On the Verge of Being in Control

The kite gently moves back and forth
propelling me on top of the water.
I flatten my board and play with the waves.
Sheeting in with a power stroke, I lean farther back,
my body almost parallel to the water.
A bigger wave comes.
I fall.
The kite barely stays in the sky,
the wall of water desynchronizing the perfect balance of board, kite and body. A bigger power stroke,
I am above the water, rapidly picking up speed.
Piling on more force,
I start to catch back up to my brother,
slowly gaining on him as I come out of the shadow of a cloud. 7/2/18 Devon Baker-Berry

We arrived at Nananu-i-Rah around midday and organized kiteboarding gear first thing. On our quick anchorage hop we had seen a beach on a motu upwind of kite point that might be suitable for a kite launch. On the dinghy ride to the motu everyone got thoroughly soaked and cold. When we reached the miniature island, we found, as I had guessed before the thorough soaking and subsequent freezing wind, it was surrounded by coral! We virtually flew back to our usual launch spot, a beach at the tip of a small island that extended toward Viti Levu, the main island of Fiji, called kite point, with the strong wind and waves at our stern. Anson got first dibs and spent an hour reaching back and forth, even performing some toe side. I had the next two runs, Dad generously allowing me to eat up the remainder of the day. My runs were nice and long with plenty of edging (adding pressure to my heels to make the board stand up on its edge and stop the kite from pulling me downwind). Unfortunately, the wind was light and I rapidly lost ground downwind. When we came back Kim had started on dinner (earlier in the cruise I had made a schedule for dishes and meals to equally distribute the galley work) and was eager to hear about my progress.

I started the second day of kiting with a downwind run (Dad felt the wind was too low for him to try), Anson and Mark following in the dinghy as I had still not mastered going upwind. Nevertheless, my runs were long and my sliding transitions working most of the time. I launched from kite point, then kited through the gap between Viti Levu and Nananu-i-Thake, before curving right, barely out of its lee. Dad’s turn was next and Anson and I followed in the dinghy, shouting advice after every couple of runs. At the end, he was able to get up on the board every second or third try and have 20 to 30 second runs. He was still having trouble pointing the board downwind for the launch, and occasionally got pulled over it.

Mark was wiped out after his two runs, but I was longing for another one. All three of us glanced at the setting sun over the rolling hills of Fiji’s largest island and gunned the dinghy engine. We rushed to kite point where we hurriedly set up the kite. I put my board on in the water, power stroked, and was up and flying. The wind had picked up, and I was edging the board, my heels taking most of my weight, the board close to perpendicular with the water. Thirty seconds later I was across the channel, performed a sliding transition and came back. To my utter surprise and delight I had lost no ground downwind! Back and forth I went, until… Crash! I had brought my kite too close to the sea, and the tip had been caught by the water. I got back up as fast as possible, but the crash had taken me downwind. Half an hour had gone by, and with several more crashes, I had only lost 100 feet downwind. Mark and Anson hurriedly brought my kite on board the dinghy, and we left for Anthea. The dinghy ride was mercifully short and dry. By the time it had ended, the sun was half behind the hills, creating a stark black outline against the red, pink, and gold sky.

The day before, Kim and Mark had arranged for Anson to have a downwind run with Safari Lodge, a kiteboarding resort just a mile away, and today I was to join him. Deepak, a worker at the resort, picked us up at 8:00 to set up our kites for a boat launch. We led the lines, deflating the leading edge of the kite but kept the struts pressurized and wrapped up the line on our bar. The whole bundle was rolled up with the bar in the center of the kite. Our harnesses wrapped around it all and kept it in a tidy bundle. Deepak steered us five kilometers upwind to a reef. We launched from the 25-foot dinghy and started to kiteboard downwind. Unfortunately, the wind was light and it was hard to keep out of the water. Thirty minutes later the wind picked up and we started to pick up speed. Anson and I crossed trails, followed each other and played with the waves, sometimes power stroking while heading dead down wind and flying over the bumpy water. All too soon (about 2 and a half hours later) we had to give Deepak our kites and head inshore on the yellow launch. The tide was low, so as we went through the shallow pass between Nananu-i-Thake and Nananu-i-Rah we scraped over the sand and dead coral. If it wasn’t for Deepak’s local knowledge of the waters, we would have been stuck in the hot sun until the tide rose.
Upon arriving on Anthea, we hurriedly got Dad on the water, where he continued to improve. The next day, Mark had a lesson while Anson and I had another thrilling down-winder. Afterwards we brought Mark out on the water, and his confidence with the kite improved dramatically. Soon he was getting consistent long runs and started to edge.

