Sailing with Impunity Page 12

The weather began to get nasty, with wind and rain. When we had business on shore, we dashed out between squalls. Harbor waters were rough with choppy waves. We cringed when dirty harbor water splashed on us as we rowed the dinghy to shore.

  We wondered how safe this “safe harbor” was.

  Cyclone Ofa Clobbers Samoa

  Log Entry—January 30, 1990: Cyclone Ofa is heading right toward us. Time to batten down.

  There’s really no difference between a hurricane, cyclone, or typhoon. They are all the same weather phenomenon, but the storms are called different names in different places. In the Atlantic and Northeast Pacific, the term "hurricane" is used. The same type of disturbance in the Northwest Pacific is called a "typhoon," and "cyclones" occur in the South Pacific and Indian Ocean.

  Whatever we called it, it was time to get serious about protecting our boat, our home. Cyclone Ofa was coming, ready or not. From the prediction, this storm was one of the largest in a decade.

  We boaters scurried around, removing anything that would catch the wind. We took down the tarps that Bruce had put around the hatches to keep out rain but let in breeze. The awning had to come down. We took the sails off the booms. Even though they were tied down, they created “windage,” sailor-speak for something the wind could catch on. The solar panels and mizzen boom were stowed below decks. We lowered the main boom and tied it securely to the rail. The decks were cleared of cushions and anything that wasn’t attached. Bruce took the motor off the dinghy. Everything went below decks. Bruce double-tied everything he could, the lines to the anchors, the dinghy. We checked every system on the boat to make sure it was in working order. The cabin was crammed with all that had been on deck, which troubled my innate sense of order, but I simply had to put up with the clutter.

  Every boat in the harbor frantically prepared for the big storm. Bruce took time out to listen to weather reports and shared the storm’s progress over the VHF net.

  We dashed ashore to get a few supplies, again getting drenched with the filthy harbor water. The nasty weather howled with furious wind and drenching rain, but when we entered the grocery store, all seemed calm. We mentioned something about the cyclone to the clerk and he gave us a blank stare. He knew nothing about it. We asked around, but no one was concerned.

  “This is our rainy season,” they said.

  The local folks kept telling us that nothing had been reported on the radio about a coming cyclone. As we talked, they became more concerned, but still we could tell they didn’t feel alarmed since our warning was not “official.”

  Come to find out, the Pago Pago International Airport had been closed because of high winds. With no planes coming in or out, the weather station was shut down and the forecasters had gone home, leaving the local people without radio weather reports.

  When we returned to our boat, we called on the net and suggested that anyone who knew people on shore should warn them. That was easier said than done since cell phones weren’t in use yet. Any phoning was done from telephone booths, from offices, or homes. It was scary, knowing that many people didn’t have appropriate warning.

  A family in the harbor with a child was going to weather the storm ashore at a friend’s home and offered to take children from other boats with them. Most of us felt compelled to stay with our boats, do what we could to protect them. It was a nice offer and I’m sure people with children were relieved.

  On Friday, February 2, bad weather arrived in earnest. Rain and high winds blew from the northwest, moving southeast toward us. Winds picked up to about 40 knots, gusting in the harbor to 55 knots (about 60 miles per hour). Our barometer fell like a rock.

  Nobody in the harbor slept. We left our VHF radios on Channel 16 so that we could hear from each other what was going on.

  As a safety precaution, a 30-foot sloop rafted to a 60-foot schooner because the smaller boat wasn’t permanently tied to a large harbor anchor. Shortly after midnight Friday, with winds gusting 80 miles per hour, the schooner started dragging their 750-pound anchor across the bay, taking the smaller boat with her. As they slowly pulled the huge anchor, Ed, the skipper of the 30-foot sloop tied to the bigger boat, called another boat they were dragging toward. “Buddy, we’re coming down on you.”

  The response: “We see you, Ed, we’re ready.” We could hardly believe the calmness in their voices.

