), we sanded down the old layers of antifouling with a sander in 32 degrees in the shade. It took hours—giving up was out of the question; it was truly backbreaking work. Sitting at a desk all day is definitely less exhausting. It was almost impossible to manage with just the two of us, so I asked two Ecuadorian workers for help. After three days, we finally finished—the old layers of antifouling paint were sanded away. Now we could begin applying the first coat, which consisted of epoxy primer. Afterward, we applied three coats of the blue, toxic antifouling paint. We had to wait about six hours between coats for the paint to dry, so sometimes we found ourselves out there after dinner, working with flashlights and paintbrushes. After nine days of work, we were completely exhausted and didn’t feel like sprucing up the boat anymore, so we packed our backpacks and spent three weeks traveling around Ecuador. As you read this newsletter, we’re already on our way to Gambier Island. You can track our location in real time here.

After sailing more than 8,000 nautical miles in French Polynesia, it’s time to move on. It’s been a long time since the last newsletter. That doesn’t mean, however, that nothing has happened in the meantime. For a long time here in Polynesia, we didn’t hear anything about the coronavirus, but then last August the numbers skyrocketed here as well. With an incidence rate of 2,800, Polynesia was even among the highest in the world for a time. So, here in Moorea, we went into lockdown—initially for two weeks, but it ended up lasting four. Luckily, our buddy boat, the Seatramp, had docked next to us, and we had a great time together. We also made progress on a few boat projects. With a special permit, we were able to pick up and install our new solar panels in Papeete, Tahiti, and we helped Mario from the Seatramp replace the cylinder head gasket on the engine. Of course, we celebrated my birthday in style, and looking back, the lockdown period flew by almost too quickly for us. For the cyclone season, which runs from November through April here, we headed back to the Tuamotus, where we had a great time enjoying beautiful, windless days under blue skies. We spent a lot of time in the water and did a lot of fishing. Thanks to Angel Andi, our catch increased, and we were able to eat fish for several days. For the second time on my trip, we were even lucky enough to catch an octopus, which we were able to prepare until it was melt-in-your-mouth tender with the help of advice from the locals. What a treat. Just in time for Christmas, we arrived in Gambier for the second time. As some of you may remember, that’s where we arrived over two years ago after our 28-day Pacific crossing. It is and always will be a special place. The sailing community is very close-knit, thanks to the Sunday BBQ hosted by a local family. Up to 17 boats gather there to celebrate birthdays and much more. We rang in the New Year with a bonfire on a secluded little island. Together with two French boats, we had a truly wonderful evening. It’s not common to come into contact with French boats, as they prefer to keep to themselves. However, we were able to build a special bond with the crews of the two boats, Mamarossa and Eclipse, who are sailing around the world with their children. Together with Mamarossa, we were even able to rescue a beached whale in Tahanea. You can see pictures of that here. We absolutely loved Gambier again, and our first impression was confirmed. We got to know the locals, were given vegetables and fruit as gifts, went on hikes, and explored the underwater world. After about six weeks in this unique archipelago, we decided to sail once more to the Marquesas, 800 nautical miles away. After a wonderful five-day crossing, we arrived in Fatu Hiva. For the first time ever, we achieved a daily average (etmal) of 170 miles—that is, 7 knots per hour over a 24-hour period. In the Marquesas, we often went on hikes, enjoyed nature, had barbecues on the beach, or simply savored life. On the way back to the Tuamotu Islands, we landed the biggest fish since the start of my journey—a 1.5-meter yellowfin tuna. What a beautiful creature—and actually much too big for us. Normally, we only catch what we can eat ourselves. But this time, we were able to share the catch with other sailors and locals, who were absolutely thrilled to receive it. Unfortunately, the oceans are being fished empty more and more. After more than 750 days in Polynesia, it’s finally time to move on. I’ve had a wonderful time here, filled with unforgettable moments and experiences. Plus, my French is getting better and better... New Zealand is reopening its maritime borders in July 2022. This means we’ve secured a safe harbor for the upcoming cyclone season, and the Yum Yum’s journey can finally continue. We’re now spending our last few days on Bora Bora and Maupiti; we’ve stocked up on provisions and prepared the Yum Yum for the approximately 1,700-nautical-mile crossing. Depending on the wind and weather, this will take about 14 days. As soon as a suitable weather window opens, we’ll set sail.

Mirko – What’s Happened So Far November 3, 2022; the last newsletter landed in your inbox 962 days ago. But that doesn’t mean nothing has happened in the meantime. So let’s rewind briefly and run through the events in fast forward: In November 2022, I flew back to Switzerland and left my boat, the Yum Yum, in the harbor of Whangarei, New Zealand. Thanks to a temporary work contract with Alltax AG in Basel, I was able to replenish my travel funds. However, what was supposed to be a six-month stay ended up lasting a full eleven months. After spending so much time in the South Seas, I hadn’t realized that July in New Zealand is the height of winter. I definitely didn’t feel like spending another winter in New Zealand right after a Swiss winter. So I didn’t fly to New Zealand until November 2023, when spring had arrived, and began working on a few projects to get the Yum Yum seaworthy again. Shortly after I arrived, Daniela joined me—an Austrian woman who, at that point, had already been traveling with her backpack across various continents for more than a year and was now looking forward to trading hostel life for everyday life on board. We quickly broke the ice—maybe it was because of that bizarre start when, on the day of Daniela’s arrival, we unwittingly ended up with a few sailing friends at a racy variety show that was more like a striptease act. Or was it actually the Friday night beer session a few days later, when we danced in the workshop with Mo, the marine employee, using glowing hula hoops? During the day, things were a bit more serious. Working as a pair, the boat work went almost twice as fast: we sanded the Yum Yum’s hull, cut through through-hull fittings with an angle grinder, and much more. After the work was done, we traveled together in the car—which we’d converted into a spartan camper van—across New Zealand’s North and South Islands, and then went sailing on the Yum Yum for a few weeks. Daniela then traveled on to Australia, which meant that a few weeks later I also flew to Australia to join her on a road trip along the south coast and through the Outback. In April 2024, I headed back to New Zealand with Daniela as my only luggage, and we set sail for Tonga and Fiji, where we spent a few unforgettable months—in secluded coves, on the paradise islands with the locals, on the beach around a campfire with other sailors, or in the water with the fish. At the end of the year, I set off on a seven-day crossing back to New Zealand—my first time sailing solo. Daniela was already on her way home to Europe. Daniela put together a comprehensive travelogue with stunning photos and sensational videos of her entire journey, which of course includes our time together in the South Pacific. Since I don’t like duplicating effort, I held back on posting updates on this channel. Okay, maybe I’d gotten a little lazy, but anyone who’s read Daniela’s posts will understand that hers were in a league of their own! If you’d like to dive into this journey, you can read the blog posts here: Click here for FindPenguins Daniela - What's Happened So Far In September 2024, I had left the Yum Yum in Fiji, then traveled through Hong Kong, Taiwan, and Borneo (Malaysia), and after another incredible month in December, I said goodbye to Sri Lanka to spend the final days of my two-and-a-half-year world trip in Paris with the friend with whom my backpacking adventure had begun back in 2023: Ria. From there, I finally took the TGV train back to Austria, back home. Who would have thought it? The first few months back in Europe were just gloomy and cold—I’d completely forgotten what a European winter felt like. No white, soft flakes falling quietly from the sky and getting caught in my hair. No snowy landscape whose blanket of snow begins to glisten in the warming rays of the sun during the day. Reality presented slush on the streets, a whistling, freezing wind, foggy mornings, and a sun that desperately tried to spread its light over the tall blocks of buildings during the few hours of the day it was even in the sky. Despite the cold and the gloomy December days, I was excited to see my family and friends again after such a long time. Most of all, I was looking forward to hugging them again and not having to settle for a “remote kiss” on my smartphone during a video call. Real hugs are simply the best, by the way (be sure to do them as often as possible ;-). My best friend Karin had even organized a little welcome-home party, where most of my favorite people greeted me joyfully. Most of them hadn’t changed much—maybe a gray hair here and there—while others were barely recognizable. My two-and-a-half-year-old nephew, for example, whom I’d last held in my arms as a baby during a short trip home in April 2023, had grown really big and was already chattering away excitedly. But it was already clear when I arrived in Austria that this would be just a visit and not a return home. After all, Mirko was still on the Yum Yum in New Zealand, and I was determined to join him again in a few months. So I first explored another part of Asia in my flip-flops, only to swap them a few weeks later (December 2024) for my fluffy slippers back home in cold Europe, while Mirko continued sailing around the Fiji Islands and enjoying the warm weather. In November, he set off alone on the return journey to New Zealand. It was a crossing that took several days and was quite a challenge. Mirko – Out on the Water for the First Time as a Solo Sailor It was November 2024. It started off rather innocently with a broken plate and a leaking bottle of bleach—which the waves and wind, due to the close-hauled course on the first day, claimed as an offering to Neptune. Annoying, but no big deal. That same day, the chartplotter started displaying a man-overboard (MOB) alert and emitting a constant, irritating alarm—a shrill, incessant beep. Fortunately, the message wasn’t a real man-overboard alert—the device “just” had some kind of glitch and was fixed after a restart. Exactly as IT support would advise (“Have you tried turning it off and then on again?”). On the second day, the very thing that sailors fear second most when sailing alone on the open sea happened: Water damage caused a short circuit, and all the equipment failed—no navigation device, no charts, no autopilot, no digital displays—nothing. Everything was dead. Fortunately, it was still morning, so at least I had daylight as I first stabilized the boat and then radioed Paula and Jim on the SY Freydis, who were just four miles ahead of me on the open, vast sea. After all, how are you supposed to troubleshoot a problem when you have no one or nothing (aka an autopilot) to steer the boat? It’s during a crossing that you really realize just how important an autopilot actually is. In true MacGyver style, I finally attached a rubber band to the steering wheel to keep the boat steady in the wind, and set about troubleshooting in the electronics cabinet. After a while, I found the spot that had caused the short circuit and bypassed it. Meanwhile, Paula and Jim had stayed nearby and assisted me over the radio. You’d think that would have been enough unexpected events for a solo crossing, but fate had other plans. To make matters worse, on the very same day, the genoa halyard—the rope used to set, trim, or furl the genoa or headsail—snapped. Great. At least the solution here was clear: with the genoa reefed, the Yum Yum could still sail quite well. The rest of the sailing days were (thankfully) uneventful, and I arrived in Whangarei, New Zealand, after five days. Daniela – Back Together I didn’t believe a word Mirko said (and rightly so) when he told me that, after those incidents, he was already mentally putting up a “FOR SALE” sign on his beloved yacht in New Zealand. As if he’d let himself get beaten down that easily! In February 2025, Mirko came to Europe. Not because he’d actually sold the Yum Yum—no. He came to visit his family and me for six weeks. We had a great time with his family in Switzerland and with mine in Austria. I got to experience the Basel Carnival, Graubünden, and the beautiful Ticino, and Mirko got to know the lovely Lake Constance and the cheese-heavy cuisine of Vorarlberg. He also got to face my family and friends—um… got to meet them ;-). After that, it was a done deal: In May, I’ll be heading back to the Yum Yum—for an indefinite period. Life as a nomad can begin! Tip: If you subscribe to our newsletter, you’ll be notified right away when a new blog post goes live! So, what are you waiting for?