Thank you so much, Norm*, for getting us on the board. (*Our main kiteboarding instructor at Baja Kite and Surf, La Ventana, Mexico) Devon

The Jaws of the Wolf

Our beautiful swan, Anthea, was helplessly caught in the jaws of the wolf. The reef clutched her keel, rudder, and skeg, refusing to let go. The wind and waves pushed her harder and harder on the reef, enabling the wolf to get a firmer grip on her. The grinding, grating sounds of our swan as the big bad wolf tossed her about in his jaws made us sick to our stomachs. Would we be able to pull our precious Anthea from the clutches of this impassive creature before she was mortally wounded? We were all alone on the remote east coast of Viti Levu – no one to call for assistance. How much time did we have? Could we do it?

The ten or so minutes after the sickening CRUNCH and LURCH of Anthea when we first hit the reef seemed like an eternity. We were going dead downwind; Kim and I were in the cockpit, Anson and Devon down below. Adrenalin immediately began pumping through all of us. I jumped to release the mainsheet; Anson and Devon sprang up the ladder and with Kim began to get the main down to reduce the ability of the wind to drive us up on the reef (the jib was already furled). With Kim and Devon pulling from the deck, Anson had to climb onto the boom to release the sail’s battens which caught on the leeward lazy jack as the sail came down. Knowing that each second counted, they hurriedly tried to fold in Anthea’s wing, bringing it down and close in to her body. I started Mr. Perkins, hoping against hope that there was a small window of opportunity to reverse Anthea off the reef. Almost immediately the prop caught on the coral and stalled the engine – what a fool I was to think it could be that easy and now what damage had I caused to the prop, shaft, or strut?

Without discussing anything, we immediately jumped to plan B, which was now our only hope for a quick release from the wolf’s clutches (Kim had shouted through her tears that the tide was rising – but this was small consolation given the grinding, crunching sounds reverberating throughout our dear boat every moment). Anson, Devon and I sprang forward to the dinghy and quickly as possible lifted and eased it into the water. Anson jumped into it while I scampered aft, loosened the outboard from the aft pulpit, and, dispensing with our usual halyard hoist system, manhandled it over the lifelines to Anson. Of course, the engine cover came off in the process. But Anson managed to receive the engine plus loose cover and secure it to the dinghy’s transom. But now the dinghy was floating away as in our haste we had not tied the painter to Anthea. I jumped overboard, grabbed the dinghy and got back on Anthea so fast that I hardly got wet, then I got back in the dinghy with Anson. We got the gas can into the dinghy, hooked up the fuel line and started the outboard. Meanwhile Devon had grabbed our anchor chain snubber (a stout dockline), secured it to the bow cleat and was readying it to throw to us for a tow line. A few seconds of deliberation and we realized it was probably better to tow our stricken swan from the stern, to minimize damage to her rudder, skeg and propeller. Anson roared to Devon to take the line off the bow cleat and instead secure it to the stern cleat (Anson’s roar is quite impressive); Devon hopped aft fast and nimbly, and Kim and he rapidly secured the line and threw it to us. Anson tied the line to a bridle he had quickly prepared on dinghy’s transom. He roared again, this time to me – “full throttle.” Would our 8 horsepower Nissan outboard be able to wrench our 12 ton swan from the jaws of the wolf? How tightly did the wolf clench her body? We held our breaths.
The towline tightened and grew taught, the outboard was roaring at full throttle, its propeller churning a mass of whitewater. The dinghy slewed from side to side as it pulled against the line; there seemed to be no forward movement. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, we could tell that Anthea’s stern was coming toward us, away from the reef. Just writing this, days later, brings tears of relief to my eyes.

Kim at the helm, had started the engine and, once a few feet from the reef, put Mr. Perkins in reverse. “Do you have steerage?” I shouted. “Yes, I think I do,” she responded. Oh my gosh, could we really be that fortunate? I thought to myself. Yes, it seemed that we were. Kim was able to reverse the propeller and steer Anthea upwind and away from the reef. Anson and I brought the dinghy alongside, climbed aboard and secured the dinghy to Anthea’s stern.

