Passage update

It is noon on Friday in this part of the world and we are having a great passage.   We expect to arrive in Noumea, New Caledonia early tomorrow morning.

 

The scale and power of big seas are always amazing and make for good stories, but the opposite is equally incredible.    For 24 hrs the seas have been nearly flat calm.    Looking out in all directions all the way to the horizon and seeing only slight ripples on the surface seems impossible.    When I came back on watch at 0400 this morning I could see the reflections of the stars on the water's surface.    I turned off all the external lights and we ran in darkness with the stars above and the bioluminescence in our wake marking our progress like pixy dust.   Occasionally there would be a streak in the water as a fish left a track like a shooting star. 

 

Just after sunset last night, two large boobies circled us and landed on the railing at the very bow of the boat.   As our guides across the ocean, they were still there at sunrise, when they both woke up, stretched their wings, and flew off for breakfast.   On this passage, with calm seas, we get to appreciate the little things.

 

477 nautical miles with the Pacific Ocean living up to it's name and our boat running perfectly with only a distant hum.  This is what we dream of.

 

E

At sea ......

It is mid morning on Thursday and we are approximately 100 nm from Santo, Vanuatu on the way to New Caledonia.  The forecast looks good and since we left Luganville last night at 2300 (11 pm for you Packer fans) we have had relatively smooth conditions.   Winds are light and the seas are only 2 – 3', but since they are straight on our bow, the ride is a but choppy.  

 

We expect to arrive in Noumea, New Caledonia on Saturday morning and EB and Brian will fly in on Monday for a well deserved holiday.  

 

E

The Coolidge

In October of 1942 the Pacific War was in full swing and the U.S. was pouring men and equipment into the region.  The Island of Espiritu Santo in northern Vanuatu (New Hebrides) became a major Navy staging area and airbase due to it's proximity to the Solomons and the Coral Sea.    Prior to the arrival of the military, Santo was a sleepy island with few buildings and less than 250 "Europeans" mixed in with the local folks.   In only a couple months, the Americans built 2 heavy bomber bases, 3 fighter bases, and landed 100,000 troops.  

 

Santo was strategic to the Navy and shipping because of excellent harbors at both the northern and southern ends of the island.   The southern harbor was only approachable through relatively narrow passes and they were protected by mines against the threat of Japanese subs.   It was here that the USS President Coolidge was sunk after hitting a 'friendly' mine on it's approach.

 

The Coolidge was one of the largest and most elegant cruise ships of it's time.   At 654 ft. it rivals modern ships and she regularly crossed the Pacific.  She held the crossing speed record from San Francisco to Japan at over 20.5 kts.   In 1942, the Coolidge was pressed into transport service to support the Pacific War.   Her civilian capacity of 950 passengers was expanded to over 5000 troops and her holds were filled with supplies, including trucks, weapons, jeeps, and medical supplies.   When she hit the mine on her approach to Santo, she was fully loaded and had over 5000 soldiers and crew aboard.   After the initial impact and explosion, her captain was able to drive her up onto the beach and all but 2 men were able to scramble down her sides before she slipped back, rolled onto her port side, and sank with her stern in 250' and her bow in 80' of water.   It was less than one hour from explosion to her sliding beneath the sea and all cargo and supplies were lost.

 

Today, the Coolidge is one of the most famous wrecks in the world.  She is a very technical dive due to her depth and the dangers of swimming around inside an  intact ship.   She lies only about 100 yds off the beach and one simply wades out to the edge of the reef and follows a rope down to her bow, at about 65' deep.   A number of dive services provide guides and technical assistance so recreational divers can experience the wonders of deep wreck diving.   With our friends on s/v Jackster, Ann and I signed up with Allan Power's service.   Allan is considered the grandfather of Santo diving and he has logged over 20,000 dives on the Coolidge.  At over 80 yrs old, Allan is no longer diving, but he is there to greet and tell his stories as well as drive the bus to the site.  

