Entering Bwagioa Harbour. Note the line of blue water outside!
The town itself has some several thousand inhabitants and to us a goodly number seemed to hang around the dusty town square and its tattered collection of retail and public edifices. A few years ago gold was discovered in nearby hills and for a time Misima’s fortunes soared before it all petered out leaving the locals with their yams, their huts in the forest, and church on Sunday. At least the Airport remained with two flights a week, although the recent crash, which shocked locals who rushed to the scene to hear the cries of those trapped inside, was now being transformed in local consciousness from aeronautical tragedy to an event where mythology and superstition now overrode the facts of the day pointing to pilot error. Typical of Misima is the cross-legged fact that the Arrival and Departure facilities come with no public conveniences. Given recent events, if you were flying in or out of Misima International, you might need them.
The main street of Misima. (Can see Calista anchored in the harbour at the end of the street.)
First impressions can hobble travellers, by creating a reticence that does not allow one to discover the gems that may lie hidden from view. Ask anyone who has travelled in India – if you have a soul and a thirst for adventure, you will probably arrive appalled and leave addicted. Moreover, it is not possible to explain such places and their allure to those who are cosseted in safe and predictable suburbia, and for who adventure and exotica is a 10 day stint on the Sun Princess. Misima is not Mumbai, and at first take it is steamy, seedy, down at heel but rescued by the beetle-nut smiles of its inhabitants. Forgive them for this dreadful addiction, and for the inaccuracy of the ruby spittle that is a result of this awful pastime. Misima, or to be more correct, Bwagoia Harbour is a reflection of this lamentable habit. Take a market setting, like the one just a stroll from the wharf. There you might find a delightfully presented lady surrounded by the fruits of her garden. Asking about her wares is to invite a smile, and what might have been a gleam to cap the image has become the corrosive and rusty disarray of a dental nightmare. To us it seemed that this affliction was like any other, like alcohol, or gambling, where the user becomes inured or indifferent to its effects. So in Misima, as in throughout the islands, women in markets chew at these vile nuts, men sit in desultory groups, dulled by its toxins, and kids line up to be just like their elders. It is the way of the world.
There is another addiction found locally that possibly eclipses the beetle. It is Spears. No not the long wooden variety used until recent generations in primary clan mediation and as a “dim dim” (the local term for white folk) repellent but another habit that ensures that not many souls in these parts reach what we know as old age. A “spear” is a cigarette, manufactured, but using newspaper print in lieu of a Tally Ho, much less a filter (a Google search for Spears / Cigarettes will disappoint unless you want to view a video of Britney Spears smoking). Their leverage was demonstrated by a fellow yachtie who had come ashore to fill some diesel containers at the local store. Some of these drums were 30 litres in volume, and just thinking about lugging them to the tender made one sweat. From his pocket, this seasoned voyager produced a packet of spears and proceed to waft them them, airily about. The impact was like waving a pilchard before a shoal of skipjack tuna. A group of local lads, lounging and loafing about but with a 10 per cent focus on what the dim dims were up to, were instantly galvanised! Raw boned youths, hitherto gripped by sloth, were now hoisting the containers aloft as if they were wafers, and making with them to the wharf as a rugby winger might make for the try line. An equitable distribution of Spears, and a couple tossed in for good measure, saw a task that might have occupied an hour or two of merciless toil in the heat of the afternoon, achieved in a trice, with rusty smiles all around. The only problem was the moral one - is it ok to give locals Spears, even though they crave them and give the giver the most elevated of status.
John the Quarantine man. For all this, it is still worth visiting Misima, although for ourselves there was the really practical need to find John the Quarantine Man, to have him stamp our passports to complete the formalities of clearing into PNG. Luckily for us, Bella and Derek were here on Pandana, had tracked John down and he was soon on board and for 50 kina (about A$25) we were official, approved and registered as a foreign ship plying PNG waters. Bella and Derek seem to have endless connections in the islands including, in Misima, a lovely local lady, Norah who they had lined up for us to do a load of ship’s washing, should we need it. Norah, who exuded more warmth than a tropical noon had soon wandered off into the forest with a bundle of our sub-optimal smalls, to return the next afternoon with all items sparkling, pressed and, yes, ironed, all for 15 Kina. We might smuggle Norah back home with us!