New Zealand – May 18–30, 2025 On May 18, I finally set off. After several flight reschedulings by my airline, I left early Sunday morning, took the train to Zurich, flew to Abu Dhabi (United Arab Emirates), boarded another flight to Melbourne (Australia), and then another to Auckland (New Zealand). And all that just to arrive in New Zealand’s capital in the middle of the night and doze off on those uncomfortable airport benches until I could catch one of the first trains into the city to board the bus to Whangarei (*deep breath*)—my final destination. After 30 hours of flying and waiting, I really would have loved to have had one of those hammocks that a backpacker—dressed in harem pants and wearing a straw hat—had hung from the railing right in the middle of the arrivals area. It looked funny, sure, but it was definitely comfortable. Finally, a total of 40 hours (plus a 10-hour time difference) after saying goodbye to my mom, my dad, and my best friend, I got to greet Mirko, who was waiting for me at the bus stop in front of the Hundertwasser House at Town Basin in Whangarei. I was immediately transported back a year and a half, when this then-stranger had grinned at me just as happily as he did today. This time, though, the greeting felt a lot more familiar than it had back then :-) Neither New Zealand, nor Whangarei in New Zealand’s Northland, and certainly not the Riverside Drive Marina had changed much. Only the temperature was different from the last time—now, in May, winter was approaching; back then, in November, it was spring. Both the New Zealand landscape with its hills and green meadows, which had passed me by during the bus ride, and the all-too-familiar annoying beeping of the Riverside Marina travel lift (the thing that hoists boats into the water), with Mo at the controls, brought a smile to my face. But that was nothing compared to the joy I felt when I caught sight of the Yum Yum—my future home. And I hadn’t even spotted the bouquet of flowers, the Prosecco, and the banana-chocolate muffins that Mirko had baked for me yet. Mirko and I quickly got caught up in the daily routine at the marina, and there were already a few boat maintenance tasks to tackle. The yacht was currently on dry dock, and Mirko was fully occupied with refinishing the underwater hull. In other words: removing barnacles from the boat, sanding it down, and applying three coats of antifouling paint. Luckily for me, 80% of the work was already done, so I “had” to focus on outfitting the boat. That meant I got to spend my time shopping for practical—and not-so-practical—items to make our home a little cozier. The familiar rounds through Woolworths (the supermarket I still knew as Countdown), Warehouse, and Kmart were therefore on the agenda almost every day. Mirko and I also attached the ship’s tattoo—painstakingly designed and plotted in Switzerland—to Yum Yum’s rear… uh… stern—cool, right? It wasn’t just us who had landed back in New Zealand; Paula from Scotland and Jim from Australia on the Freydis, as well as Rachel and Adam from Australia on the Lady Annabelle—with whom we’d spent a lot of time during our last visit to Fiji—had also landed here on the island at the other end of the world. Unfortunately, I just missed the Freydis by a few days, as they had flown to Europe for a couple of weeks to visit friends. Luckily, though, we’ll see them again in Fiji. In addition, the “sea nomads” Doris and Wolfi set sail from New Zealand this season aboard their yacht, the Nomad. The two Austrians have called their yacht home for over 30 years, have circumnavigated the globe more than once, and have seen things and experienced adventures that Mirko and I can (so far) only dream of. Mirko had met the two Viennese in Polynesia in 2019, while I’d known them by name for quite some time but didn’t get to meet them in person until March in Zurich at their talk. After I burst into the already dimly lit lecture hall, out of breath and sweaty, as the last person to arrive (finding a parking spot in Zurich is truly a nightmare!), they immediately recognized me as Mirko’s girlfriend and pressed a Mozartkugel into my hand before addressing their welcome remarks to the audience. After a week on dry land, Yum Yum finally returned to the water. Back in the swampy, salty-sweet Hatea River, I couldn’t help but smile, because I was immediately greeted by that familiar crackling sound of the snapping shrimp (also known as pistol shrimp). These tiny creatures produce a loud snap with their claws that can reach an incredible 250 decibels. Mirko and I knew pretty quickly that we wouldn’t be staying with the Kiwis much longer. A weather window had opened up for the crossing to Minerva. Last year, before we sailed on to Tonga, we’d already made a stop at the unique Minerva Reefs, and I was excited to see them again so soon. But more on that when we get there ;-) To stock up on provisions, we were able to borrow the red van from Mo, the marina employee and former circus performer with the… um… let’s just say most interesting hairstyle ever (a shaved head with a small tuft of hair at the back—yes, that’s intentional). The only two conditions: “Pay for what you break” and “Leave a message somewhere.” The van was a sight to behold. The very first thing to greet us from the windshield was a skull wearing a winter hat, which seemed to be mockingly surveying all the smiley-face stickers on the dashboard and the walls and ceiling of the car, which were covered in marker scribbles. Okay… following the second rule—or rather, leaving a message—turned out to be a bit harder than expected—you first had to find a free spot to do it! Apparently, over a thousand people had already borrowed Mo’s car, and it really did seem like everyone had stuck to the rules. Admittedly, I would have loved to take another road trip all the way across New Zealand if it hadn’t been late fall and if we hadn’t been short on time. So Mirko and I had to squeeze the “Best of Whangarei” into just a few days: We went to our favorite restaurant, Whang Thai, for Thai food (*drool*) and feasted on pizza at a bakery that turned into a pizzeria on Thursdays and Fridays, along with the “Sea Nomads” and a German couple who were just getting their newly purchased sailboat ready for their journey across the world’s oceans. We also had two birthdays to celebrate: first Rachel’s, and then my own. On my birthday, we visited the Kiwi House to see one of those little, mysterious birds in person one last time (sooo cuuuute—even if it did scare me a little :D), and afterward toasted my 35th birthday with Doris and Wolfi over a glass of Prosecco. And in case anyone was wondering: Mirko and I could easily polish off a cake like that all by ourselves ;-), but of course we shared it. After all, who can say no to Wolfi’s chocolatey gaze? Anyone familiar with my previous blog posts knows that I love to add a few (fun) facts to my writing—let’s just call it “educational trivia” for simplicity’s sake. So here are a few interesting facts about kiwis: These little birds have been threatened with extinction ever since humans arrived in New Zealand. The caretaker at the Kiwi House told us that the kiwi’s biggest enemy isn’t actually the introduced opossum—which steals and eats the flightless bird’s eggs from its burrows on the ground—but man’s best friend: the dog. Also, kiwis usually lay one egg per year. That’s pretty few for a bird, but hey, when you see the size of the egg, you’ll understand why: It’s as big as one-third of the bird itself. Who would want to lay more than one a year? It was very encouraging to hear that the population of Northland Brown Kiwis has grown so much again that they are no longer considered critically endangered. A truly wonderful success that the sanctuaries—the so-called Kiwi Houses—have achieved there in recent years. On May 29, everything was finally ready: The new bimini was there (thanks, Steve!!), the engine had been serviced (thanks, Mirko!!), we’d done the shopping, tidied up, attached the lifelines, and had everything we needed for the five-day crossing on the open sea. We said goodbye to Karl and Mo, the Riverside Marina crew, who both surprised us with a warm hug. It was especially surprising coming from Karl, since I personally had only ever exchanged a few sentences with him. Not because we didn’t understand each other—or maybe actually precisely because of that. His New Zealand accent is so thick that I didn’t always understand him. But he was always nice (at least I assume so), so I simply decided to fall back on the “penguin-style wave-and-smile” principle and return his warm hug. We had finally left Whangarei behind and spent a night at anchor in a bay called Nook, which lies at the river mouth leading to the open ocean. The next day, we sailed to Marsden Cove to clear customs and set off for the islands. Although the weather forecast for the next few days had looked better before and was only moderately satisfying, this was still our best chance to avoid getting stuck in cold New Zealand for another two weeks or longer. So, with Sarah Brightman and Andrea Bocelli’s “Time to Say Goodbye”—which had already become a tradition—playing in our ears, Mirko and I left New Zealand waters and headed toward Minerva Reef. See you in a few years, New Zealand! (maybe ;-) “A new moon on my birthday… Perfect for starting a new year!” — Doris Tip: Still haven't subscribed to our newsletter? We promise it's not annoying spam—it's just a reminder that we've posted a new, exciting blog entry. Welcome back Häääpppyyy Bööörthdäy On the road mit Mo's Van Wir verlassen die Marina

The Crossing - May 30 to June 5, 2025 I know many people who say it’s their dream to one day sail across the ocean on a sailboat, where, at some point, suspended between sky and water, you can find yourself. Where you begin to become one with the sea, and the only thing that matters is feeling the saltwater-laden wind filling the sails. While you’re surrounded by nothing but water for weeks on end, there’s nothing to do but reflect on life and find inner peace… That really sounds like a dream, doesn’t it? Well, unfortunately, you can take that literally, because this idea remains a dream—at least in part. The reality of such a crossing often looks just a little bit different—at least that’s how I experienced it. Now that I’ve completed a few crossings lasting several days—and mind you, these were no more than six days at a time—I can say with certainty at this point: Crossings like these aren’t for me. The journey is NOT the destination here—at least not for me. Mirko isn’t exactly keen on these long crossings either, despite the fact that the world’s oceans have been his home for a very long time. I mean, the description above sounds pretty great, but most people forget that these crossings—which last several days or even weeks—aren’t always a “champagne cruise.” Unfortunately, most of the time you can’t enjoy a glass of bubbly under continuous sunshine without waves, without the boat heeling (tilting), and with a light breeze. Maybe once in a while, but only rarely. The champagne thing isn’t that big of a deal anyway. For one thing, that expensive bubbly doesn’t taste as good as Prosecco anyway (by the way; Buy me a Prosecco ;-); for another, when you’re out at sea like this, you don’t really feel the need for any legal drugs anyway—except for chocolate and Stugeron, the seasickness pills. At least that’s always how it is for us. Light winds aren’t exactly what you want on a long voyage anyway. After all, you want enough wind to eventually reach your destination. As a result, you have to put up with heavy swells and an uncomfortable list—day and night—which makes restful sleep a rarity. Of course, a crossing has its charm—that’s for sure. Almost every day you experience both sunrise and sunset; you can finally lose yourself in a book you haven’t had time for before; you’re far removed from the whirlwind of social media; and the best part is that (if all goes well) you’re sailing 24/7. All of this brings a certain romance to the experience. From New Zealand to Minerva Mirko and I set sail from New Zealand. We had about 820 nautical miles (1,519 kilometers) ahead of us, which we planned to cover in five and a half days (and nights). It wasn’t until dusk that the last distinctive mountain peak of the North Island of Aotearoa (the Māori name for New Zealand) disappeared from view. We weren’t the only ones heading for “the islands”; several other sailboats were scattered a few miles around us, all moving in the same direction. Despite the short distance—relative to the vastness of the South Pacific—we only occasionally saw a sail rising above the horizon. “Die Inseln” or “The Islands” is THE term Kiwis (New Zealanders) use for Tonga, Fiji, Vanuatu, and the many other island nations of the South Pacific. More than once, my follow-up question—“Which islands do you mean?”—in response to “Head’n to the islands, hey?” was met with a smirk, and I could practically hear the unspoken “Tztz, tourists…” Since it had been a while since I’d last sailed offshore, I decided to follow Paula’s advice (SY Freydis) and take a seasickness pill ahead of time so I could get through the first day of the crossing without any worries. After all, my stomach had to get used to the constant up-and-down motion of the waves, and I really wanted to get through that uncomfortable period. Sailing on a course of 025 to 035 degrees north at an average speed of 7.5 knots, we enjoyed our first long day of sailing on the Yum Yum. She, too, hadn’t forgotten how to sail or how to ride the three-and-a-half-meter-high waves. Both the air and water temperatures were still on the low side, just like in New Zealand. But that was about to change faster than we expected—the farther north we went, the more we looked forward to it. When I put on my brand-new Helly Hansen sailing overalls in the evening—on top of my long pants and thick jacket—to stay warm, it was clear it would be a while yet before I could pull my bikini and swimsuit out of the closet. But first things first. Mirko took the first evening watch every day after our early dinner. The sun set as early as 5:30 p.m., and since there was nothing else to do after marveling at the usually beautiful sunset, I usually went straight to my bunk to “get a little sleep” before Mirko woke me up a few hours later for the shift change. You always imagine that the waves lull you to sleep like a baby being gently rocked in a cradle by its parents until it falls asleep. It’s not quite that simple, though. The back-and-forth and up-and-down motion of the waves feels more like lying in a washing machine. The seemingly endless rolling of the ship and the background noise—caused on the one hand by the water rushing past the bow and on the other by the clattering of the ship’s equipment—don’t exactly contribute to a restful sleep. Mirko still woke me up every night after midnight, and I’d crawl out of bed—feeling barely rested and with a sore back from lying in a cramped position—to start my shift. Most nights were uneventful, which was a good thing, but there were a few things that made every night special nonetheless: Sometimes it was the starry sky, where you couldn’t make out the constellations except for the