  Then, for about 45 minutes, we watched in admiration as they tried to run lines among all three boats, all while the boats were swinging and rolling violently. It was an amazing feat of seamanship. Once they finally got the three secured together, they spent the rest of the night with engines running to relieve the tension on the third boat’s anchor.

  The next morning, Saturday, February 3, the wind eased a bit and Bruce helped the smaller boat move to a sturdy harbor dock. It seemed the storm was calming, but according to weather reports, there was more to come.

  Later Saturday the barometer bottomed out and the wind shifted as the cyclone howled down on us. By that evening we felt as though the stuffing had been slapped out of us.

  Someone on the net said, “Hey, listen. No generator noise.” It had been knocked out, which must have been a concern to people in houses, but to us it was a little less noise, though with the screaming wind it was hard to appreciate.

  Strangely, leaves began falling on the deck.

  Either Bruce or I was in the cockpit at all times, watching for hazards. Korean and Taiwanese longliners were moored across the bay from us at the tuna processing plants and we didn’t have much confidence they had been securely tied. It’s possible to fend off other boats or objects in the water, but you have to be alert to catch them before they do any damage.

  We wore foul-weather gear, not for warmth but to protect our skin from the stinging, driving rain. To see anything we had to squint against the wind and rain. It was a sinking feeling to watch a wall of wind and water slam into the boat upwind of us and see it almost lay over, their mast seemingly inches from the sea, knowing that we’d be next. Then we’d take the hit, feel a strong jolt, and swing and roll with alarming force. It would pass on, and we’d brace ourselves for the next one.

  I saw and heard the corrugated tin roof of a building near the harbor dock rip off and watched as it wobbled through the air toward our boat. I ducked, but it veered off and dropped into the water. That roof could damage a boat, but it was out of reach, and all we could do was report it on the net.

  Another night passed with no more than a couple hours sleep.

  Sunday we were still at it. The screaming wind and driving rain seemed endless. Fatigue impaired our strength and thinking. There was no way to cook, but we ate crackers and cheese for nourishment.

  Sunday evening, probably the worst night, our friends Jack and Donna’s boat Zingara began dragging their 1,200-pound harbor anchor across the bay. They started their engine to ease the load on the anchor, and then their steering gear broke! Donna quickly packed their backpacks and they were ready to jump ship if their boat hit the rocks. Just in time, they passed over a shallower spot and the anchor dug in again.

  On VHF we heard from the family who had gone ashore with all the children. While the woman prepared dinner for the crowd, the power went out and the roof of the house blew off. They all crowded into the landlord’s house, but then his roof blew off. All they could do was hunker down and wait it out.

  Boats are meant to move, to swing and roll. We were probably the safest right where we were, in the harbor, securely anchored. As the wind eased, we could see that Impunity suffered no damage—she rode it like a trooper. Our dinghy sank, but when Bruce pulled it up it had only lost the little bow seat, a minor inconvenience.

  By Monday things were calm enough that we could venture out. We knew even before going ashore that there would be heavy destruction. Many houses in Samoa aren’t solidly built. They don’t need to have heavy walls because it never gets really cold. But we weren’t prepared for the damage we saw. From our boat, we could see what had been a ste
ep lush mountainside was now ugly jagged tree stumps, revealing houses half blown away, missing roofs and walls, trees and power poles scattered everywhere. We hadn’t even known houses were on that hill. Now it was an ugly scarred hillside.

  Bruce and I walked through neighborhoods, impressed as people industriously cleared debris, helping one another, and thanking God that no one on that island had been killed. Forty to sixty percent of the homes were either damaged or destroyed in American Samoa. In Western Samoa, 75 miles to the west, seven people were killed and many others injured. Several boats sank in Western Samoa’s Apia Harbor. In both American Samoa and Western Samoa, soft fruit crops were destroyed for that year’s harvest, primarily bananas, breadfruit and taro.