It being Saturday, we decided get some essentials done before heading for the big soccer game that afternoon, which was gripping local attention, as the footy finals do in Melbourne. There are three stores in Misima, with the offerings being modest and surprisingly expensive. How locals afford things is beyond us. Getting diesel proved to be an event in itself with one outlet being disrupted by a scuffle between two youths that soon drew a crowd, and the next having dispensing facilities a la Barton Bros Garage Port Elliot Circa 1956, where fuel is pumped from a drum to a glass header tank, and dispensed 5 litres at a time. Not a Subway outlet or Convenience Store in sight. Up the road the bakery was closed because there was no flour, and the Wespac Bank, in a dilapidated Atco Hut with faded signage, was providing not much more in services than shade for a mixed grill of local canines. The crew of Calista is embarrassed to admit that when in Townsville we went into the City Wespac to ask if the Misima Branch had an Auto Teller! As if!!
The Misima World Cup Soccer.
Further up the rise lay the Misima Guest House where an enquiry about evening dining led to a less than convincing response that saw us opt for A La Carte on Calista in preference. Nearby the sounds of rock music and cheering led us to the local equivalent of the “G”, where the Great Southern Stand under the banyan tree was brimming. The soccer game was a beauty, because the players threw themselves in as if there was no tomorrow, it was highly skilled and the resulting product for non round-ballers like ourselves was so much better than the dreary, mechanical stuff thrown up during this year’s World Cup. It was all attack, attack, attack – the ball, the player, anything goes. Nearby in the “Members” a reggae band was keeping the Marley dream alive, and the crowd was pulsing. You could easily become a regular at the soccer in Misima, although we left wondering what happened to the injured players when the game was played at such a cracking pace. No arthroscopic procedures and sports rehab here – you just go on through life with a limp.
Refuelling at the local store.
Back in the harbour we connected with Gus and Gabby Lockhart, Aussies off the yacht Pampero who had just arrived after a seaborne odyssey from Langkawi, Thailand. It was Gus’s 59th birthday, and in spite of sail-lag they invited us over for a meal and refreshments that went well into the night. We had been listening to their progress through the islands via “Shiela Net”, the daily HF Radio Sked, set up by and for yachties cruising waters to the NE of Australia, and now we got to hear of their travels, first hand. Apart from some wonderful experiences in remote islands, their voyage had been a hard one with consistent head winds making their 4700 nm passage from Siam a wearing slog. One of the marvellous things about our life at sea has been the wonderful people that we have met along the way. We may be ships that pass, but personal connections are created that enrich, and linger, to add so much to the experience.
Next morning with the crew of Pampero in a well earned slumber, we slid past and out of the harbour and set sail on the 21 nm from Misima Island to Kamatal Lagoon on the NW fringe of the Louisiade Archipelago. There is a long held marine superstition that warns against whistling on board, and especially at the helm, in the belief that this practice can bring on gales. Maybe this extends to the crew waxing positive about weather and conditions, for not far out of Bwagoia we at last had a fair breeze on the beam and for once we were bowling along at 6-7 knots under reefed main and modest headsail. Calista was beautifully balanced, the helm was feather light and relaxing in the cockpit like this, with the forest-cloaked highlands of Misima receding was about as good as it gets. All was forgiven.
This lotus-land sail was not due to last however, as a dark smudge of cloud on the horizon to the east soon marched toward us, growing into a malevolent curtain; a portent of a tropical squall approaching that soon had us reefing sail and scurrying for foul weather gear. White sheets of rain on the sea and spindrifts lifting spray were the handmaidens of this nasty little system, and after 10 minutes in a blender of rain and wind, we were glad to be rid of it and see the islands leading to Kamatal lagoon lying ahead. The northern approach to Kamatal is a narrow corridor of deep water which is tracked until the reef bears away to starboard, leading to the twin wine-glass lagoons of the anchorages, surrounded by coral, with the island curving to the north. As we edged toward the corridor, two things became apparent: that an out flowing current was making the passage boil, and that another line squall was nearly upon us from the SE. We hoped to get in to safe waters through the reefs before the tempest, but visibility did not aid a rapid passage, and although we could see Pandana about 600m away, securely at anchor, getting there was another question.