We motored into the bay we had earlier identified for spending the night. Anson scampered up to the second spreader and from that commanding height called out a course into our chosen anchorage. Kim was extremely concerned about hitting coral again, especially as the chart indicated that we were on top of reef even though we could see that we were motoring through clear water towards the anchorage. Once anchored and in the fading light of early evening, Anson and Devon donned mask, fins and snorkel and jumped overboard to assess damage. Kim and I were on pins and needles, especially when we heard Anson’s muffled curse through his snorkel. After their first reconnoiter, Anson went down again with the Gopro to document the damage.
Given the potential for major damage, we had dodged a bullet: a quarter-sized chunk of lead slightly displaced from the keel’s leading edge where we first hit, a 5 inch square patch of exposed lead on the left side of the keel halfway up from the bottom of the keel, some more scratches on the bottom just forward of the keel, and abrasions on the bottom of the skeg and rudder. No cracks along the keel-hull joint, nor around the rudder and skeg areas. We breathed sighs of relief – this was damage we could repair ourselves when we haul out next month at Vuda Pt. Marina. Though we all felt somewhat traumatized, and tears of relief did continue a bit, we agreed that we were extremely fortunate to have gotten off so lightly.

Of course, that evening, we analyzed what had happened. How had lifelong sailors, who take pride in being risk- averse and safety conscious, hit a reef? The truth of the matter is that we had become complacent. We had had a marvelous sail earlier in the day from Levuka (the historic capital of Fiji, now a UNESCO World Heritage site due to the century’s old buildings on the town’s waterfront) on Ovalu Island across to Viti Levu Island. We romped across the channel between the two islands at eight knots, Anson and Kim sharing the helm and me on lookout at the bow. Once we got to Viti Levu, we sailed north towards our destination, Nananu-i-Thake Island (where we were returning for kiteboarding). The east coast of Viti Levu is dramatic and beautiful. The coastal waters are strewn with reefs – all of which showed up on our charts, as had the reefs we traversed earlier in the day. Although Fiji’s charts are infamous for inaccuracy, we began to wonder if our electronic charts were accurate, after all; a conclusion made more plausible by the knowledge that our charts had been revised based on analysis of satellite imagery. It was late afternoon, at the end of a long day. We dropped our guard and did not have a lookout posted. We had identified a bay to turn into for the night. We saw a charted reef, at the edge of the bay, right where the chart said it would be, and stayed a bit outside of it as we began to turn into the bay. A few minutes later we collided with a coal head where the chart indicated there was none, and thus began the saga described above. Although it was late in the afternoon and visibility less than ideal, I’m positive that if we had had a lookout at the bow, we would have seen the reef in time to avoid it.

It is with humility and gratitude that we give thanks for getting off so lightly, for being able to wrest our swan from the wolf. Hopefully we have learned our lesson and shall keep a sharp lookout when navigating through waters where the charts are known to be inaccurate.

Mark
25 June 2018
(we hit the reef several days prior, on June 15)

Sanctuary

Nonhuman animals rule the northeastern side of mile-long Namena Island. Frigate birds ride thermals high above the hill, circling up and around and around until they join hundreds of other specks of gray against the blue sky. Below them, roosting in the trees, blue and red-footed boobies are tucked away in the foliage, their coral-red and pastel-blue feet revealing perches and nests. New arrivals swoop in towards partners guarding their large, fluffy white chicks, landing with a wing and a prayer on branches that bob and sway from clumsy grasps for footholds and abrupt deceleration. Long white-tailed paradise terns glide gracefully across the anchorage, disappearing into the forest with gentle landings concealing their homes. Boobies fly across our bow and stern, often in groups of seven or eight, with a menacing frigate bird swooping down upon them. Angry squawks and aerial dives keep the boobies safe, but their chicks are a favorite food of the frigates. Amazingly, despite the thousands of frigate birds, the boobies seem to match their numbers.
This is what resilience looks like, for Cyclone Winston uprooted trees, defoliated every branch still standing, and wreaked unfathomable havoc on this island a mere two and a half years ago. A tropical morning glory benefitted from this disruption, its snaking vines covering the beach and twining up the trunks of the dead and dying. But breadfruit trees, palms, and papaya with drooping golden orbs are thriving once again.
While the birds claim the trees and sky, crabs own the land. We beached Hektor for an evening bird photography visit, and found the sand seething with hermit crabs in spiral shells, skittery land crabs with only their camouflage of white, grey and brown specks protecting them, and sea crabs lurking at the edges, their hard shells shining aqua blue and black. Each of our steps set off a flurry of movement, as these critters raced away from what they could only perceive as giant predators. Our only goal, however, was to avoid them. It was a pacifist’s version of cat and mouse, with the crab-mice scurrying to safety or freezing in place, hoping to blend into the environs and escape capture. We knew we were top predator, and yet the sheer number of these creatures made us feel like the vulnerable ones, morbidly imagining them combining their forces to overpower us and hold us hostage on the beach.