  The main streets were cleared fairly quickly and Bruce and I took a bus out to the airport to see the damage there. The terminal had several broken windows, but the building appeared to be structurally sound. We stopped by the General Services Administration (GSA) to pick up a new American flag. Our flag, new when we left, looked like it had been in a war zone, with frayed seams and edges. GSA had a plentiful supply of good-quality flags of all sizes.

  Phone service and electricity were out for some time after the cyclone, but the Samoans were pretty casual about that inconvenience. Many homes were being completely rebuilt, and thousands of corrugated roofs replaced.

  The American Red Cross came and we often saw workers out in the field doing what they could to meet the island’s emergency needs.

  Vern and Connie returned to Samoa after their Christmas holiday, anxious about their boat and how it had ridden out the storm. They found everything intact, but all the bulkheads, overheads and cabin decks were covered with fuzzy green mold. They had closed everything up tight and with the humidity, mold grew with abandon.

  A couple of weeks later, a NOAA ship made a routine call to American Samoa. Our friends Keith and Marge Landrigan encouraged us to contact a friend of theirs who worked aboard. Janet, 44, had been with NOAA for several years and worked as an oiler in the engine room. The delightful lady showed us around the ship. They spent about ten months of the year at sea, usually spending four days in each port. When she wasn’t at sea with NOAA, she lived aboard her yacht, currently in Texas. We invited Janet to dinner aboard Impunity. She was a fun, adventurous lady.

  Ralph and Ann, people we met at the Landrigan’s when we spent the weekend, invited us to their home for a barbecue and showed an interest in seeing Impunity. We had set a date for them to have dinner with us and they were impressed with my cheese souffle, surprised we could produce a meal like that aboard a sailboat. Ralph worked for the State Department in American Samoa and had an aspiration of single-handing to Australia in a dinky little sailboat. We tried to slip in a few ideas during the evening in the hope he might reconsider. In the first place, he didn’t know a thing about celestial navigation or even much about electronic navigation equipment. Bruce gave him some literature to read. I suggested he read Robin Grahams’ Dove, which is a good account of the adventures and also the risks and loneliness of single-handing.

  We met several people who had single-handed. It’s not an easy thing to do and I personally could not understand why anyone would do it. Our friend Jack had circumnavigated single-handed, but he was a top-rate sailor. Ralph had a lot of enthusiasm, but not much experience. We told him of all our preparations and I think he found it daunting. I could see his wife, Ann, silently cheering us on, subtly, or maybe not so subtly, trying to discourage him. I’ve wondered since if Ralph made that voyage.

  On our “down time,” often after dinner, we continued reading aloud to each other. We read two of Robert Fulghum’s books, All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten and It Was On Fire When I Lay Down on It. These quiet times, reading aloud, were our favorite times of the day. We didn’t miss TV, and other than for a few moments in the morning to hear the news, rarely listened to the radio.

  We took a day trip with Vern and Connie to a small island, Auna’u, catching a bus, then a small ferry to the island. Auna’u offered a pristine beach with bountiful shells for our collection, and even a picnic table to enjoy the lunch we’d packed. Cyclone Ofa had done some damage to this small island, mostly to crops. We found the people more traditional than those in Pago Pago, but friendly and open to our exploring their island. We watched men and boys hunt fruit bats. They made stew of the bats. I felt I’d never be able to get past the smell, sort of like skunk, albeit milder.

  Back aboard Impunity, I spent every spare moment weaving and by this time had started making gifts for family members. I had found a source for pandanus leaves and palm veins, so I didn’t have to worry about running out of materials.

  The Samoan government considered doubling the harbor fees, and word was out that the increase would be retroactive to those of us who had been there during the hurricane season. Boaters who worked in Pago Pago and who were “in the know” told us about a government committee meeting being held on that topic. Several of the yachties from the harbor attended the meeting. We appointed a spokesman and he did a good job of summarizing the group’s feeling about raising the rates after the fact. Each boat had already paid $200 for the season and the proposal would cost us another $200. When they asked for additional comments, one of the yachties stood and said she was a freelance writer for several sailing magazines and that if this rate went into effect retroactively, she would feel compelled to mention this unfairness in her articles. The government committee said they would take our comments into consideration and let us know their decision. Later we learned they would not impose the new rates on us, but would for future boats coming into the harbor for hurricane seasons.