Further up the rise lay the Misima Guest House where an enquiry about evening dining led to a less than convincing response that saw us opt for A La Carte on Calista in preference. Nearby the sounds of rock music and cheering led us to the local equivalent of the “G”, where the Great Southern Stand under the banyan tree was brimming. The soccer game was a beauty, because the players threw themselves in as if there was no tomorrow, it was highly skilled and the resulting product for non round-ballers like ourselves was so much better than the dreary, mechanical stuff thrown up during this year’s World Cup. It was all attack, attack, attack – the ball, the player, anything goes. Nearby in the “Members” a reggae band was keeping the Marley dream alive, and the crowd was pulsing. You could easily become a regular at the soccer in Misima, although we left wondering what happened to the injured players when the game was played at such a cracking pace. No arthroscopic procedures and sports rehab here – you just go on through life with a limp.
Refuelling at the local store.Back in the harbour we connected with Gus and Gabby Lockhart, Aussies off the yacht Pampero who had just arrived after a seaborne odyssey from Langkawi, Thailand. It was Gus’s 59th birthday, and in spite of sail-lag they invited us over for a meal and refreshments that went well into the night. We had been listening to their progress through the islands via “Shiela Net”, the daily HF Radio Sked, set up by and for yachties cruising waters to the NE of Australia, and now we got to hear of their travels, first hand. Apart from some wonderful experiences in remote islands, their voyage had been a hard one with consistent head winds making their 4700 nm passage from Siam a wearing slog. One of the marvellous things about our life at sea has been the wonderful people that we have met along the way. We may be ships that pass, but personal connections are created that enrich, and linger, to add so much to the experience.
Next morning with the crew of Pampero in a well earned slumber, we slid past and out of the harbour and set sail on the 21 nm from Misima Island to Kamatal Lagoon on the NW fringe of the Louisiade Archipelago. There is a long held marine superstition that warns against whistling on board, and especially at the helm, in the belief that this practice can bring on gales. Maybe this extends to the crew waxing positive about weather and conditions, for not far out of Bwagoia we at last had a fair breeze on the beam and for once we were bowling along at 6-7 knots under reefed main and modest headsail. Calista was beautifully balanced, the helm was feather light and relaxing in the cockpit like this, with the forest-cloaked highlands of Misima receding was about as good as it gets. All was forgiven.
This lotus-land sail was not due to last however, as a dark smudge of cloud on the horizon to the east soon marched toward us, growing into a malevolent curtain; a portent of a tropical squall approaching that soon had us reefing sail and scurrying for foul weather gear. White sheets of rain on the sea and spindrifts lifting spray were the handmaidens of this nasty little system, and after 10 minutes in a blender of rain and wind, we were glad to be rid of it and see the islands leading to Kamatal lagoon lying ahead. The northern approach to Kamatal is a narrow corridor of deep water which is tracked until the reef bears away to starboard, leading to the twin wine-glass lagoons of the anchorages, surrounded by coral, with the island curving to the north. As we edged toward the corridor, two things became apparent: that an out flowing current was making the passage boil, and that another line squall was nearly upon us from the SE. We hoped to get in to safe waters through the reefs before the tempest, but visibility did not aid a rapid passage, and although we could see Pandana about 600m away, securely at anchor, getting there was another question.
Pandana at anchor in Kamatal Lagoon. Barely visible the day before in the squall!
When it hit, the squall brought whipping winds and torrents of rain that reduced visibility to no more than a few metres, leaving us feeling distinctly vulnerable, with no landmarks to keep us in the clear. With the current sweeping us there was only one safe thing to do; bring our chart plotter in to its closest scale and follow our line back out of the corridor to safe waters beyond the reefs. If we came in safely, it was time to exit on the same path until we could get some visibility. There was something else concerning us apart from the squalls; it was the motor, which was sounding a little “different” although a quick visual check in amongst everything else did not reveal anything catastrophic. Having extolled the virtues of our crucial power plant in an earlier blog, had we tempted fate by whistling at the helm?
Feeling edgy based on recent experience, and with dull skies making reef visibility questionable, we placed a VHF call to Pandana so that they might direct us in. Derek went one better and kindly opted to duck out in his tender to guide us around the reefs. In the end, once we were part way in, the rest was obvious and we were soon nodding at anchor in Kamatal’s splendid western lagoon. With more rain squalls forming in the east, we were happy that with our anchor in sand and plenty of chain laid out, we could safely go below. Later that afternoon we went ashore to explore the small island of Kamatal and to meet members of Jimmy A’s family who live a Robinson Crusoe life on this patch of paradise. Jimmy was not due to return until the next day from a trading mission in islands to the east. Yachties have established a “Kamatal Yacht Club” on the island, an open-air thatched shelter with a table setting and a book swapping service (!). Another line of ominous clouds had us scurrying back on board where Cookie’s evening diary recorded tartly that “we are over rain squalls!”