distinctive Southern Cross because there were so many stars; other times it was the glowing plankton that transformed the endless, black water into a glittering blanket. And have you ever watched the moon rise from the ocean? An indescribable experience. All in all, I came to love the night voyages. It actually wasn’t so bad being awake at ungodly hours, staring into the vast distance at the not-so-empty nothingness. In contrast to the night, it was usually slightly cloudy during the day and rarely did we see bright sunshine, while at night the moon fought its way through the clouds and revealed the starry sky. In the distance, we could often see a few rain showers, whose drops fortunately didn’t reach us, but constantly surprised us with a new rainbow. I had truly never seen as many rainbows as I did on the second day of our crossing. We set out with winds of over 30 knots, which dropped to a steady 20 knots on the second day, until they were down to just 5 to 10 knots on the third day. Except for the aforementioned third day, we were always able to set sail and “only” had to cover 29 hours under motor—which we had known from the start. But that doesn’t mean we didn’t try to set sail on the third day. We set sail at least six times and took them down again after a short while. We even tried out our red Parasailor several times—a type of spinnaker designed specifically for broad reach and light winds—but failed miserably due to the poor wind conditions. One attempt ultimately became our last, as the halyard got caught on the sail in such a way that something tore, and we had to stow the Parasailor for the time being. Although the calm seas meant we couldn’t sail as fast or had to run the engine, they did come with one major perk: great food! It was much easier to cook below deck when you didn’t have to hold down everything that was getting tossed around—like bowls, glasses, pans, vegetables, or even yourself…—and you could prepare meals while staying relatively level with the horizon (hehe). We had fried potatoes with eggs for breakfast, a delicious salad with homemade bread and guacamole for lunch, and porcini mushroom risotto for dinner—a dream! Reading a book even inspired me to bake brownies, and I whipped up some chocolatey energy bombs for us during the calm voyage. Funnily enough, the book was actually about a chemist who became a star as a TV chef. “A Matter of Chemistry” by Bonnie Garmus—a book I highly recommend (thanks to Ria for the recommendation). After a few days, Mirko realized that something was wrong with the AIS (Automatic Identification System; it displays other ships on the chartplotter and serves as a collision-avoidance system). According to Marine Traffic (an international website), the Yum Yum was still anchored in The Nook (NZ) and wasn’t anywhere northeast of New Zealand. Mirko immediately set out to troubleshoot the problem and determined that something was likely wrong with the antenna. Although we could see the other ships on the chartplotter, we were apparently invisible to them. It was a problem we couldn’t address right away. Fortunately, we hardly encountered anyone out there anyway, and when we did, they were heading in the same direction as us, so there was little risk of collision. And sleeping whales or even lost shipping containers don’t have AIS anyway. The further north we went, the fewer layers of clothing we needed. Eventually, we even stopped wearing our warm sailing overalls at night, and after a few days, Mirko even dared to put on swim trunks during the day. Although the thermometer only showed the water temperature, it indicated that we were gradually approaching warmer waters. The wind we lacked on the third and fourth days returned in the days that followed. A distant low-pressure system had sucked up all the wind and was just waiting to send it back our way from an impossible direction. Back in New Zealand, the weather report had already prepared us for the fact that we would have to cover the last few nautical miles on a close-hauled course. Fortunately, the wind direction was more forgiving than expected, and we made good progress at a nice 90 degrees to the wind (half-wind). When the sun rose after the fifth night (to my surprise, not exactly in the east—did you know that the positions of sunrise and sunset vary slightly throughout the year?), an end was finally in sight. It was warm, the sun was shining, the salty air tingled on my skin, and I was able to comfortably finish my two e-books. Plus, there were brownies—what more could you want! Oh, right: fishing! Once we were sure we’d reach our destination before sunset, we cast our lines for the first time this season. Sure enough, a big tuna took the bait, and I could barely contain my excitement at the prospect of having ceviche (fish marinated in lime juice) soon. Around noon, Mirko and I could make out in the distance the characteristic white caps that mark every reef. But this was a reef located somewhere in the middle of the vast ocean, hundreds of meters deep: Minerva! Just like the first time, we marveled at this natural phenomenon. The two atolls—Minerva South, which is nearly 8 kilometers long and looks like a horizontal figure eight, and the circular Minerva North, with a diameter of 7 kilometers—reveal only a few boulders of the otherwise submerged reef at low tide. Each has a pass—or reef entrance—that allows us sailors to enter the lagoon and anchor there on sandy bottom. After 125 hours—60 daylight hours and 65 hours of darkness—the anchor dropped at a depth of 12 meters, and we were finally able to toast a successful passage with a glass of Prosecco, which we had thoughtfully chilled back in New Zealand. We're leaving New Zealand Yum Yum heeled over Impressions from a Night Sail

Minerva South – June 5–10, 2025 For Mirko and me, this was already the second time we’d had the chance to spend time in this oasis. In the spring of 2024, we’d also stopped here before sailing on to Tonga. For the past few days, we’d been in waters with depths ranging from 2,000 to 4,000 meters. And now, in the middle of the ocean, hundreds of kilometers from land, we were suddenly able to drop anchor at a depth of 12 meters. How does that work? The Minerva Reefs lie on an undersea plateau. This plateau is between 550 and 1,100 meters deep and stretches over a length of 45 kilometers. The reefs are atolls in the process of formation and have risen by one meter since 1916. At mid-tide, the highest points already protrude from the sea; only at high tide do the reefs remain largely below the water’s surface. Incidentally, an atoll is a coral island in tropical seas consisting of a ring-shaped reef and a lagoon. Since the Minerva Reefs do not (yet) have any islands, they cannot quite be described as a “fully formed” atoll. Unfortunately, the weather wasn’t quite as kind to us this year as it was last year. It was windier, often cloudy during the day, and sometimes even rainy. Still, it was quite a bit warmer than in New Zealand—both the air and the water. Our sailing friends, who hadn’t had much faith in the weather window and had stayed in the north of New Zealand, even told us about an “Arctic Storm” that hit the Kiwis a week later and brought freezing temperatures—brrrrr. So it was a good thing we’d left the cold south early on. Despite the weather, we naturally didn’t miss the chance to go snorkeling at the first opportunity—finally! Mirko and I only lasted about half an hour in the 24-degree water before we started to feel cold, and we scrambled up the swim ladder, shivering and out of breath, back onto the Yum Yum. Wrapped in a towel and a fluffy surf poncho, we agreed right then and there: We were clearly out of shape. Even with a shorty (short wetsuit), we quickly got cold; in no time at all, our cramped calf muscles started to act up—they’d only had to fight against the current for a few minutes—and I won’t even get started on the embarrassing 10 seconds I managed to hold my breath. From that day on, we worked steadily on our fitness. Every day, we explored the underwater world and its creatures, took our first real joyrides in the brand-new dinghy, went fishing, and tried out Mirko’s wingfoil for the first time. The underwater world was as beautiful as ever. Colorful, towering coral columns lined the seafloor, providing shelter for a wide variety of marine life: Small schools of shimmering blue fish that deftly hid among the intertwined branches of a stony coral; a large grouper that eyed us warily—ready at any moment to vanish into the narrow coral ledge; blacktip reef sharks (which have incredibly poor eyesight) that circled us curiously with their round eyes; a laid-back whitetip reef shark (which can swim backward) gliding elegantly just above the seafloor, and, of course, all the colorful reef fish, mostly traveling in pairs, letting themselves be gently rocked back and forth by the blue-turquoise water. One beautiful day, we even headed out toward the Pass to explore the underwater world there. You can think of the Pass as the “botanical garden” among national parks—excellent visibility, plenty of animals, and a wide variety of plants. Here at Minerva Reef, too, we weren’t disappointed in that regard. Right at the start, we were surprised to be greeted by two turtles that swam right alongside us, just a meter away, without any fear at all! Mirko and I were so fascinated that we didn’t immediately notice a shark (the largest reef shark we’d seen so far), which had also approached curiously and started teasing one of the turtles (see video). When it came to wing foiling, we were both complete beginners. Time and again, someone with a board and sail in hand had zoomed past us in New Zealand or Fiji, and every time I’d been fascinated by how the athletes managed to glide so smoothly across the blue water on their foils (or do you say “sail”?—I don’t know). That’s why I was all the more curious to finally try it out for myself. The first challenge was actually putting the board together. But that was solely because we’d been sent the wrong screws—twice, no less. Why on earth would you order replacement screws if you can’t use them to replace the defective ones? Annoying. Luckily, Mirko found the right screws in his huge collection of tools—in one of his hundred boxes—so we could attach the foil to the board. First, we wanted to practice the basics—like steering, standing up, and lifting the board out of the water—with the dinghy and without the wing (canopy)—basically, just like wakeboarding. Steering and standing up went pretty well after a while, but lifting the board—so you’re surfing only on the foil—puzzled us. How is that supposed to work? It really wasn’t that easy. Neither instructional videos nor repeated practice had brought us success so far… but we’ll get there. Maybe we’ll meet a wingfoiler soon who’ll take pity on us and teach us. Just like last year at Minerva Riff, each of us got to try our hand at being a top hairstylist this time around, too. While Mirko had complete faith in my cutting skills, I was shifting around a bit nervously in the makeshift barber’s chair. But I had nothing to worry about: he did a really great job with the short haircut—or what do you think? On our second-to-last day in the southern Minerva Reef, things took a whole new—and exciting—turn. I spent the cloudy morning blogging on my laptop in the saloon when I suddenly heard a scream from the cockpit that made me rush upstairs immediately. Warning: this part gets a little gross. While putting away the fishing box, Mirko had driven a hook into his middle finger with full force. Of course, it was a nice, rusty one with those great barbs. The first attempt to pull it out failed miserably—the hook, which had burrowed a whole centimeter deep into the flesh, wouldn’t budge a millimeter. While Mirko—beads of sweat on his forehead from sheer inner stress—still calmly considered what the best solution was, all sorts of horror scenarios were already running through my head, and I promptly felt sick to my stomach—what a great help I was. Finally, we decided to make a small incision with a scalpel and carefully pull out the barb so as not to leave any rust or dirt behind that could cause an infection or even blood poisoning. All that remained was a small, inconspicuous scar—we got lucky! Because the southern reef is slightly lower than the northern one, you’re not as well protected at anchor as you are in the north. It serves only to a limited extent as a breakwater, which means that it can get quite choppy inside the lagoon within the reef—especially at high tide. For this reason, after our fifth night of being tossed about, we decided to move on to the northern Minerva Reef, whose higher reef ring offers a bit more protection from the ocean. Incidentally, the reefs were named by Captain Henry Mangles Denham of the research vessel HMS Herald. He named them after the whaling ship Minerva, which ran aground on the southern reef in 1829. Minerva North – June 10–15, 2025 The other reef was only 22 miles to the north, a distance the Yum Yum covered in a few hours of sunshine at a leisurely speed of 5 to 6 knots. Of course, as soon as we’d gone a few meters, we euphorically cast out our fishing lines with our best bait, but not a single fish took the hook until we dropped anchor. Worse still: three times the hook was simply bitten off! On top of that, on the same day, a huge fish broke free from the line while we were towing it with the dinghy and dragged our favorite bait down into the depths with it. It really hadn’t been our day. The fish must have all known that Mirko couldn’t do the “dirty work” because of his injury and that I would have had to gut and fillet the fish this time. They probably wanted to avoid that at all costs (aside from their own deaths). Except for that huge jackfish (or something like that—I couldn’t identify it), which Mirko shot while surrounded by three sharks during our snorkeling trip in the pass (yeah, damn exciting 🦈🦈🦈), not a single fish took the bait during our time in Minerva. Luckily, Rachel and Adam had finally caught up with us on their boat Lady Annabelle (Sydney, Australia), caught a crayfish (a spiny lobster) during a snorkeling trip, and shared it with us that same evening. We spent a lot of time with the two of them. Every evening, we took turns serving appetizers and drinks on board. It was nice to have some company now and then, especially someone who always had exciting stories to share. For example, Adam—who, like half of all Australians, had once been a scuba instructor—told us about giant squids that nibble on sharks and about boats that were swept away by the wind during a hurricane and found days later in the nearby mangrove forest. Rachel added to these bizarre tales with (naturally Australian) caterpillars that, rather than giving up their habitat in a houseplant without a fight, preferred to become man-eaters and bite if you tried to remove them. They also told us about the thorough inspection of their boat when clearing customs out of New Zealand, during which the official claimed to be looking for stowaways, but they weren’t sure if he was actually on the lookout for little fluffy bunnies instead of people. During the search, he had discovered Rachel’s stash of carrots, which