This was not a place for humans to frolic, so we ceded the land to the beasts and explored the waters instead. In the shallow waters around the island the coral was mostly dead, but tropical fish abounded and white tipped reef sharks patrolled their territory. These shallower waters heat more easily, perhaps reaching that coral-killing temperature of 80 degrees with regularity. Our next venture took us out to the barrier reef and “South Save-a-tack Pass,” reported to be a wonderland of coral pinnacles and reef fish. And here we found one of our all-time favorite snorkeling spots. Soft corals and plates of anemones covered the walls, descending 20 feet on the inside of the lagoon and 80 feet on the outside, delicate coral fans in reds, golds and blacks waved in the currents, and the fish were everywhere. Schools of parrot fish circled round each other in the inlets between pinnacles, giant spotted groupers tucked under reef edges, emperor angel fish swam round Moorish idols and regal angels, schools of pink and orange anthias hovered over coral plates, clown fish darted in and out of anemones, butterfly fish sailed back and forth in the current, brilliantly colored wrasses nibbled coral, and the occasional, giant hump-head wrasse swam into the open waters and then dashed back into its cave. It was hard to know where to look, life dazzled so fiercely here, and we swam and dove, tears filling our eyes at the magnificence of it all. For two days we snorkeled the pass, returning to favorite spots and drift diving with the current.

Namena Island is truly a sanctuary for the non-human beasts. The birds are secure in their habitat, with the resort owners ceding half of the island for their use; and the fish can multiply and grow thanks to the Chiefs in this area declaring the reef a marine protected area. The sheer numbers of birds and fish at Namena give hope – perhaps one day small preserves will link with larger ones across Oceania, populating the oceans and skies with the magnificence and beauty we witnessed here.

Silver Linings

[Written but not posted a week and a half ago….] The weather has been consistently disappointing since arriving in Fiji. Slow moving troughs of low pressure, bringing grey skies and pockets of showers, have dominated the last ten days. Some of the troughs packed a punch with thunderstorms and gusts into the 30 knot range. Occasionally the trough clouds break up and glorious sunshine pours over our bodies, the boat, the land and water. Mangrove forests and green hillsides dazzle in the sunlight, and lagoon waters that appeared gray under cloud cover show depth contours of deep blues blending into turquoise.

After receiving our cruising permit, we dabbled in the islands off of Nadi, visiting Musket Cove, the popular resort island, with a kiteboarding launch spot and world class surfing on the reef break. With no wind for kiteboarding, a crowded anchorage, and mediocre water clarity, our primary joy was meeting up with a cruising family we hadn’t seen since Tonga. We spent an evening enjoying an impromptu potluck dinner ashore, then wandered to a neighboring resort to see the fire dancing show. Skilled “Polynesian” dancers entertained the crowd of tourists (mostly white Aussies and Kiwis), culminating with a dramatic show of dancing with flaming sticks and balls. The dancers were impressive, but the context so different from the village dance practices in Fatu Hiva, local dance school recital in Nuku Hiva, and Heiva competition in Tahiti which we were so privileged to see. The same dance moves in different contexts, one evoking decolonization, the other resonating with tourist-economy neocolonialism. Our own cruising travels intersect with both currents, never flowing in pure streams, but mixed together with swirls and back-eddies confusing the waters.