The turquoise waters of Kamatal lagoon.
The morn broke clear and we emerged out on deck to a scene of breathtaking beauty. Calista was suspended in aquamarine and the array of colours on the surrounding, reefs was worth the journey to see. Tropical fish swarmed around us, canny creatures that showed no inclination to leave their home in the sun for our griddle! Bella and Derek were already snorkelling over nearby “bommies”, before departing to complete their Customs formalities at Pana Pom Pom. We decided to take the advice of young Joseph ashore and snorkel the coral shelf and drop-off on the NW side of Kamatal, and in doing so we were royally rewarded. The sea creatures and corals were simply spectacular, giving the snorkeller the option to cruise the shallows or venturing to the drop-off where the swarming fish and display of coral types – including delicate soft corals and the singular beauty of russet fan corals – held us in rapture. Over the edge the reef plunged into the magenta depths, and strain our eyes as we did, what lay beyond would remain a mystery. Even the graceful swim-by of a black tipped shark seemed perfectly in order although we were wary of larger examples of related species, namely whalers, and tiger sharks, that also call these waters home. To be able to wade out and snorkel over such a marine masterpiece, by ourselves, and see it as we please, in such a remote part of the world was an experience not to be forgotten. Little wonder we were back for a repeat the next day!
When it hit, the squall brought whipping winds and torrents of rain that reduced visibility to no more than a few metres, leaving us feeling distinctly vulnerable, with no landmarks to keep us in the clear. With the current sweeping us there was only one safe thing to do; bring our chart plotter in to its closest scale and follow our line back out of the corridor to safe waters beyond the reefs. If we came in safely, it was time to exit on the same path until we could get some visibility. There was something else concerning us apart from the squalls; it was the motor, which was sounding a little “different” although a quick visual check in amongst everything else did not reveal anything catastrophic. Having extolled the virtues of our crucial power plant in an earlier blog, had we tempted fate by whistling at the helm?
Feeling edgy based on recent experience, and with dull skies making reef visibility questionable, we placed a VHF call to Pandana so that they might direct us in. Derek went one better and kindly opted to duck out in his tender to guide us around the reefs. In the end, once we were part way in, the rest was obvious and we were soon nodding at anchor in Kamatal’s splendid western lagoon. With more rain squalls forming in the east, we were happy that with our anchor in sand and plenty of chain laid out, we could safely go below. Later that afternoon we went ashore to explore the small island of Kamatal and to meet members of Jimmy A’s family who live a Robinson Crusoe life on this patch of paradise. Jimmy was not due to return until the next day from a trading mission in islands to the east. Yachties have established a “Kamatal Yacht Club” on the island, an open-air thatched shelter with a table setting and a book swapping service (!). Another line of ominous clouds had us scurrying back on board where Cookie’s evening diary recorded tartly that “we are over rain squalls!”
The turquoise waters of Kamatal lagoon.The morn broke clear and we emerged out on deck to a scene of breathtaking beauty. Calista was suspended in aquamarine and the array of colours on the surrounding, reefs was worth the journey to see. Tropical fish swarmed around us, canny creatures that showed no inclination to leave their home in the sun for our griddle! Bella and Derek were already snorkelling over nearby “bommies”, before departing to complete their Customs formalities at Pana Pom Pom. We decided to take the advice of young Joseph ashore and snorkel the coral shelf and drop-off on the NW side of Kamatal, and in doing so we were royally rewarded. The sea creatures and corals were simply spectacular, giving the snorkeller the option to cruise the shallows or venturing to the drop-off where the swarming fish and display of coral types – including delicate soft corals and the singular beauty of russet fan corals – held us in rapture. Over the edge the reef plunged into the magenta depths, and strain our eyes as we did, what lay beyond would remain a mystery. Even the graceful swim-by of a black tipped shark seemed perfectly in order although we were wary of larger examples of related species, namely whalers, and tiger sharks, that also call these waters home. To be able to wade out and snorkel over such a marine masterpiece, by ourselves, and see it as we please, in such a remote part of the world was an experience not to be forgotten. Little wonder we were back for a repeat the next day!