apparently amounted to several kilos (an unbelievable 6 kg!). Rachel just really likes carrots 🥕. By the way, I had some pest problems on board—no, unfortunately, not bunnies. I’d set out to grow a little herb garden. In New Zealand, I’d carefully selected my favorite herbs and some matching little planters, lovingly filled them with some soil from the garden at Riverside Marina in Whangarei, and placed them in a sunny but sheltered spot in the galley, right in front of the window. Well… who’s spotted the mistake yet? Exactly. The garden soil. Not only did I bring back nutritious organic soil from New Zealand, but I also brought along a little snail, a caterpillar, and a few ants. Way to go, Daniela. It wasn’t until three out of seven plants had died that I discovered the deadly monsters. Even at this anchorage in the crystal-clear waters of the northern Minerva Reef, we couldn’t resist going snorkeling every day in the 24.2-degree water. Interestingly, in the lagoon we found only a few scattered beautiful coral bommies and, in addition, two coral-covered shipwreck wrecks teeming with fish, while otherwise a sandy underwater desert stretched as far as the eye could see. We’d even imagined the snorkeling trip to the pass here to be a bit more colorful—but that’s really just complaining on a high level when you encounter two graceful eagle rays there, isn’t it? Rumor had it among the sailors that a four-meter-long tiger shark made its home here at the northern Minerva Reef… but no one had seen it in quite some time. The only incident was when a sailor was accidentally pushed off her SUP by a reef shark—which she’d inadvertently lured near the boat with fish scraps—and the shark had lingered for a few more hours, looking for more (usually non-human) treats. The day before we set off for Fiji, another young sailing couple joined us for dinner: Merrit and Joost with their boat, Awa. The two Dutch sailors have been on the road since 2021 and plan to sail (almost) directly to Canada this year. They’ve even sailed through the Patagonian fjords in their steel, turquoise-colored Awa. That evening, we said goodbye to Lady Annabelle, who had decided to continue on to Tonga, and also to Awa, who were also sailing to Fiji but planned to clear customs at a different port. For us, the journey continues to Savusavu on Vanua Levu, and from there… well—we’ll see! And then there was… the string of lights debacle. It all started back in New Zealand. Mirko had come up with a great plan and had cheerfully gone shopping in New Zealand to get everything organized for the seamless installation of a new string of lights in the cockpit that would provide both illumination and ambiance. To provide extra protection from the rain for this colorful, glowing piece of wiring, he had even bought a matching, transparent tube to serve as a sleeve, through which we were simply supposed to thread the 5-meter-long string. Mirko had even had loops sewn onto the new bimini that fit perfectly, so we could attach the masterpiece afterward. The plan was actually perfect—and, of course, doomed to fail as a result. The tube was just a tiny bit too tight, making the whole process incredibly difficult. Neither dish soap nor a gentle touch helped. The whole project, which took us several hours spread over a few days, destroyed the idyllic atmosphere at Minerva Reef in the blink of an eye. When the second string of lights snapped after our twentieth attempt, we’d had enough and already considered the whole thing a failure, so I threw in the towel. I looked on the bright side: At least we didn't have to worry about “you eat with your eyes first” at dinner anymore… When I got up the next day and had already put the whole thing behind me, Mirko was already in the process of fixing the string of lights—more specifically, soldering it (yes, we actually have a small soldering iron on board!). He seemed to have had a flash of inspiration overnight, and voilà: After four days, the result is quite impressive! We're finally here. A breathtaking underwater world. Our first attempts at wingfoiling. Some impressions of the reef. A curious squid. Simply amazing!

Before we really get started, let’s begin with a little geography, history, and general knowledge about Fiji, huh? I promise: It’s really interesting! Fiji—described by Lonely Planet as a “little-known South Pacific paradise” (huh?)—consists of over 330 islands, about 110 of which are inhabited. The largest are Viti Levu in the south, home to the capital Suva, and Vanua Levu in the north. Fiji’s population is diverse: indigenous Fijians, Indo-Fijians, and smaller groups of Europeans, Chinese, and other Pacific Islanders live here together. Fiji was colonized by the British in the 19th century, gained independence in 1970, and has been a parliamentary democracy since 2014. Its history has been marked by political upheavals—including several military coups—and ethnic tensions. The Indo-Fijians are descendants of the indentured laborers who were brought from India to the sugarcane plantations by the British starting in 1879 (a rather euphemistic way of saying “to be exploited”). Today, they make up about 37% of the population and have had a strong influence on Fiji’s culture and economy. Historical tensions between Indian and indigenous Fijians led to political crises and a massive exodus of many Indo-Fijians. Fiji’s economy is based primarily on tourism (scuba diving, luxury resorts), agriculture (especially sugarcane), and fishing. Culturally, Fiji is a fascinating blend of indigenous and Indian influences: traditional dances, music, and crafts are central parts of everyday life. A particularly important cultural custom is the so-called Sevusevu—the ritual introduction to the village chief before one is allowed to enter his village. But more on that when the time comes. The official languages are English, Fijian, and Fijian Hindi. English dominates in government, schools, and administration—but in everyday life, you hear a mix of all of them. And one more very important point: rugby. Fiji is crazy about rugby, especially when it comes to the rugby sevens team—both the men’s and women’s teams are extremely successful internationally. In their honor, there’s even a 7-Fijian-dollar bill dedicated to each team. The most important word in Fiji? “Bula”! It mainly means “hello,” but it can actually mean just about anything—as long as it’s positive 🙂. “Vinaka” (thank you) and “Vinaka vaka levu” (thank you very much) are also phrases you should remember if you find yourself, as a Palagi [palangi] (that’s what they call Europeans, Americans, Australians—basically, white people—here), in this South Pacific paradise. Savusavu – June 18–27, 2025 After 60 hours—or 420 nautical miles—under sail, we finally saw land looming ahead of us: Fiji! Okay, to be honest, we didn’t see anything except the lighthouses marking it, because it was the middle of the night when we reached Fijian waters. We anchored blindly in the dark three miles off the town of Savusavu to get some more sleep before we had to deal with all the bureaucratic red tape. Strictly speaking, it’s strictly forbidden to enter Fijian territory—which includes even simply dropping anchor on the seabed—before you’ve properly cleared customs. It’s a bit like cutting through a border fence on a new moon, dressed in black and armed with hedge clippers, just to then sneak through on the sly. In short: it was illegal to cross a national border without first showing your passport to someone. But at one in the morning, we wouldn’t have been able to reach anyone anyway, so we just cheekily dropped anchor and treated ourselves to a few hours of sleep. The fact that our AIS was broken at the time—and that, as if by magic, the Yum Yum had vanished from all digital nautical charts—gave the whole thing a slightly criminal touch—hihihi. The next morning, Mirko and I set off at a leisurely pace for Savusavu, a town of 7,000 people on Vanua Levu, one of Fiji’s two main islands. The town was one of the first stops for sailors in Fiji. We hoisted the yellow quarantine flag and committed today’s date to memory so we could tell the officials our arrival date without hesitation. We—and the Yum Yum—still looked as if we’d spent several days and nights at sea. No one would question our actual arrival time. After Mirko radioed the marina, we were greeted by a Fijian in a small boat with a friendly “Bulaaaa!!!” who guided us to a buoy in the bay. His name was William, and although he was friendly, he acted as if this were the first time he’d ever helped a yacht crew tie up at a mooring. Normally, you thread the rope—which is attached at one end to the cleat on the boat—through the ring on the buoy and hand the other end back to the sailor at the bow so he or she can secure the rope back on board. William simply tied the very last end of the rope to the buoy with such a clumsy, improvised knot that, if the wind changed direction even slightly, the Yum Yum could either be slashed by the sharp coral or even get snagged in the mangroves. Mirko, who on the surface seemed totally laid-back as always, was not at all happy about William’s incompetence and, under his questioning gaze, immediately took charge of the maneuver himself. Coupled with hunger, his frustration was an explosive mixture brewing just beneath Mirko’s surface. It was a good thing that the Fijian authorities always took their time, so we were able to grab a bite to eat after William had dashed off to bring the officials in question aboard. The official clearance process usually goes like this: Various officials from the Health Department, Customs, Immigration, and Biosecurity come directly onto the boat, which is marked “In Quarantine” by the yellow flag. Once the inspections of the people, the boat, and the cargo are complete and everyone is satisfied, you get a stamp in your passport and are allowed to stay in Fiji for four months (or, in the case of a floating residence, up to two years). The first to arrive was the young lady from the Health Department—sniffling and, by her own admission, wearing the wrong shoes. She asked us a few questions about our health and took some blurry photos of our food supplies while constantly blowing her nose. An hour later, three more Fijians showed up. Mirko, now well-versed in the clearance process, immediately broke the ice with a charming “I remember you from last year,” directed at the customs officer. The lady was flattered and, with that unshakable calm that apparently only true Fijian women possess, examined our passports and scribbled something on her forms. Meanwhile, the man from the immigration office just stared dreamily into the distance and took hardly any part in what was happening on board. The third member of the trio—the biosecurity guy—simply asked for our trash with sleepy indifference and muttered “Yum Yum…” to himself every now and then, as if he were meditatively processing the boat’s name. As a sailor, you usually have a lot of respect for biosecurity: Sometimes, the entire boat would be turned upside down in search of illegal (or—depending on the time of day—lunch-worthy) food that had somehow made its way into Fijian waters without authorization. Our friend wasn’t interested in anything at all. Not the onions, not our nuts, and certainly not the contents of our refrigerator. When we met him again in his office a few days later to settle the bill, it finally became clear to us just how little these officials understood about life aboard a yacht. He seriously asked us if we really lived on canned food for months on end—and it was inconceivable to him that we didn’t have a freezer on board. But back to what was actually happening on board: After about half an hour, all the formalities were taken care of, and we were officially welcomed to Fiji. You’d think that meant we could set sail right away and explore the idyllic island groups—but that’s not quite right. First, you have to wait for the so-called “cruising permit.” And that takes between two and seven days—depending on whether or not a weekend falls in between. Apparently, the paperwork is sent to the main island, Suva, where somewhere a lone Fijian sits behind his desk on an uncomfortable wooden chair, boredly stamping the scraps of paper. The whole process probably still happens the old-fashioned way via mail (or carrier pigeon)—there’s no other way to explain why it always takes so long. Although we weren’t allowed to travel by boat without the permit, Mirko and I were permitted to begin our exploration of Savusavu on foot. After 19 days at sea—since we set sail from New Zealand—we finally felt solid ground beneath our feet again—wonderful! Our still-unquenched hunger led us first to a restaurant we already knew: the Planters Club, where we’d enjoyed lunch during our last visit to Fiji. Although the kitchen was undergoing renovations—a woman was sizzling our food in a huge, rusty wok while in the corner a barefoot man wearing sunglasses as safety goggles was welding something together—the food tasted as good as ever: chow mein and stir-fried chicken, served with a fresh coconut to drink. Mmmmmmmmmmmm. And best of all: it was just as affordable as it had been during our last visit to Savusavu less than a year ago. The days in Savusavu, as we waited for those scraps of paper, flew by. Almost every day, we strolled down the one street where the whole life of the town seemed to unfold, went shopping at the various, fairly well-stocked grocery stores, and watched with amusement the strained faces of the Fijians at the market as they tried to figure out our haggling over the prices of fruits and vegetables. Although the market had recently moved to the new market hall, haggling over prices and doing mental math still seemed just as out of fashion as before. Where there’s a shortage of the unimportant things, there’s usually an abundance of something else entirely. Here in Fiji, it’s the friendliness of the locals. At every turn, you’re greeted with a warm “Bula vinaka!” and a smile from young and old alike. The record was set by a little girl in Labasa who greeted us with a smile at least ten times in half an hour. Mirko and I didn’t miss a beat when it came to food either: Whether it was fish curry and palak paneer at an Indo-Fijian restaurant, burgers with Bea and Erwin (SY Sawadiva from Switzerland) at a hotel resort outside Savusavu, dumplings and mapo tofu at a small Chinese restaurant across from the marina (where the head chef apparently used his pans as ashtrays), Asian cuisine at a hotel overlooking Savusavu Harbor, iced coffee on the terrace at the Copra Shed Marina (thanks to our first sponsor!), delicious homemade dishes on the Yum Yum, or a BBQ at our good friend Simon’s house with his family—we really had it all. As for the Chinese restaurant, it wasn’t until later that Simon, a local, told us about the head chef’s alleged smoking problem 🚬. We took that with a healthy dose of skepticism, though—the food was delicious, and the company (a black cat) was just as enjoyable. Just like back home, people here love to gossip, too. So who exactly is this Simon? We’d met him last year in Savusavu when we were aimlessly wandering around the bus station—looking for a ticket counter that didn’t exist. We took an instant liking to the Indo-Fijian tour guide, and when he offered to take us with him to Labasa—a 2.5-hour drive away—the foundation for our friendship was laid. Of course, there was no question in Mirko’s mind that he would text him right away when we arrived back in Savusavu this time. In hindsight, that was almost unnecessary, because on the very first day, a car screeched to a halt next to us; Simon jumped out, beaming from ear to ear, and welcomed us with a “Captain & Admiral (Lady Boss)!” and a warm hug. I would have recognized him instantly just from that greeting alone. In this “town,” it was simply impossible not to run into each other. As mentioned earlier, Simon even invited us to his house for a BBQ. So one Saturday evening, we packed a few cold drinks and some kava (which, by the way, we ended up taking back home with us), and Simon picked us up at the marina dock. His entire family was temporarily in Savusavu to care for their mother, who was recovering from a fall. Well, almost the whole family: two brothers (one lives in Suva on Viti Levu, the other in Savusavu), two sisters (one from Sydney, one from Tonga), a niece, and Simon’s own son—only one brother was missing. That one was promptly declared the “black sheep” of the family. They even called him just to tease him about his absence. Sibling love, ha! 