The Nerve-Wracking Voyage to Fiji
First things first: We all arrived safely in Fiji after a voyage of just under 12 days, though events unfolded in rapid succession. But let’s take it one step at a time.
One day after my four-year anniversary, the four of us set out on the 12- to 14-day voyage from Maupiti, French Polynesia, to Savusavu, Fiji. This time, we had two guys (ages 23 and 25) and a 48-year-old woman on board, all with no sailing experience. It’s not strictly necessary, since I can generally handle the boat on my own, but being alone is also boring. I explain the essentials and most important things “on the job,” and if anyone’s interested, I’m happy to go into more detail.
We set sail on Friday, June 10, 2022, under magnificent sailing conditions; we had good winds and even hoisted the Parasailor (a 140-square-meter gennaker). However, the very next morning we were met with relatively large waves, strong winds of 25 knots and more for hours on end, and overcast skies with a few passing squalls (rain showers that usually last 10 to 30 minutes and bring even stronger winds). Since we were sailing downwind, though, this was easily manageable. During the night, I had already noticed that the battery monitor (which tracks power consumption and battery voltage) had stopped working—not a big deal (though a bit odd), since I can check the battery voltage on the solar system’s charge controller. These days, all of this is done via an app. Compared to other night voyages, however, the voltage dropped relatively sharply on the very first night. I attributed this to the frequent use of the radar at night (to locate rain showers), the overcast weather during the day, and the low position of the sun, since winter has begun in the South Pacific.
On the second day, just before sunset, the chartplotter shuts off and the autopilot cuts out—bang! Suddenly, someone is at the helm, steering the Yum Yum by compass bearing. For those who aren’t familiar with sailing, it’s worth noting that the autopilot handles 99% of the work—and does it better than any human. Unfortunately, this also has its pitfalls. I notice that something on board is drawing an incredible amount of power, which explains my concern about why the battery voltage was so low. I run down to the saloon and turn off everything I can. Now it’s dark on the Yum Yum, since the sun has already set, and the “trial and error” process begins… I check the refrigerators, flipping a switch on and then off again… We quickly figure out that a device in the navigation console must be the cause, but which one? The chartplotter and autopilot are already off, so that leaves only the wind indicator and the depth sounder. I can’t figure it out; it’s driving me crazy. I decide to take a closer look at the autopilot and the chartplotter and head into the aft compartment, headfirst. It’s wobbling, so I unscrew this and that cable and pull on a few plugs. We find a cable that—even though it leads nowhere—is drawing an extremely high amount of current. We disconnect it, and everything works perfectly again. (So far, I haven’t figured out what kind of cable it is—a project for the coming days.) I wonder what the previous owner had rigged up there? I was already imagining having to steer by hand for the next 10 days. Lucky again—and this on just the second day of the crossing. Pure stress!
We spend the next day enjoying some wonderful genaker sailing; we’ve spotted another sailboat for the past three days (the only other boat on the crossing) and quickly chat with each other over the radio. For the night, we stow the genaker and hoist the genoa (also known as “butterfly” or “wing-on-wind” sailing), with the mainsail on one side and the headsail on the other. To give the headsail some stability, we use the spinnaker pole.
The night is peaceful, and thanks to strong winds, we’re covering good distance, just like the previous days. A beautiful sunrise greets me the next morning; the world seems so peaceful, far away from any civilization—until the Yum Yum surfs down a wave, just as she has done so often and confidently over the past few days. This time, however, the Yum Yum veers to starboard, accelerates, and practically turns into the wind. Bang! A loud crack rings out, and I quickly realize that the spinnaker pole has broken. It lies there like a broken toothpick, along with two shattered hatches. As I stand on the foredeck looking at this mess, however, I notice within seconds that the Yum Yum is steering in an extremely erratic and uncontrolled manner. I rush to the helm, press the “Standby” button, and take over the helm and control. The shock runs deep. As I steer by hand, I notice that the indicator on the display showing the rudder angle no longer moves, even though I’m turning the wheel. The display stays at four dashes on the port side. I press the “Auto” button, and the autopilot immediately steers to starboard; I quickly press “Standby” again and take control. I tried this a few more times, but with the same result. That’s probably why the Yum Yum veered off to starboard. I stand steady at the helm, a thousand thoughts racing through my mind—such as eight days of manual steering, an emergency stop at the still-closed Samoan islands, who on board I can ask to take the helm, and how many hours a day I can steer myself. In situations like this, I find myself longing for a normal office job again and getting frustrated that it’s the autopilot causing trouble yet again.
Left: The genoa is set with the spinnaker pole; unfortunately, the genoa isn't visible in the picture.
Right: It lies there like a toothpick.
I steer manually for a little while longer until I can think clearly again; I stand there, gazing into the distance—no one on board says a word, only the sound of the waves.
I head back into the galley to the autopilot control unit and disconnect the rudder reference. From now on, the autopilot works again, but as poorly as a drunk driver. The waves are simply too high to steer accurately without feedback from the rudder reference. This can’t go on. As I climb out of the storage compartment, a fishing line suddenly starts whirring—of all things! We’ve been fishing unsuccessfully for four days, and at the worst possible moment, one bites; no, seconds later, the second line starts whirring too. We reel in two 70-centimeter yellowfin tunas.
My thoughts continue to wander aimlessly until it occurs to me that I still have my old, discarded “broken” autopilot control unit on board (perhaps some of you still remember the report on the crossing from Ecuador to the Gambier Islands)—simply because I haven’t sent it back to Raymarine yet. I clear out box after box, pull out the already dusty part, and my crewmates install it while I’m back at the helm. We turn the navigation devices back on, and lo and behold, the autopilot is steering again—what a miracle! Who can figure that out?!
Fortunately, nothing particularly interesting happened after the fourth day, and the rest of the trip is quickly told. We cook, eat, sleep, and hope the autopilot keeps steering for a long time to come.
Unfortunately, we still ended up with three days of 3–4-meter waves, cross seas, and 25+ knots of wind for days on end. That’s what it feels like to sail in a washing machine—it’s anything but relaxing!
These days, too, were extremely draining for me—probably some of the worst of the past four years at sea, especially since they lasted so long. The tide was apparently so high that there was an urgent flood warning in Fiji.
Even though we had to sail without a spinnaker pole from then on—and at times used only the mainsail or just the genoa—we arrived in Fiji overjoyed after exactly 286 hours, 1,705 nautical miles, or just under 12 days.
There was one more surprise, though: just before we reached our destination, the GPS position switched from west to east for the first time since the Mediterranean. Am I on my way back now?
Now it’s time to recover from the hardships of what has turned out to be an unexpectedly difficult crossing and finally enjoy life again.
So what do I do now? Do I trust the old, refurbished autopilot? Do I look for another used model, since this one is no longer in production? Do I buy a newer one? That would mean I’d have to replace all my navigation instruments, and that would cost well into the four-digit range.
We’ll see.
Au revoir, Polynesia; Bula, Fiji!