Beautiful underwater gardens.
Back on board Cecily and Kaylene from Kamatal came out to trade and young Joseph presented us with his first carving effort, a seahorse, that admittedly we needed some assistance in species identification. He also insisted that we take a marvellous bailer shell, so named for the purpose that its moniker suggests, that has now become a principal in the ship’s ever expanding shell collection. Joseph left us beaming with a pair of shorts and a peaked cap to encourage his endeavours. Cecily and Kaylene had a marvellous time selecting bracelets from Cookie’s hand-crafted selections. Items of feminine adornment are in short supply on Kamatal and their maroon smiles - remember the beetle nut – said it all. Later a lateen sail and some nifty work with tacking and gibing heralded the return of Jimmy, and the opportunity to meet other members of his family, including David, another Joseph and Lemere. As on Wari with Roger’s family, it took a while to figure out just how everybody was connected, let alone who owned the little kids frolicking naked, like ebony otters on the shore.
Locals Lemeke, Joseph, and his little brother and my bailer shell and seahorse carving.
The gregarious Jimmy announced that he wished to join us on board for the morning Sked where we report our location and intentions on Shiela Net. He particularly wanted to connect with his good friend Chris, on Lady Bubbly who we had heard in final preparations to depart from Cairns. We had met Chris at Pana Bobai Ana on our Andante trip here where he and a group of resolute locals had rescued the yacht Quintessence, after it had fetched up on the surrounding reef on arrival from Australia. What an incredible rescue effort that had been! Next morning Jimmy was on cue for the 0800 sked and although Chris was unavailable we raised Louisiade Rally Coordinator Guy Chester who has for the last couple of years arranged a sojourn in the tropics for a group of 20 or so yachts from Cairns and who intended to bring the floating cavalcade to Kamatal in a week or two. Jimmy was keen to confirm the date of the rally arrival, as it was a really big event, not only for Kamatal, but for all of the islands that it visited. Then, getting to the point, he had one demand for Guy – “don’t forget the spears!” We felt for Guy at this point: what does he do, give in to Jimmy’s strident request and risk “bad press” for the rally, when the rally promotes itself as a fundraiser for community health projects? Not an easy path to step
Ready to visit Aba Evara Island. ( In the background across the lagoon.)
The gregarious Jimmy announced that he wished to join us on board for the morning Sked where we report our location and intentions on Shiela Net. He particularly wanted to connect with his good friend Chris, on Lady Bubbly who we had heard in final preparations to depart from Cairns. We had met Chris at Pana Bobai Ana on our Andante trip here where he and a group of resolute locals had rescued the yacht Quintessence, after it had fetched up on the surrounding reef on arrival from Australia. What an incredible rescue effort that had been! Next morning Jimmy was on cue for the 0800 sked and although Chris was unavailable we raised Louisiade Rally Coordinator Guy Chester who has for the last couple of years arranged a sojourn in the tropics for a group of 20 or so yachts from Cairns and who intended to bring the floating cavalcade to Kamatal in a week or two. Jimmy was keen to confirm the date of the rally arrival, as it was a really big event, not only for Kamatal, but for all of the islands that it visited. Then, getting to the point, he had one demand for Guy – “don’t forget the spears!” We felt for Guy at this point: what does he do, give in to Jimmy’s strident request and risk “bad press” for the rally, when the rally promotes itself as a fundraiser for community health projects? Not an easy path to step
Ready to visit Aba Evara Island. ( In the background across the lagoon.)We had resolved to test our little 2hp duck motor by making a morning visit across the passage to nearby Aba Evara Island, having a last snorkel in Kamatal Lagoon, going ashore to bid farewell to Jimmy and family before heading for Gilia Island, some 10nm away in the Calvados Group, the start of the “Louisiades” proper. The visit to Aba Evara came as a result of “glassing” it from our anchorage. It was the quintessential tropic isle, white sand, coconut palms, fringing reef, uninhabited, and walk-around in under an hour. A visit there would pacify our curiosity and explorative genes. Besides, you never know what you might see or find. Soon we were off: our small rubber ship on a broad ocean. Actually getting ashore on Evara proved to be a bit tricky given the surrounding reefs, and we found that a circumnavigation took no time at all, and apart from putting a surprised sea eagle to flight, there were no treasures to lug home and the lush undergrowth meant that our visitation was confined to the sandy fringe. We noted that the tidal run was building between Evara and Kamatal so we beat a puttering retreat and enjoyed a truly splendid snorkel of the lagoon, before heading ashore for farewells.