😉 So the evening was peppered with banter, storytelling, and laughter, accompanied by pink gin and tonics (“Bula,” by the way, can mean “cheers” as well as “hello”), beer, and plenty of food. There was a huge pot full of delicious lamb chops and sausages, cassava, manioc, and salad—who on earth was supposed to eat all that?! Well… Mirko. He really enjoyed himself and feasted all evening, as did the entire Sharma family. Unlike back home, where you have to eat while the food is still hot, here they prepare the meal, drink, and then eat a little bit here and there—which turns dinner into a social affair that lasts the whole evening. Unfortunately, Mirko was plagued by terrible stomachaches the following night and all the next day. We didn’t know if it was the amount he’d stuffed himself with or something specific that was to blame. Either way, even Mirko’s discomfort didn’t dampen our memories of that fun evening with the warm-hearted locals. It wasn’t until 24 hours later that Mirko rose from the dead and immediately devoured the entire loaf of freshly baked bread that I had prepared while he was out of it. Perhaps it was no coincidence that, shortly afterward, fate made him lose at rock-paper-scissors as punishment—or let’s say, as karmic retribution. So, in the pouring rain, he had to go out on deck to pull the plug on the dinghy. It had already filled with several liters of water and was in danger of capsizing. Fortunately, it stays pleasantly warm in Fiji even when it rains—so Mirko tackled the task in his birthday suit. We also spent some time with Bea and Erwin, a nice Swiss couple who have been in Savusavu since 2019 on their 53-foot Beneteau named Sawadiva. Although Mirko had only met them once before, they immediately invited us to see their house, which they had bought a few months earlier in the “Savusavu Hills” and was currently being renovated. You could tell right away the passion that the former entrepreneur and the interior designer had already poured into the overgrown piece of land. Above all, the view from the house out over the vast ocean was simply breathtaking. To my delight, we didn’t just have burgers and fries for lunch, but also an ice cream sundae, cinnamon rolls, and coffee on the Sawadiva to round out the day—yummy! Since our new friends had moored their yacht at the chic Nawi Marina—where we still remembered exactly how incredibly great the restroom facilities for yachties were (especially the outdoor rain showers!)—we couldn’t resist the temptation. Our own Waitui Marina had nothing to offer but a cabin infested with ants, complete with a rusty shower fixture and cold water. So we took a chance: We secretly tied up our dinghy at the dock behind the Sawadiva and sneaked into Nawi Marina… to take a shower. After all, we could always play dumb and pretend to be clueless tourists, right? On our first shower “outing,” we suddenly heard police sirens in the dark, just as we were speeding back to the Yum Yum in the dinghy, fresh from our shower. For a moment, we looked around in panic—only to realize that they weren’t even meant for us. Phew. The next few times were a breeze. What can I say—Mirko and I just have petty crime in our blood. This time, too, we took a trip to Labasa—though this time we had to do without the luxury of Simon’s air-conditioned car. Instead, we rode both legs of the trip in a bus that shook us up pretty good, 2.5 hours each way, without air conditioning. But after all, what’s the point of a breeze if not this? It wasn’t until we Palagis were sitting in that rattling bus that I truly realized again that we were in one of those countries where buses race through mountainous, bumpy roads with their doors open (or not at all)—and I couldn’t help but smile. The ride was a little highlight in itself. Vanua Levu consists of three provinces, each of which specializes in a specific product: Bua in the west is known for rice cultivation, Macuata (where Labasa is located) for sugarcane in the northeast, and Cakaudrove around Savusavu for coconut products in the southeast. Along the way, we also passed a spring whose water is said to be even better than the famous “Fiji Water.” What’s particularly striking: Many plants—even palm trees and other trees several meters tall—are overgrown for kilometers by a climbing vine called kudzu. Did you know that the seeds of this plant were dropped by American bombers during World War II so that troops could hide more easily in the thicket? Well, today this invasive plant is a real nuisance. We visited Vanua Levu’s largest city to do a little shopping and check out the best Indian restaurant on the island: Delhi 6. The only really special things about Labasa are actually this restaurant, the big supermarket called Extra—which had a much wider selection of groceries than the other stores—the large local fruit and vegetable market, and, if you will, the bus station, which is packed at all hours of the day. Otherwise, it’s just a perfectly ordinary, dirty island town full of sweaty people—exactly as you’d imagine. We headed into town determined not to buy any nonsense. As we’d suspected, we still ended up coming home at the end of the day with a few new gadgets: Since then, a hippie storm lighter, a new pair of hairdressing scissors, piping tips, and a mini food processor have joined our collection. In other words, exactly the kind of things you see for the first time and immediately wonder how you ever survived without them. After nine days in Savusavu and with the cruising permit finally in hand, the weather was nearly perfect for setting off eastward toward the Lau Group. Before we set sail, however, Mirko and I wanted to say goodbye to Simon—and thank him for the BBQ. At the end of our get-together, he gave us two DRUA-style sulus—very sweet of him—while we paid for lunch. A sulu is a traditional Fijian garment—basically a wrap skirt worn by both men and women. Fijian Drua is a professional rugby team from Fiji—and the first team ever to represent Fiji in the international rugby union league, Super Rugby. Funny side note: Simon ordered three Fiji Gold (i.e., beer) at the restaurant without even asking, and in the end, I was the only one who came home with a pleasant buzz. Since Mirko isn’t a beer drinker, we—so as not to be rude—kept swapping our glasses whenever Simon wasn’t looking. And so I was forced to drink twice as fast so it wouldn’t be noticeable… Well then: Bulaaa! And then there was… the unexpected early-morning visitor. While Mirko lay in our bunk, knocked out by his stomachache, I got out of bed and went up on deck. The rain had just stopped, and the early morning still lay still over the water. I watched a small school of fish darting about excitedly—obviously fleeing from something. But then my gaze fell on something entirely different: a large, spotted eagle ray glided silently and with graceful calm right past the bow of the Yum Yum—as if out of nowhere. You rarely see a visitor like that, especially when you’re anchored right in front of a city. Our bus trip to Labasa. Fiji gets rain, too.

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. Our trip to Duff Reef. There were thousands of hermit crabs on the island. 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. Well protected by the mangroves. Daniela is inflating the SUP. 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! Another little paradise.

Southern Lau Group, Fiji, July 6–17, 2025 By this point, we were in a very remote part of Fiji, and the further south we sailed, the more we felt as if we had been transported back to the unspoiled, natural Fiji of old. One particular atoll, in the very southernmost corner of the Lau Group, is unbeatable in this regard: Fulaga. It’s not just the seclusion, but also the extraordinary natural beauty that makes this place so special. Imagine the ultimate vacation paradise. Make it just a little more kitschy. The water could be a bit more turquoise, the sky a little bluer, and the beaches a touch whiter. Oh, and now erase the sunburned package tour tourists lounging on their beach chairs. Congratulations—you’ve landed in Fulaga. Geologically speaking, Fulaga—also known as Vulaga (its old name)—was formed as an island by volcanic activity millions of years ago. After the volcanic phase subsided, the island became surrounded by coral, which grew over time to form today’s limestone formations and coral reefs. All of this led to the creation of the characteristic lagoons and limestone landscapes that still define the area today. After twenty hours—or a night’s sail—we saw the rolling landscape of the main island of Fulaga, which shares the same name, rising in the distance that morning. The only access to the lagoon and the island within it is through a narrow pass, about 60 meters wide, that looks as if someone had cut it into the coral reef. Sailors have to time their passage carefully, because either the current is too strong, the waves are too high—or both. Mirko and I had timed it well and headed for the pass shortly after low tide. Although the waves at the entrance were frighteningly high and wild, it became all the calmer inside the pass, which gave me a good view of the reef on the port and starboard sides from the lookout—and believe me: with a boat 14 by 4 meters wide, a “passage” just 60 meters narrow really doesn’t leave much room to correct navigational errors. Loyal readers of my previous blog on FindPenguins may remember that last year I wrote about how a brand-new Fijian naval vessel—a gift from Australia—ran aground here in the pass. Fun fact: At the time, this vessel was towed to the neighboring island of Ogea, from where it was supposedly going to be towed to one of the main Fijian islands for repairs. Apparently, it’s still in the same spot today, stripped of its equipment and waiting to be scrapped. It’s even marked as a wreck on Navionics, the most popular nautical chart app. Rest in peace, Navy Patrol Boat 402. Although this wasn’t the first time either Mirko or I had been here, we couldn’t stop marveling once we’d passed through the pass—which had demanded our full concentration—and could finally take in our surroundings. The lagoon was breathtakingly beautiful: turquoise water with hundreds of palm-covered boulders rising from it; behind it, the large island of Fulaga, overgrown with dense tropical forest… It was simply magical. Since we arrived on a Sunday, we decided on the spot to postpone the sevusevu until the next day. In Fiji, it’s traditional for villagers to observe the “Lord’s Day” as their day of rest. That means: aside from attending church (for many, even three times a day), eating, and relaxing, nothing else is allowed—and by “nothing,” I really mean NOTHING. Above all, no work and, consequently, no cooking (the big lunch after the second church service is already prepared on Saturday), no fishing, and no sports activities. These rules apply not only to Fijians but also to us sailors and tourists. Still, Mirko and I couldn’t resist: We unpacked the SUP (stand-up paddleboard), converted it into a kayak, and paddled around the lagoon. And as if that weren’t enough law-breaking for a Sunday, we also secretly cooked ourselves something to eat—lasagna, yay! We were certain that no villager—and certainly not the chief—would ever find out that we had broken the Sunday rule—after all, they’re not allowed to leave the village. ;-) But apparently, the “Man Up There” had his eye on us, because while trying to fillet a huge trevally that Mirko had just reeled in, our fish knife simply snapped in two. Okay, okay, got it—no more “work” on Sundays. So after a lazy Sunday (*ahem*), we visited the main village of Fulaga on Monday morning with Sulu and kava. Since the lagoon is the most popular region in the Lau Group, the chief came up with something very special here: for the sevusevu, you don’t just bring kava, but also 50 FJD. Thanks to these involuntary donations, the village has already been able to afford a freezer (one for all the residents to share, of course) or buy the materials needed for a new little house to open a simple grocery store. Sailors like us are also assigned a host family who takes care of us during our stay. Since we’d been to Fulaga before, we asked right away about our former host, Tai—and were taken straight to him. The friendly old man recognized us right away after we mentioned a few keywords like “Switzerland” and “guitar,” and greeted us warmly. He immediately offered to take us on a tour of the village and showed us the community center, the water reservoirs, the houses, as well as the school and the kindergarten. The sweet as candy, not-so-shy kindergarteners even introduced themselves to us one by one in English, sang a song together, and played a game that I didn’t quite understand but which brought them immense joy—especially when we clapped along. We finally wrapped up the village tour at Tai’s family’s house, where we were served a coconut to drink with a super-cool organic straw made from a papaya leaf stalk, a kind of cassava bread cooked in a banana leaf, and Fijian pancakes that reminded me more of round donuts. We weren’t the only ones who thought those round, greasy treats were delicious—Tai’s little niece, who had just come home from kindergarten, greeted us with a quick “Bula” and immediately dashed into the house to fill her little pockets and hands with the goodies. As cute as the sight was, her already decayed teeth—which she showed off to us with a wide grin—were just as striking. Although we’d been told that the children brush their teeth together every day at kindergarten and school, oral and dental hygiene doesn’t seem to be a top priority here. We left the village with a whole bunch of bananas and a bundle of giant beans. Bananas are straightforward: wait until the peel turns from green to yellow, then peel and eat—easy. The beans, on the other hand… hmm. At first, it seemed simple: squeeze the beans out of