  George and Ellen of Winddancer had invited us to join them for a three-day getaway to Ofu, a small neighboring island with a resort. We called to see if the resort was still open for business, thinking they might have suffered from Cyclone Ofa. Somehow, they were spared significant damage, and encouraged us to come ahead. There were still vacancies at the resort, so Vern and Connie were also able to join us.

  We caught a small plane at the airport and a 20-minute flight later landed a few yards from the front door of our cabin. The resort was run by a palongi (white person) woman who had met and married a Samoan while he served with the Navy in Norfolk. They were married twelve years before she ever saw Samoa. The resort was from his family property and consisted of their home, a lodge with a kitchen and dining room, five duplex cabins, each with queen size bed and a bathroom with a shower. All meals were in the lodge.

  The owner offered us his truck to drive around to see the island. Bruce drove with Vern riding as “shotgun” and I sat in the bed of the truck with the others. It took less than an hour to thoroughly traverse the island. What fun! Ofu was a wonderful getaway for us. The whole three-day weekend with meals cost the two of us $250, including the flight.

  The hurricane season appeared to be over and we were ready to move on. It appeared that Bruce and I were going to be the first to depart Samoa. The boat was ready and we’d provisioned with extra food items. We still had plenty of staples, but stocked up on peanut butter, a large tin of pilot crackers, and coffee.

  Fanny, my weaving teacher, suggested that the group have a farewell party for me. It was embarrassing since all, or most of us, would soon be leaving. But the group wanted to do it and make it a family potluck picnic. Sixteen of us celebrated our last days in Samoa together. I was very touched when Fanny gave me a tapa cloth she had made. To create a tapa involves much labor. The cloth itself, about 24 inches square, was mulberry bark pounded to paper thinness. The particular design of my tapa was flowers, and the dyes used were from roots. Fanny gave me the name of a woman she hoped I’d call on when we reached Tonga, a fellow weaver. I think Fanny felt especially close to me because I was so enthusiastic about weaving.

  We were anxious to get underway, but high winds delayed our departure for a week. We had planned to visit Western Samoa, but Apia Harbor was closed to boat traf
fic because they still hadn’t cleared the sunken boats after Cyclone Ofa.

  The weather cleared and we hired a professional diver to disconnect us from the harbor anchor. We were finally underway after five months in American Samoa. We set a schedule for 8:30 each morning to call those still in Pago Pago on the net on SSB radio. Many were interested in this leg of our journey since they would soon be following.

  It felt good to be away from the generator noise and to be back into clean water. The seas seemed rough, but after all, we’d been tied to an anchor for five months.

  We were on our way to the Kingdom of Tonga!

  Heavy-duty tackle led to more fishing success

  Paradise in The Kingdom of Tonga

  Log entry—April 14, 1990: Neiafu, Kingdom of Tonga, looks like what we imagined a frontier town looked like 150 years ago.

  On-the-nose winds made this leg of the journey tough. After a five-month absence from sailing, my stomach rebelled. I wasn’t over-the-side sick, but for the first day and a half I didn’t feel my best

  On the second night, Bruce had gone off watch at 10:00 and just settled down in the midship bunk. I scanned the horizon and went below decks to make a cup of tea. Bruce had put the teakettle on the stove to heat the water for me, so I didn’t harness myself into the galley for the quick trip to get my cup and a tea bag. The boat surged up, then suddenly dropped off the back of a wave and threw me backwards across the boat. I landed at the edge of the chart table, hitting my lower back, three inches from my spine on my right side.

  I knew immediately that I was hurt, that I’d probably broken a rib. Bruce leapt out of the bunk with my scream as I crashed into the chart table. He wanted me to lie down right away, but I was anxious to see how badly I was hurt, so I insisted on standing my watch, with the understanding I’d call him if I needed to. Reluctantly, he agreed.