The Kamatal Yacht Club. Jim in the centre and his brother & brother in law.
Local kids climbing on Jim's sailing boat.On Kamatal our little friend Joseph, emboldened by hid first carving sale had embarked on Seahorse #2 and in the process had mis-cued with his machete, leaving a dreadful gash on his foot. We have seen some awful cases of ulcerated wounds in the islands; one on Wari had eaten a hole into a young man’s foot over five years of agony and had left him severely debilitated. For Joseph the absence of First Aid facilities on Kamatal had us returning to draw upon Calista’s medical supplies before cleaning and dressing the wound, knowing that the arrival of the Rally boats would provide a follow up within a few days. We could but hope.
Joseph and the killer machette!After farewells, we were set to raise anchor, bound for Gilia when a cry rang out from the helm. The motor had started but wreaths of pale smoke were issuing from the exhaust, and it was immediately apparent that there was something seriously wrong. A shutdown and close inspection soon revealed the source of the problem. Water! Not where it should be, in the cooling system, but where it should not be, in the diesel. Both of our CAV filters, designed to protect our fuel system from water and impurities, were full and it was clear that our entire fuel system had been compromised. Evidence pointed to seawater entering our fuel system in the heavy seas encountered in recent days, and that in switching between fuel tanks we had unwittingly opened a tank that had suffered inflow of water. The culprit it seemed was our three deck mounted fuel “breathers’ which were installed as part of the new motor project back in SA. Somehow, this system had failed. This was very serious indeed.
It was obvious that we needed to bleed and drain all the fuel lines, clean and replace the fuel filters and check the three fuel tanks for water ingress. Luckily we had some spare bottles and an empty oil container to collect the spoiled fuel. Lucky, too, that we decided to purchase a 6 litre vacum pump before we left home, because, now, how else could we draw fluid from the bottom of the cabin sole fuel tank through its reed-thickness dipping port? All these things lay-persons like us, armed with an owner’s manual, Nigel Calder’s guide to marine diesels and a dose of necessity could achieve. Still the motor ran horribly and the smoke was as thick as boarding house custard. We also called Paul our mechanic, via satphone, who confirmed the above processes before spelling out the point by point steps whereby we should dismantle the fuel injection system and the delivery system to the injectors. Lucky we had stretched to buy a satphone before leaving home, although the service bounced through the ionosphere and dropped out at critical points. We felt like the station boss in the outback who is faced with a collapsed stockman with a cerebral injury, and reaches a neurosurgeon in Melbourne via pedal radio who gives instructions about what to do next. “Take a brace and 5/16bit” proclaims the surgeon, “and find a place about 3 in behind the left ear. Just drill there (!). Don’t be afraid (!). When you get inside, you’ll see the parietal and occipital lobes to starboard (the Neuro is a sailor!), and the sensorimotor area to port. Just watch out for the big red tube nearby – try to miss it. Radio us back when you have done this (!!)” For us we emerged from the engine bay, besmirched with diesel and bathed in sweat, but defeated because we had no 19 mil socket spanner to undo the final nuts on the injector pump. Our set was one size short! On dusk, Jimmy paddled out, concerned that we might have our anchor stuck. If only! We figured that we could do nothing until the morning Shiela Net sked where we would put out a call for a passing yacht that might have the tool that we needed. There was little sleep that night on board Calista.
A crippled Calista in Paradise. (Photo taken from partway up Mojo's mast on their way in.)Early next morning Jimmy and David came out in support and our sked request, thankfully, soon had Kel and crew on Mojo setting sail from Pana Pom Pom to lend a hand. Thank heaven for Shiela Net! We felt like the cavalry was on the way. In the meantime, Jimmy brought out a container and we proceeded to suck fuel from the tanks to remove any water. Our first “draw” from the starboard saddle tank filled a 750 ml bottle with half fuel, half water! We had a long way to go. The arrival of Mojo in mid-afternoon lifted our spirits, and soon an errant injector was identified, but its intricate nozzle meant that without precision equipment or a replacement spray mechanism, there was little that we could do. Still the smoke streamed from our crippled ship. The wonderful Helga on Mojo had us across for a seafood curry that evening, and their support in our plight was priceless.