the pod, put them in water, boil them—done. Or so I thought. But as soon as I started peeling them, I realized something wasn’t right. The beans were large and resembled kidney beans, but they were encased in a thick, hairy green pod. When we opened them, our fingers turned black and became sticky, and in the pot, the beans changed color from kidney-bean red to ash gray. The taste was strange, too. The beans were soft and slightly sweet, but surrounded by a tough, bitter skin—not exactly appetizing. My instinct told me: better to Google it. My research finally revealed that they were what are known as velvet beans. You have to soak them overnight, then boil them for an hour and a half, and finally remove the hard, bitter skin. And: When raw, they’re actually poisonous. When I read that, I was sitting there with my mouth half open—the fourth bean already on my spoon—and in a panic, I dropped it back into the pot. I’d already eaten three of these half-cooked, gray “ghost beans.” Luckily, there were no ill effects: just the usual hallucinations, no stomachaches. I probably owed that to my “Suuumaga” (Saumagen), which I inherited from my dad ;) Mirko and I spent eleven wonderful days in Fulaga. Almost every day, we explored a new corner of the vast lagoon—sometimes on a SUP, sometimes in the dinghy, or simply out in the water, armed only with fins, a snorkel, and diving goggles. A few times we also anchored in other parts of the lagoon, each time in yet another turquoise natural pool, often sheltered behind an impressive rock formation that shielded us from the other sailboats. We chatted with the other sailors who’d found their way here during a get-together around the campfire, had BBQs for two on deserted beaches, and took advantage of the wind to finally try wingfoiling again—this time even with a wing and not being towed behind the dinghy, like last time in Minerva. After studying countless vloggers on YouTube, we started with some wingfoil dryland training on the beach. Mirko got the hang of it faster and was the first to venture out onto the water, while I watched his attempts. It’s not that easy to control the canopy and the board at the same time! But when I finally managed to stand for a few meters myself, it was a great feeling. We weren’t able to get the foil out of the water yet, but our first attempts were still a complete success. As wild and untamed as the pass in Fulaga is, it’s just as beautiful for snorkeling and diving. Reef passes are usually lined with hundreds of corals and teeming with colorful fish. The water is crystal-clear because the current keeps it constantly moving—it’s like watching the aquarium scene in “Finding Dory” in 5D, only in real life and with plenty of never-before-seen scenes. We spotted large schools of barracudas, snappers, trevally, and other fish swimming in the hundreds, eyeing us warily while we watched them in fascination. After a week, it was time for the Sunday program in Fulaga. First, church with the village community, then lunch with our host family. For us, it was our first—and last—church service: the sermon in Fijian, accompanied by loud singing and a deafening triangle. Still, it’s always a wonderful experience to be right in the middle of the community on such a traditional day and to experience the culture up close. The lunch that followed was especially nice. We sat on the floor with the whole family, with a full buffet of traditional dishes spread out before us: whole fish in coconut milk, cassava bread cooked in a lovo (earth oven), Fijian-style greens, and green mango chutney. When we returned to the boat, full and content, I remembered a message from our sailing friend (Paula, ahem), in which she had told me where to find this delicious Fijian cabbage. Since it was Sunday again and the villagers weren’t even allowed to pick vegetables from their own gardens (the Lord’s Day and all that…), I decided on the spot to set out on my own in search of the hidden “Garden of Eden.” And sure enough: Behind an abandoned little cottage that served as a storage shed for old, empty wine bottles (why? No idea), I discovered a small, overgrown garden. My thoughts of the Garden of Eden should have actually stopped me from just stealing… taking something. Well, what could possibly happen? I wasn’t Eve, and there wasn’t a snake in sight. So I cheekily picked a few green leaves and pressed them into Mirko’s hand. But then my bladder made itself known—still a whole dinghy ride away from the boat—and I decided to quickly pee in the bushes. A bad idea. Really bad: I promptly sat down in a burdock plant, whose prickly seeds immediately clung to my pants. At that moment, I would have loved to walk back to the boat bottomless—but I couldn’t risk a Fijian having a heart attack over a naked Palagi. Still: Every cabbage leaf was worth the little prick! At my request, we spent the last night on a small island called Yanuy Anukalou, better known as “Lonely Rooster Island.” Legend has it that an old man once lived there with his chickens. A few years ago, he died suddenly, leaving behind only a single white rooster. With a little imagination, you can picture it somewhat like Snow White: Feathers white as snow, a comb red as blood, and eyes black as ebony—except that Albert the First, as I named him, definitely didn’t fall into a deep sleep. His daily crowing, which could be heard all the way to the anchorage, proved just that. Albert has been living all alone on his small, water-surrounded island ever since. The sailing community has been called upon several times to bring him food in the form of organic scraps or coconuts, which he devours with relish. We, too, kept him company and brought him some cabbage. Maybe one day a local will stop by and bring him a suitable lady chicken (a sexy chick)—who knows… Beachwalk in Fulanga Exploring by SUP The First Wingfoil Experiments A Magical Underwater World An angelic melody in the church on Sunday The Show with the Mouse Our Visit to the School

Kandavu, Fiji — August 12 through September 3, 2025 After a few days in “civilization,” Mirko and I usually got fed up pretty quickly. Especially in Fiji’s larger villages, such as Denarau, or cities like Nadi, which are also teeming with tourists. Browsing in supermarkets, going to a restaurant, and eating ice cream—especially eating ice cream! —is nice, but as a sailor, you soon find yourself longing for the tranquility of a crystal-clear bay, the soft sound of the waves gently lapping around the bow, the crunch of sand underfoot, and above all, the serenity of the islanders, for whom the famous “Fiji Time” is second nature. To escape this urban hustle and bustle—incidentally, no European would ever call a Fijian city “hectic”—we took advantage of the next window of good weather and sailed to Kadavu, a group of islands south of Viti Levu. To our delight, Doris and Wolfi joined us, better known as the Sea Nomads (www.seenomaden.at). For them, Kadavu was still uncharted territory, even now, during their third circumnavigation of the globe. With a buddy boat, the whole thing is twice as much fun anyway! Plus, it doubles our chances of finally catching a delicious tuna or—even better—a mahi-mahi, which we’ve all been longing for. After a 19-hour sail, we reached the Great Astrolabe Reef early in the morning. It almost completely encircles Kadavu, which covers an area of about 478 km². The reef itself spans approximately 1,000 km² and is broken up by only a few passages. We steered through one of these passages toward the west side of Ono Island. By comparison, Australia’s Great Barrier Reef, at 344,400 km², is almost unimaginably larger—a difference like night and day. But that doesn’t mean there’s any less coral or fish diversity here. We dropped anchor in various bays of the idyllic archipelago. We stayed for a few nights in Nabouwalu Bay on the western side of Ono Island, met the first hospitable residents of Kadavu, and explored not only the underwater world but also the rural part of Ono on a hike across the island. Although we didn’t quite get to see the part of the island we’d originally had in mind—at some point we must have taken the wrong turn and followed a trail through the jungle—Marco, Ella, Dorika, and Lupo still enjoyed the change of pace from the touristy Port Denarau, where the heat radiates mercilessly off the concrete surfaces. Dorika? Lupo? Marco? Ella? Where on earth did those names come from? Well… in Fiji, there are sometimes these awkward moments. Here’s what happened: An overly friendly local woman greeted us at the dock after we’d reached her village by dinghy. With a warm smile, she shakes each of our hands in turn and asks our names. When Mirko gives his, two thoughtful wrinkles form between her eyebrows. He repeats it, but the big invisible question mark remains on her face. Then a beaming smile: “Aaaah. Marco! Bula! Nice to meet you!” That’s how it went in every village—no one could pronounce our names. At some point, Doris asked the legitimate question: Why do we even go through this every time when we could make it easier on ourselves? That’s how our “island names” were born. Dorika, in particular, brings even broader smiles to the locals’ faces—after all, her name suddenly sounds truly Fijian. Seven miles south of Nabouwalu, the worsening weather drove us into another beautiful bay, at the end of which lies the village of Naigoro, nestled among the more wildly overgrown mangroves. After the obligatory dinghy ride to the concrete pier to present the chief with the traditional gift during the sevusevu ceremony, one might almost think that the villagers were not only hiding behind the mangroves but also trying to use the muddy ground to shield themselves a little from strangers. Island villages are all similar and yet so different. In some, the kava we brought is accepted with reverence. In Naigoro, however, after a less-than-ceremonial handover to the chief, our kava was unceremoniously tossed around among the men in the community hall. Confused, Doris finally asked if it might be due to the quality—after all, Kadavu is known for having the best kava in the country, while ours came from the neighboring island of Vanua Levu. But the villagers waved it off, thanked us warmly for the large bundle of dried roots, and offered no further explanation. We suspect that the “tossing around” was a kind of quality check—poor-quality kava, cut with sawdust (yes, that happens), would simply crumble apart in the process. Mirko and I had already been to Kadavu last year, so we were really eager to visit a certain family again: Saiassi and his wife on Dravuni. Dravuni is one of the best-known villages in the archipelago because a cruise ship carrying thousands of tourists docks there every few months. On those days, “traditional village life” is staged: massages on every corner, hot dogs, cake, cold coconuts, beer, Fiji Water, and handmade accessories (mostly “Made in China,” of course) are sold at colorful stalls. On a perfectly ordinary Monday afternoon, however, things looked completely different. As we strolled through the village, Saiassi recognized us immediately—despite the crowds of tourists who had likely passed through the island over the past year. With a hearty “Oooh! Same girlfriend as last year!” he invited us onto his small wooden terrace, where I was finally able to enjoy one of his lime-leaf teas again—a drink we knew so well. During our three weeks in Kadavu, we not only rekindled old friendships but also made new ones. The Fijians really make it easy for you to do so. Between snorkeling trips, walks on the beach, shared dinners, or sundowners on the Nomad, the Yum Yum, or by the campfire on the beach, there was plenty of time to visit the villages and chat with the locals. Especially in the south, in Niudua, we felt immediately welcome—once we’d actually found the place. The path there led through dense mangroves. From our anchorage, the river mouth that served as the entrance would have been impossible to spot without satellite images or tips. We chugged up the river for fifteen minutes, with mangroves towering high on both sides, their green foliage glowing in the sun. Then we turned off, and through the thicket, the first huts of Jioma, the main village, came into view. A short walk further on, we finally reached Niudua, where a young man with a broad grin ran to meet us at the edge of the village: Bill. We spent the whole day with Bill, two other adults—Mantis and Tumanu—and the young Fijians Aron and Benny. We’d heard about a hike that was supposed to be challenging but beautiful and that led to a waterfall. Our new friends didn’t hesitate for a second and offered to accompany us. For two hours, we made our way along muddy jungle trails, over slippery rocks, and through a riverbed until we finally reached the well-hidden waterfall. We cooled off in the ice-cold swimming hole, shared our snacks, and then returned to the village, covered in mud and sweat. There, we sat down in the community hall to rest our feet—and, of course, to drink kava together. To make it, the root was first pounded by hand in a huge tree trunk that served as a mortar and mixed with water to form a brown brew that, in the end, looked just like the river water we’d struggled through…and that’s exactly what it tasted like: earth. Kava really doesn’t taste good—but it’s not really about the taste anyway; it’s about the ceremony, the community—and maybe a little bit about the numbing effect it has on your tongue and head. First, clap three times and accept the coconut shell… “Bula”… and drink… “Vinaka”… “Maca”… and clap again. And then the whole thing all over again. And a second round… and a third. Until the effects of the kava reach your brain and you feel a little dizzy and your tongue goes numb. Whether it was because of that or simply the excitement of the day—in any case, I fell into bed early and content. The three weeks on Kadavu flew by. Reuniting with old friends and making new ones made our time here especially precious. Every bay, every village, and every evening spent with the locals and/or the sea nomads showed us that sailing isn’t just about the sea and the wind—it’s above all about the people we meet. Kadavu may seem tiny compared to the big reefs, but it holds a huge place in our memories. And then there was … TYRP1 When you walk through one of the villages in Melanesia, as a Palagi (“white person”), you’re often met with curious stares from all sides. Most of those fawn-brown eyes belong to children with broad grins, deeply tanned skin, and dark brown hair. Sometimes, however, there is one among all these pretty children who also catches our eye: a young islander with dark skin and a head of bright blond curls. What to many looks at first glance like European influence actually has its origins in a unique genetic trait: a variant of the TYRP1 gene that occurs only here. It gives about one in ten children golden hair—completely independent of the genes responsible for blond hair in Europeans. Astrolabe Reef Part I Astrolabe Reef Part II Dinghy Ride Through the Mangroves to Niudua Coconuts? Sure, we'll have those in a minute. It's really easy! A Traditional Kava Ceremony Cassiopea (Upside-Down Jellyfish), Lionfish, and Other Creatures Who's slithering along there?