We stayed one night at the crowded anchorage and then chose to move on to less populated islands. Storm clouds kept us from traveling far, and still the water clarity failed to entice us into the waters. Another short hop took us to Navadra island, where the movie Castaway was filmed. Small and uninhabited, we shared the anchorage with a local cruise ship and had our first snorkel in Fiji. Water clarity remained disappointing, but it was wonderful to see a profusion of soft corals, a few young, hard corals struggling to rebuild amongst bleached out elders, and clusters of our favorite tropical reef fish. Two white tipped reef sharks swam by, patrolling their territory, as we became water babies and frolicked. It was refreshing to be back in the water again, but all of us missed the clarity of the Tuamotu passes, Niue, Tonga and even New Zealand. We’ve been dreadfully spoiled!

A look at the weather showed no kite boarding winds for days, due to the troughs disrupting the SE trades, and an opportunity to make easterly progress in a dead calm towards the best known kite boarding island in Fiji. We motored through reef strewn waters for one day, and then through an inner passage for another ½ day to reach Nananui-i Ra, an island on the NE tip of Vitu Levu, the destination the boys have been waiting for. As we motored during days which would have been blissful snorkeling weather, I selfishly thought, “This is what love looks like.” For unlike some (many?) parents, I am not very self-sacrificing. Frankly, if the water clarity had been better, I would have argued long and hard to enjoy unprecedented snorkeling opportunities in calm, flat waters of the Yasawa Islands. But pushed by murkiness and pulled by the pleasure of seeing the boys light up from their adrenaline-filled kiting, I succumbed to the drone of the engine as we navigated safely to Nananu-i Ra.

And then we waited for wind. It came, in the face of a storm at midnight. The beautiful lightning show we enjoyed during dinner, with brilliant flashes illuminating towering white cumulonimbus clouds, journeyed our way. We spent a sleepless night monitoring our position in the anchorage, watching a boat that dragged multiple times pass by as it reset its anchor, and bracing ourselves when violent gusts of wind sent shudders down the mast and howled in the rigging. At 0300 the wind shut down and my eyes closed for a too short night sleep.

In the wind hole the next day, we enjoyed a brief snorkel trip to the outer reef, seeing glimpses of the beautiful soft corals and fan corals in brilliant red, orange, blue and black. Reef fish swam in and amongst the coral shelf, each of them a miracle of shape and color. With shallow dives Mark and I immersed ourselves in the upper levels, while Devon and Anson buddy dove to the depths. Back on board we checked the weather once again, and the forecast finally showed a kiting wind building.

The next morning Devon got out on the water and polished his skill set. He had a series of lovely reaches, wonderful transitions, and was on the verge of discovering the holy grail of kiting – how to kite upwind – when the wind shut down. After lunch the wind picked up and Anson had a half hour of running through his tricks, and then, once again, the wind died. Agony and frustration mixed with the taste of kiteboarding freedom. When Anson describes the exhilaration of skimming along the surface of the water, dancing the kite across the sky with flicks of his fingertips, following its lead and harnessing the energy to fly with the wind, I’m almost ready to go back to kite school. But then I realize that adrenaline rushes are not a match for me – give me sailing on Anthea for my freedom.

With hopes high for another day of kiting, we made arrangements with a local kiteboarding instructor to give Mark and Devon lessons. Multiple weather sources forecast 15 knot easterlies, except for one source, which called it right. It turned out we were in the only wind shadow in Fiji. Anson went out with Warren, the instructor, and some of his kiteboarding guests (he runs a small resort on the island, catering to windsurfers and kiteboarders, as the wind generally accelerates between the two main islands of Viti Levu and Vanua Levu), but their hoped for, dream-like, downwind run turned into a snorkel trip instead, as the edge of wind disappeared on the horizon.

The troughs just kept on making trouble. With no kiting wind in the near term forecast, and a window to go eastwards in the calm, we set out for a marine protected area. Three of us were ready to leave, and Anson, who tasted freedom and yearned hard for it, assented to the majority wish. The troughs of low pressure which plagued us helped us make easy progress eastwards, away from tourism central and murky waters. We claimed that silver lining and made the most of it with a beautiful, light wind sail across the reef-strewn Bligh* waters. After anchoring for the night in the bight of a reef, and motoring a few hours in the morning calm, we anchored off of Namena Island and enjoyed glorious snorkeling in crystalline waters. After ten days of cruising Fiji, I felt we arrived at last!