Kel and Chris from Mojo and some local helpers trying to fix our motor.
Next morning a report on our situation on Shiela Net drew a response from Paul and Chris on Insatiable who were anchored, as it turned out, at Gilia Island, our original destination. Paul who came from a strong boat building background in Bundaberg, had recently installed his own Yanmar and thought that he could have a spare injector, or nozzle at least on board. Maybe we would be lucky, because running our motor with a defective injector could cause long-term damage. It was worth a risk to motor quietly out of Kamatal and sail to Gilia, and a couple of hours of agreeable sailing later we were anchored there with a plan that Paul would come on board early the next day to see if we could solve our problem. Just meeting Paul and Chris Taylor was a bonus, for this wonderful couple was on their way to Gigila Island for the opening of a new school, thanks to their stellar efforts and a personal campaign to raise the necessary $30,000 over the last two years (see cruise-aiders.com/school project for this heart warming story). Talk about yachties behaving grandly! To cap it off they knew our old friends Fred and Audrey Green really well from their nautical connections in Bundaberg (see Bundaberg Blog), proving once again what a remarkably small world it is that we live in.
The anchorage at Gilia Island. We didn't even go ashore.
If our hopes of salvation had been raised, they were soon dashed by the reality that Insatiable’s motor was a 4JH4, ours was a 3JH4, and yes, the injectors were incompatible. More calls to Paul, our mechanic, saw us re-examining the injector pump, and cleaning the parts of the injector that we could reach. Then in attempting to re-bleed the fuel lines to test the motor, we found air in the system and the motor would not fire. The lever on the manual lift pump was troublesome and when we next attempted to start…BANG! Something catastrophic had happened within the motor and our situation had become dire. Paul suggested turning the motor by hand with the injectors out and ….gloosh!... out of the ports came a revolting squirt of diesel, oil, and seawater. Somehow water had back-flowed from the exhaust into the motor and it had seized. It would not fully turn over by hand, even with force and nothing would free it. Our new motor was drowned and disabled, and our dream voyage to the Louisiades, two years in the planning was over. Just like that…OVER! Paul and Chris came over and having faced but retrieved a similar situation two years earlier they were distraught, for there was nothing that any of us could do.
The rest was a surreal haze of gut-wrenching disbelief. Surely this could not be happening? Surely there was something that we could do? Surely, surely, surely! Tell us it is not true. Tell us that tomorrow we can head for Blue Lagoon, to plunge in its emerald waters. Tell us that Pana Numara, Gigilia, and the school opening, Wanim, Sabra, and all the rest are still there for us to explore. Tell us that we can still go ashore here and search for Calista’s name carved in a coconut tree by Bella and Derek a few years ago. We want to see that. And what of Panasia our dream island in the sun? Tell us that these islands and our friends afloat are still there too. Tell us that this reality is not so.
Just as surely, however the awful truth had to be faced. Our motor and our voyage here were finished. Now we faced the unthinkable, of sailing back to Townsville; leaving in the morning, and sailing alone across the Coral Sea – with NO MOTOR.
Apart from tears, there was little else to do, and soon Cookie was emerging with bags and bundles of things that had shared our sea-voyage from South Australia. These were our trade items and our giveaways – clothes, books, pens, pencils, fishing lines, caps, stamps – the smiley face and nemo ones that make kids beam – and a hundred or so bracelets, hand-made by Cookie for the Cecilies and Kaylenes of the Louisiades. To see them smile at simple gifts of friendship would have been worth the hours that it had taken to make them. Now she handed them over with no fuss, just like that. I knew what it had taken to make them, and now they were gone. Just gone, just like that.
Alby and his son Roger (namesake Cookie's dad) in their gardens on Ware Island. Note the pumpkin plants!
Many islands on the horizon yet to be visited....our dreams unfulfilled!
For us we were too numb to eat, too gutted to talk and too bewildered to do anything but pack up our tools, cover up the motor as one would a deceased, before checking how the weather might unfold over the next few days that we would be alone, out on the Coral Sea. The Coral Sea, ALONE!