Tanna, Vanuatu — September 12–19, 2025 The time had come. As easy as it is to fall in love with Fiji—with its breathtaking scenery and friendly people—it’s all the harder to eventually leave this fascinating country behind. On the other hand, we were looking forward to embarking on a new adventure and discovering something new. Now things were getting exciting. After spending three days browsing the stores in Lautoka and Denarau and thoroughly restocking our supplies—who knew when we’d come across well-stocked shops again?—and taking a fantastic one-day hike to Mount Batilamu with the “sea nomads” Doris and Wolf in between, Mirko and I felt perfectly prepared for our next adventure. We wanted to take advantage of the upcoming weather window and sail to Vanuatu. “Vanu… what?” was the most common reaction I got when I told my friends and family where I was headed next. V-a-n-u-a-t-u. No, not Vanatu either, as even Mirko mispronounces it—even now, after the hundredth time. The archipelago is located in the South Pacific, about 200 nautical miles west of Fiji and just a short sail from New Caledonia. Vanuatu has been independent from the United Kingdom and France since 1980 and has been a parliamentary republic ever since. Vanuatu has a population of about 330,000 and consists of 80 islands, 65 of which are inhabited. Most of the islands have many small villages, each home to just a few families. In addition to English and French, there is another official language called Bislama. It’s a really funny language that sounds like a mix of “broken” English and French and is also known as “Pidgin English.” It is thanks to this that people from different parts of Vanuatu are able to communicate at all, because with no fewer than 110 different local languages, communication would otherwise be virtually impossible. Even on small islands that are only a few kilometers wide, each village speaks its own unique language, which often remains incomprehensible to the other residents. This fact makes Vanuatu one of the most linguistically diverse countries in the world. And there’s something else that makes it special: According to the Happy Planet Index, Vanuatu ranks among the happiest countries in the world—not because of wealth, but because of its zest for life, sense of community, and an impressively sustainable lifestyle. What many people don’t know (even if they’ve come across the name Vanuatu somewhere before): Vanuatu lies on the Pacific Ring of Fire and is therefore located in one of the most active tectonic zones on Earth. There are more than ten active volcanoes—including Mount Yasur on Tanna, Mount Benbow on Ambrym, and Mount Garet on Gaua—as well as several undersea volcanoes. Due to constant earthquakes and volcanic eruptions, the landscape is constantly changing. Some islands rise several meters after an eruption, while other areas sometimes sink below the water’s surface. As a sailor, you must therefore always keep a close eye on the depth sounder, whether during crossings or while anchoring, because Vanuatu occasionally holds unexpected surprises. For example, instead of the 60-meter water depth indicated on the nautical chart, we once found ourselves in only 15 meters of water—still enough, but a sign of just how much these seething giants influence the surrounding area. To sum it up, the four days and nights of our crossing went something like this: At first we had rough seas with high waves, then the ocean suddenly became almost too calm—no wind—so we had to start the engine, whose hum accompanied us for hours. The weather changed every hour: sun—rain—sun—rain—sun. Fortunately, the sunshine prevailed. We ate a lot of pasta with pesto—the typical crossing meal—and, to my delight, there were still leftovers from the birthday cake from Mirko’s special day, which we had celebrated back in Fiji. When dusk finally fell for the third time, the silhouette of the first island of this country, still completely unknown to us, came into view. Vanuatu lay before us. After three days and nights at sea, we reached Tanna—the start of our Vanuatu adventure. Als ich an besagtem Morgen aufstand, wusste ich gar nicht, wohin ich zuerst schauen sollte. Im Osten die orangefarbene Sonne, die ihre sonnenstrahlenförmigen Arme direkt aus dem Wasser in den wolkenlosen Himmel zu strecken schien – noch etwas verschlafen, fast gähnend. Und im Westen die Insel Tanna, auf der sich einer der aktivsten Vulkane Vanuatus erhebt: Mount Yasur. Sein ständig aufsteigender Rauch wirkte, als wolle er die tropische Insel in seinen aus dem Krater quellenden Schwaden einhüllen. Traces of great explorers can still be seen everywhere in Vanuatu. We anchored in Port Resolution—a bay that Captain Cook himself named after his ship when he first landed here in 1774, drawn by the red glow of the volcano, which was very active at the time. The bay lies directly within the caldera of Mount Yasur. Black beaches, small, scalding-hot springs, and wide rivers as warm as a bathtub that flow directly into the sea. Everywhere, bubbling, steaming holes from which smoke rises between the trees. Soft, iridescent volcanic rock that crumbles beneath your feet. A vast, open field of black ash where volcanic sand whips into your face like in the desert. And winding right through the middle is a small canyon carved out by the volcano itself. You’d think this strange, volcanic landscape would be exciting enough, right? It is, yes. Yet hidden within it all is a fascinating, completely foreign culture that’s entirely different from our own. It all began at the anchorage, where we were soon surrounded by a few outrigger canoes—small, slender canoes with a side-mounted outrigger. The curious passengers greeted us warmly but said nothing else, instead silently observing our boat. It wasn’t until later that we realized they were actually just waiting for more canoes to arrive so they could start fishing together using a large net. On our first walk through the village, we weren’t greeted with the usual enthusiasm we’d come to expect in Fiji, nor were we led to the chief for the sevusevu. The Ni-Vanuatu—as the traditional locals are called—tend to be rather reserved and shy at first. Here, they did greet us warmly with a “Halo,” but after briefly examining our pale skin, they went back to their daily business undisturbed: washing clothes in the freshwater lake (though “fresh” here refers only to the salt content, not to the clarity of the water), catching fish in the same lake (with a slight soapy taste—yummy), cooking in the cooking huts, entertaining a horde of children, building huts, or collecting coral sand from the beach for house construction. The islanders of Vanuatu mostly live in wooden huts on stilts, with walls made of padanuss mats and roofs woven from leaves—occasionally, a solar panel is even mounted on top. The center of the village is a large square, with one or more churches standing at its edge, from which several paths lead into the maze of houses. The paths are lined on both sides by tall, colorfully blooming hedges, in which small gaps appear here and there, revealing a cluster of houses—a sleeping hut, a cooking hut, an outhouse (toilet), and perhaps one or two other houses for other purposes. People usually visit Tanna for one very obvious reason: to climb Mount Yasur. The volcano, which even Captain Cook called the “Beacon of the Pacific,” is one of the most accessible active volcanoes on Earth—and it was also at the top of Mirko’s and my list. Through word of mouth, we came across Donovan while organizing the tour—a young local from a village near Port Resolution Bay. For a few years now, he’s been offering a hike through the villagers’ land to the volcano, where you then spend the night at its base. When we met, he invited us to have dinner with his family. Aside from the… um, “delight” (?) of unidentifiable meat, unsalted rice, and greens with breadfruit—it’s not about the food, but the company, right?—he told us that the money he earns from the tour goes directly toward a project to install a water pump for running fresh water in the village. Donovan believes that the large company that fenced off the volcano is depriving the locals of their land and their share of tourism revenue. That’s why he deliberately avoids the company. This stance has gotten him into trouble several times—he’s been arrested, but never convicted. So his approach can’t be entirely illegal, right? Convinced that we’d made the right decision in choosing Donovan, we set off one beautiful afternoon: Donovan, his wife Josline, and three boys between the ages of ten and 18 led our small group of six Tamtonga—the local word for “white people”—in single file through the lush jungle for a few hours. They provided us with fresh bananas and coconuts and stopped with us under a huge fig tree so we could swing over the underbrush with a vine, just like Tarzan. The undergrowth seemed almost peaceful until we suddenly felt a loud rumbling—both in our ears and in our limbs. It sounded as if waves were crashing against the reef. Were we near the ocean again? No—that was Mount Yasur’s first welcome! At that point, I had no idea that this was just a small taste of what was still to come. Two hours later, we left the narrow path—whose tall reeds had blocked our view of the surroundings—and stepped out onto a wide plain. Before us rose a massive, black-gray pile of rubble that rumbled from time to time: Mount Yasur. For at least 800 years, this little giant—barely 361 meters high—has been spewing glowing red, hot lava—and we were now standing right in front of it. Across an ash field flanked on the left and right by impressive, cliff-like lava tongues, we climbed another two hundred meters over porous, black scree and sand up to the smoking crater rim. Yes, we were actually just climbing a volcano like that! I could hardly believe it myself. The view from above of the black, red, green, and yellow landscape, which seemed to disappear into the endless blue of the sky in the distance, was breathtaking. Equally impressive was the view into the ash-colored crater of the volcano. Despite the cold wind and the biting air, which made me want to cry and cough at the same time, I couldn’t tear my gaze away from the glowing hole deep within the crater. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought this was the official entrance to hell. We’d been told that Yasur wasn’t very active at the moment, and we hadn’t really held out much hope of actually seeing lava. But when it rumbled for the first time and spewed glowing fragments into the air, an astonished “Woooooooow!” escaped my lips, while the others in the group were left speechless. What an experience! Although it was getting darker and colder, we stayed up there for at least an hour, fascinated and in awe of this force of nature. In moments like these, you realize just how small and insignificant you really are. Back at the campsite, we wound down the evening around the campfire, shared our provisions, and one of the young tour guides told us a story. Because of his broken English, none of us really understood it, but we all listened spellbound as we stared into the flames. Afterward, we barely slept. I can’t say whether it was because of the thin pandanus mat, through which every pebble could be felt against my back, the heavy plantains for dinner, or the loud rumbling of Yasur, which left me sitting upright in my tent—more fascinated than frightened—as I dozed off. Either way, Mirko and I got up before sunrise and climbed up to the crater once more to witness the Earth’s spectacle live one last time before we packed up the campsite and headed back. To put it in the words of a true Ni-Vanuatu: The experiences on Tanna were one of my “Nambawan” (Bislama for the English “Number One”) experiences in Vanuatu! Even today, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end with awe when I think about having experienced such a force of nature up close. Heading Toward the Volcano It was pretty windy Just... Woooow! At the top of the crater rim Hot springs right on the beach Steam was coming out of every nook and cranny