*Yep, the famed Captain Bligh, whose crew mutinied during his first attempt to transport breadfruit seedlings to the Caribbean. His plan was to introduce a cheap, fast growing source of filling food to feed slaves on the sugar plantations. Bligh barely escaped with his life as he and his officers fled Fijian warriors through this reef strewn passage of water. On his second voyage he was successful, and breadfruit trees now grace Caribbean isles.

A Vow Nearly Broken

As dawn broke on the final day of our passage to Fiji, our anemometer showed 3-5 knots of wind from the south east. I awoke the crew, and soon we had the asymmetrical spinnaker up for light air sailing once again. We left the main folded on the boom, since the seas had built to 9 feet. Light air sailing in large swells is a bit of an on-again, off-again affair. In the trough between the swells the spinnaker collapses, only to fill again as the boat rises to the top of the next swell. The main would have slatted viciously, so we spared it the thrashing.
When the wind filled in to a respectful 5-8 knots apparent, we snuffed the spinnaker, raised the main, and re-set the spinnaker for an epic spin run. Anson claimed the helm, smiling larger as the wind continued to strengthen and our speed climbed into the 8 knot range. We jibed for a better angle on our course, heading now for the Navula Passage on the West coast of Fiji’s main island of Viti Levu. Soon the wind was blowing a steady 12 knots apparent, almost 20 knots true. The helm was still light with the only work coming from navigating the forces of surfing. Helming in these conditions is like a dance, with the sea as your partner; you anticipate the next step and follow the lead of the swell by adjusting the helm to prevent the boat from rounding up and broaching or falling off and jibing.

Looking behind us, the white caps were like icing on the waves, long and thickened from the steady breeze. We were hovering at the limit of the wedding vow that Mark made – never to fly the spinnaker in more than 20 knots of wind. We never clarified whether that was apparent wind or true wind speed, but fortunately Mark and I were in agreement that it was time to douse the spinnaker and unfurl the jib. Anson was accepting of the decision, respecting the vow, but he would have been happy to carry it further. With preparations for dousing underway, a gust powered up the spin and claimed the helm. For the first time in five hours at the helm, Anson had to work to keep Anthea on course. That gust put us over the limits of the vow, but as we had already decided to snuff the spinnaker and were in the process of doing so, all remained peaceful on the marital front.

Under main and jib we flew towards the pass into the protected waters of Viti Levu. We pointed higher as we followed the coast, the wind now at the beam and blowing a steady 20-25 knots, and reefed down to keep the ride sane. The waves were crashing on the barrier reef, sending spray towering into the sky. The pass is exceptionally well marked, and over ¼ of a mile wide, but the powerful surf pounding the edges prompted unwelcome fantasies of Anthea being carried by a rogue wave onto the unforgiving coral. (Not far from this pass is the famed Cloudbreak surf site, which had once- in- a- decade waves only two days later, as the swell that brought us in continued to build to towering heights.) We beat through the pass close hauled with reefed main and jib and then found ourselves in flat waters, ruffled only by wind waves. We had finally arrived! We anchored at Momi Bay, in Fiji at long last, and checked in on Monday, the 28th of May at Vuda Point Marina. The depression which was forecast passed over us with only a drenching of rain; sweet weather after a journey made long by unwelcome weather news.

We’ve re-provisioned and bought data sim cards for the phone, allowing us to post this blog with ease. Devon tackled the mountain of laundry today, while Anson has spent hours at the top of the mast measuring and then removing sheaves so we can replace them with ones designed for our Dyneema line halyards (instead of the old wire halyards of yore). A sail maker is giving us a quote on the spin repair – the good news is that it is reparable, we’ll soon find out whether the cost is too dear. I’ve unearthed all our warm clothes and unneeded gear, and we’ve packed that up for shipping, freeing up much needed space aboard. Mr. Perkins has had his oil and filter change. Soon we’ll be ready to cast off the dock lines and head for kiteboarding heaven.

In the meantime, we find ourselves stunningly at home as we provision and run errands in the port town of Lautoka. Indo-Fijians, many of them descendants of indentured laborers who arrived 150 years ago, have recreated India in Oceania. The shops lining the streets around the central vegetable market could have been transplanted from any town in North India. We’re speaking Hindi again, eating delicious curries, and beginning to learn about the tumultuous histories of this land.

We are grateful to have arrived and are excited to experience life in Fiji during these final two months of our cruise. Kim
Vuda Point Marina
Viti Levu, Fiji