Next morning a report on our situation on Shiela Net drew a response from Paul and Chris on Insatiable who were anchored, as it turned out, at Gilia Island, our original destination. Paul who came from a strong boat building background in Bundaberg, had recently installed his own Yanmar and thought that he could have a spare injector, or nozzle at least on board. Maybe we would be lucky, because running our motor with a defective injector could cause long-term damage. It was worth a risk to motor quietly out of Kamatal and sail to Gilia, and a couple of hours of agreeable sailing later we were anchored there with a plan that Paul would come on board early the next day to see if we could solve our problem. Just meeting Paul and Chris Taylor was a bonus, for this wonderful couple was on their way to Gigila Island for the opening of a new school, thanks to their stellar efforts and a personal campaign to raise the necessary $30,000 over the last two years (see cruise-aiders.com/school project for this heart warming story). Talk about yachties behaving grandly! To cap it off they knew our old friends Fred and Audrey Green really well from their nautical connections in Bundaberg (see Bundaberg Blog), proving once again what a remarkably small world it is that we live in.
The anchorage at Gilia Island. We didn't even go ashore.If our hopes of salvation had been raised, they were soon dashed by the reality that Insatiable’s motor was a 4JH4, ours was a 3JH4, and yes, the injectors were incompatible. More calls to Paul, our mechanic, saw us re-examining the injector pump, and cleaning the parts of the injector that we could reach. Then in attempting to re-bleed the fuel lines to test the motor, we found air in the system and the motor would not fire. The lever on the manual lift pump was troublesome and when we next attempted to start…BANG! Something catastrophic had happened within the motor and our situation had become dire. Paul suggested turning the motor by hand with the injectors out and ….gloosh!... out of the ports came a revolting squirt of diesel, oil, and seawater. Somehow water had back-flowed from the exhaust into the motor and it had seized. It would not fully turn over by hand, even with force and nothing would free it. Our new motor was drowned and disabled, and our dream voyage to the Louisiades, two years in the planning was over. Just like that…OVER! Paul and Chris came over and having faced but retrieved a similar situation two years earlier they were distraught, for there was nothing that any of us could do.
The rest was a surreal haze of gut-wrenching disbelief. Surely this could not be happening? Surely there was something that we could do? Surely, surely, surely! Tell us it is not true. Tell us that tomorrow we can head for Blue Lagoon, to plunge in its emerald waters. Tell us that Pana Numara, Gigilia, and the school opening, Wanim, Sabra, and all the rest are still there for us to explore. Tell us that we can still go ashore here and search for Calista’s name carved in a coconut tree by Bella and Derek a few years ago. We want to see that. And what of Panasia our dream island in the sun? Tell us that these islands and our friends afloat are still there too. Tell us that this reality is not so.
Just as surely, however the awful truth had to be faced. Our motor and our voyage here were finished. Now we faced the unthinkable, of sailing back to Townsville; leaving in the morning, and sailing alone across the Coral Sea – with NO MOTOR.
Apart from tears, there was little else to do, and soon Cookie was emerging with bags and bundles of things that had shared our sea-voyage from South Australia. These were our trade items and our giveaways – clothes, books, pens, pencils, fishing lines, caps, stamps – the smiley face and nemo ones that make kids beam – and a hundred or so bracelets, hand-made by Cookie for the Cecilies and Kaylenes of the Louisiades. To see them smile at simple gifts of friendship would have been worth the hours that it had taken to make them. Now she handed them over with no fuss, just like that. I knew what it had taken to make them, and now they were gone. Just gone, just like that.
Alby and his son Roger (namesake Cookie's dad) in their gardens on Ware Island. Note the pumpkin plants!The last thing to go was Alby’s pumpkin. Alby is Roger’s dad on Wari, “Cookie’s” grandpa (see Wari Blog and Cookie pic). Who could forget Alby and his infectious smile, and Alby declaring “I’m Alby Kilo….don’t weigh much, just a Kilo”. We would never forget the day that Roger took us to the other end of Wari to see Alby in his garden. We had given our last butternut to Alby and Alby returned a prize from his garden. We were saving it for a special occasion, and now it was going; just like that. The only consolation was that these things were going with Chris and Paul, people whose spirit of giving we richly admired. These things could not have been in better hands.
Many islands on the horizon yet to be visited....our dreams unfulfilled!For us we were too numb to eat, too gutted to talk and too bewildered to do anything but pack up our tools, cover up the motor as one would a deceased, before checking how the weather might unfold over the next few days that we would be alone, out on the Coral Sea. The Coral Sea, ALONE!
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