Vanuatu – September 19 through October 8, 2025 “Vanuatu? What a fascinating country! But aside from that underwater military dumping ground, there’s not much to do when it comes to snorkeling.” … “There are some really cool hikes, but you always need a guide—and of course, you have to pay for one. Sometimes you even have to pay just to drop anchor somewhere.” … “And then there’s that high diving, right? Wasn’t that Joko? Or Klaas from that TV show?” … “And those festivals with dancing and aardvarks? Though I don’t think they’re diving or celebrating at this time of year.” … “I’ve heard that the people of Vanuatu aren’t always particularly hospitable. And when they are nice, they often expect something in return.” If we had believed those claims, Vanuatu—to put it bluntly—would have been interesting, but also expensive—full of tourist traps. It’s surrounded by plenty of water, but there are no colorful reefs with cute little fish there, and to make matters worse, Mirko and I visited the country during the wrong season. Hmm. Still, we were there. Not just because it was practically on our sailing route to the Northern Hemisphere—no. But also because we’d decided to take a closer look at this new, unknown country that no one seemed to know anything specific about. At the very latest after I’d had a “fact-finding” conversation with Mr. Google (there’s actually something here even better than little colorful reef fish!) and we’d turned our stern away from Mount Yasur and the whole of Tanna, the spark of reservations about Vanuatu—which had been unintentionally attached to us like annoying barnacles on the hull—was wiped away with a quick flick of the wrist. (Oh, how nice it would be to clean the growth off the Yum Yum’s underwater hull just that easily.) One thing was clear from that point on: You have to take the time to form your own impression of a country and not let others influence you too much. It’s kind of funny when someone (= me) writes this—someone who basically pens travelogues about countries and their people to publish them—haha. So if you ever want to travel to Vanuatu, you can either stop reading now (not recommended) or interpret this article as a colorful canvas wildly splattered with brushstrokes (recommended). Essentially, a painting hanging in a gallery whose artistic intent is to tell a very personal story and inspire the viewer to paint their own picture. Period. But enough with the anecdotes for now. Our first stop after Tanna was Erromango. As we’d already experienced on other Pacific islands, we were greeted warmly here as well. That very evening, shortly after we’d anchored off Dillon’s Bay, an elderly local named David paddled his canoe over to the Yum Yum, greeted us warmly, handed us a few papayas and bananas, and invited us to come ashore the next day—it was clear from the start that he wouldn’t take no for an answer. His “invitation” included a tour of his hometown, a small tasting of typical Vanuatu dishes, and a coconut to drink that his wife had prepared especially for us. As in other island nations, the diet here in Vanuatu consists mainly of taro roots, cassava, bananas, yams, and papayas. Personally, I had of course hoped to find mangoes on Erromango as well—especially since we’d been sailing right around mango season the whole time. Of course, there were plenty of mango trees on the island, but the fruit on them—as I should have expected—wasn’t ripe enough yet. At that point, I didn’t know that a few weeks later, we’d barely be able to escape the vast quantities of mangoes being sold by the kilo at the markets—yay! After the island with a population of 4,000, our next stop—a few nautical miles further north—was a slightly more densely populated island: Efate. Here in Port Vila, the heavily damaged capital of Vanuatu, we picked up our crew: Miri, a 27-year-old German woman whom I had met about a year ago in Borneo. So for the next few weeks, the three of us were traveling together. Why was it destroyed? In December 2024, Port Vila was rocked by a severe earthquake. About 90 percent of the buildings were damaged—roughly 40 percent of them severely—and have since been dilapidated and uninhabitable. Many are still undergoing renovation today or have already been demolished. In some parts, the city seems downright ghostly and deserted. Honestly: I definitely ate the best mangoes of my life in Vanuatu. By the way, the locals eat them either like apples (bite into them, spit out the peel, and eat the flesh off the pit), like bananas (hold the bottom with one hand and peel the skin off from the top with the other), or simply nibble on them until only the dry pit remains. Aside from the devastating earthquake damage, Port Vila seemed to us like any other city in the Pacific: hot, dirty, noisy, and expensive. The latter, however, was probably—as is so often the case—our own fault, since, in addition to stocking up on groceries at the French-style, well-stocked supermarkets (oooh chocolate! yesss olive oil! wooow broccoli! mmmmh feta!—all imported, so expensive)—we also took advantage of the local scene and tried out every restaurant, café, bakery, and “ice cream shop”—aka the supermarket freezers, since these treats are usually off-limits to sailors on the (almost) deserted atolls and islets. Although we were apparently in Vanuatu during the “wrong” season, we still got to enjoy a festival. Unfortunately, it wasn’t one of the well-known cultural festivals, but—drumroll—a building dedication! Even from a distance, we could see the yellow-and-green flags proudly fluttering above the palm trees on the small island of Ifira, located off the coast of Port Vila, where the new government building was being opened. Although we had to do without the traditional dances, black magic, and high diving, we didn’t have to miss out on the feast. Even during the never-ending speeches—which were incomprehensible to us both linguistically and acoustically, but were surely very boring anyway—people dressed in the colors of Ifira scurried about, busily preparing meals or shifting impatiently back and forth on their plastic chairs while waiting for the food and for the traditional pig slaughter to begin. Pig killing takes place at nearly all cultural events in this country and is a huge spectacle. During the event, a pig is literally killed in front of everyone present. It has symbolic and ceremonial significance: traditions are preserved, ancestors are honored, and the community’s social cohesion is demonstrated. The pig is then cooked in an earthen oven and later eaten together. Fortunately, no pig was sacrificed before our eyes at Ifira (Captain’s note: “I would have liked to see that”). Instead, a group of men in traditional garb ceremonially carried about 20 pigs in decorated cages onto the stage. There, they were patted and honored by (apparently important) figures before being carried off the stage again, accompanied by singing and the rattling of coconut shells tied to the men’s ankles. Out of curiosity, we eventually slipped away from the ceremony—which had been going on for an hour and a half and consisted mainly of speeches and the constant carrying of pigs in and out—and watched the women and men preparing the food for the guests. The traditional earth ovens had been dug out, lined with hot stones, and filled at least a day before the celebration. When the cover of banana leaves was finally removed, vast quantities of huge pieces of meat came into view—as if the pig had simply been cut into five pieces and placed in the oven to cook. Beneath them were also several woven baskets filled with cassava, taro, and breadfruit. When the meal finally began, we tourists were immediately approached from several sides and asked about our preferences. Before we could even really answer, they brought us a whole tray full of meat and vegetables, affectionately ushered us over to the salad and side dish buffet, and poured us a green, cloudy broth from a bucket labeled “Wall Sealer”—kava! Since kava here in Vanuatu is made with fresh roots—rather than dried ones, as in Fiji—it’s considered one of the strongest brews in the Pacific. Of course, Mirko politely declined right away (“I have to drive the dinghy” was his excuse, since his stomach can’t handle this broth), while Miri and I could hardly wait to wash down the meat with a little “wall sealer.” Thanks to its spicy, fresh—and therefore less earthy—taste, I actually really liked it! After Port Vila and Ifira, we decided to make a few short crossings along Efate to gradually acclimate Miri to the open sea. First, along with about 200 land-based tourists, we marveled at the fire-swinging performers at the Friday night fire show in Mele Bay. Afterward, we anchored off Pele Island, a small island north of Efate. We walked along the beach, enjoyed the tranquility of the bay, and had dinner with our friends Doris and Wolf on the Nomad. We also took an idyllic hike through the jungle and tall grass on the neighboring island of Nguna—until, out of nowhere, just about 100 meters from our destination, a makeshift-looking fence blocked our path. Out of defiance, we sat down right in front of the wooden sign that read “No Trespas” (it was probably meant to say “No Trespassing”), ate our snack in front of the locals—who tried to charge us 2,000 vatu (15 euros) per person for the last stretch—and, this time on principle, let the drone take a few beautiful photos from above. There were about 60 nautical miles between Efate and Epi, our next sailing destination—and right halfway between them lay Cook Reef. Yes, Captain Cook’s. It’s slowly dawning on us: Your favorite pastime was probably sticking an English flag in every spot you came across and then naming everything after yourself (Cook Reef), your boat (Port Resolution), or something typically English (Maskelyne Islands, after Nevil Maskelyne, a British astronomer). Even Vanuatu was called “New Hebrides” before its independence. Captain Cook derived the name from the Hebrides in Scotland. The wind was strong that day, and Mirko wasn’t sure until just before we reached the reef whether it was a good idea to anchor on a small sandbar in the middle of the ocean with so many knots of wind—with only minimal protection from the reef, which was completely submerged. Not to mention paddling around in the little YY, our dinghy, swimming, and watching the little fish. But the rumor that this country wasn’t suitable for snorkeling—which was still lingering in the back of our minds—finally gave way to curiosity, and we dropped anchor deep into the sand—without any problems. With the anchor securely set in the sand, we set off on our first snorkeling adventure in Vanuatu—and it was amazing! The massive, interconnected coral formations provided a home for many marine creatures, both large and small: giant parrotfish, enormous groupers, reef sharks measuring one and a half meters, a species of stingray I hadn’t seen before (which, according to later research, turned out to be a cowtail ray), and an incredible variety of reef fish. Somehow, everything here seemed a little bigger than elsewhere—so much for it not being a snorkeling spot! During our journey through Vanuatu, it wasn’t just Cook Reef that surprised us with its diversity of healthy corals and fish. The rugged coasts of Epi, the steep anchorage off Ambrym, and other islands also had a wealth of marine life and plants to offer beneath the surface, in addition to eagle rays and turtles that gathered by the dozens around our boat at anchor. And I haven’t even gotten to the sea creature I mentioned at the beginning—the one that sparked immense delight not only in me, but also in Mirko and Miri. The best chance of encountering it is in the Maskelyne Islands, a cluster of many small islets northwest of Epi—and that’s exactly where we dropped anchor next to observe it up close. We didn’t have to paddle around in the water for long before we spotted them a few meters away. With a peculiar-looking yet somehow rhythmic motion, these two- to three-meter-long creatures moved through the water, leisurely going about their favorite activity: eating sea grass. Still, they were more agile than expected, and we had to be very patient and quiet so as not to startle them—especially not the mother with her baby. When I saw them for the first time, I just thought, “How cute! They’re chubby, gray, clumsy, big dolphins!” Well, have you figured it out yet? It’s nothing other than… mermaids! Okay, almost. Just imagine the human part gone, and ta-daaa—now you’ve got it right: they’re dugongs! Dugongs belong to the manatee family and are one of the last remaining species of this ancient group of mammals. They live in warm, shallow coastal waters and feed mainly on seagrass—up to 40 kilograms a day. That’s exactly why they’re often called the “gardeners of the seas,” because they keep the seagrass beds short and healthy. They can grow up to three meters long and weigh over 400 kilograms, but they move through the water surprisingly gently and quietly. They are very shy, sensitive to noise and engines, and quickly retreat when disturbed. They rarely have offspring, which is why dugongs are now considered endangered—so every encounter is something truly special. And then there were… …the little disasters on the high seas. Amid all the cultural adventures, I let the sailing aspect take a back seat—but quite a bit happened there, too. There were wonderful days of sailing when the wind filled our sails and we found ourselves in a little unofficial race against the SY Nomad time and again. At the same time, we—especially Mirko—aka captain, mechanic, electrician, plumber, and jack-of-all-trades—were kept busy by a few mishaps. Shortly before Erromango, the autopilot went haywire and made maneuvering difficult. Although it was turned off, it didn’t disengage properly from the steering mechanism. Mirko had to remove it at the anchorage, clean it, and repair it—which, fortunately, we were able to reach without any major problems. Next, in the Maskelyne Islands, the water pump broke down—yet again. Just like back in Tonga, the sensor that was supposed to respond to water pressure was broken. Fortunately, Mirko had already been so thrifty that a replacement part, cobbled together from various pumps, was available and could be installed. Last but not least, it was time to deal with the sail—or rather, the lazy bag. On the port side, a line snapped during a fast run just as we were trying to reef the mainsail, and the entire sail—which was normally neatly stowed in the bag—plopped out in a messy heap. Fortunately, this didn’t affect our trip—it just looked messy—and, unlike the water pump, it was quickly fixed. An Impressive Fire Show in Mele Bay How cute is this dugong? You can never get enough of it: The underwater world Snorkeling at a shipwreck off Ambrym