 

The dive for all 'first timers' on the Coolidge is partly a check out dive.   Ann and I had our own guide and we descended down to the gun placements on the foredeck of the ship at 65'.    We then continued to drop down and swam along the deck, which is vertical due to the ship laying on it's side.   Apparently, our guide felt we were doing OK and we entered one of the cargo holds at about 120'.   There were helmets, rubber gas masks, rifles, the barrel of a 155 mm gun, and dozens of track vehicles and jeeps.   Fantastic!   At these depths, dive time and air supply is limited, so we slowly began to exit the inside and start our ascent.   Returning to the surface on deep dives is a slow process and assures one's safety.  It is like coming up steps and we make stops to allow nitrogen to escape from our bodies.  A stop can be 10 – 15 minutes, just hanging out at specific depths for "decompression" to be complete.

 

It was an amazing feeling of accomplishment and excitement to have dived on the Coolidge.    We returned to the dive office and told our stories over lunch.    Like many things, if once was good – let's do it again!   Dave, Jacqui, and I signed up for the afternoon dive and we were off again.   We had 2 guides for the three of us and as 'experienced' Coolidge divers we were able to penetrate deeper into the ship.  We swam into multiple cargo holds, down passage ways that had been only for first class passengers but now were lined with toilets for the troops, and reached the dining room were there is still a bas relief of "The Lady and the unicorn" , which originally hung over the fireplace in the smoking lounge.   Tradition calls for divers to remove their mouth piece and give the Lady a kiss.   A bit salty  .......     On this dive we got down to 140', which is my deepest dive, by far!

 

We were getting ready to depart Vanuatu for New Caledonia, but not before one last dive on the Coolidge.   On Wednesday morning, Dave, Jacqui, and I signed up for a final deep adventure.   Having had 2 successful dives the day before, our guides offered us the chance to go deeper yet, and enter the engine and control rooms at over 160' below the surface.   Each Coolidge dive took me deeper than I had ever been before, but I was one on one with a dive master who has logged 1000's of trips to the Coolidge and I was feeling good.

 

On this last dive, we swam down to the bow, along the hull on the outside of the ship, and entered through a large cut out over the engine room where salvage work had been attempted.   We then swam through a small hatch and followed our flashlights into the control room where there are still the ships instrumentation and telegraph for communicating with the bridge.   We were at 161' deep and I felt good.   In hindsight, I felt too good.    As we exited the ship and began to swim along the main deck past the bridge, strange sensations began to set in.    Within minutes, I felt anxiety and flashes of panic.   My guide was right next to me and we had started a long gradual swim toward the bow and our mandatory decompression stops, but I was fighting a strong urge to go up – now.  I felt fear and anxiety, but I knew an ascent was impossible.   At  depths, your body absorbs bubbles of nitrogen much like the fizz in a can of soda.    A rapid ascent without allowing the bubbles to slowly work their way out is like shaking up a Coke and popping the top.   Except your body is the can of pop.    Not following proper procedures will result in getting 'bends', or worse.

 

Luckily, I was not in danger of the bends, I was "narced".    Another possible side effect of nitrogen in your blood on deep dives is nitrogen narcosis.  

This typically manifests itself with a feeling of euphoria and well being, often followed by anxiety and fear.   Luckily, it usually dissipates fairly quickly as one slowly ascends.   Training, practice, and a highly experienced guide allowed me to fight off what felt like survival instincts and keep my shit together.   As we rose to around 100, I could already feel the symptoms dissipating and we continued our controlled proper procedures.

 

Back on terra firma we reviewed what happened.   Narcosis can not be predicted and it effects everyone differently.   Each of the guides and experienced divers sitting around the table admitted to having been 'narced' at one time or another.   The important part is to recognize symptoms – yours and your dive buddy's -  and respond accordingly.   My guide and another that had been down near us told me that they saw it coming when we were in the engine room and I had been feeling 'fine' – too fine.   They said they saw my normal slow relaxed movements becoming jerky and my head was turning side to side.   At that point, my guide had begun the process of getting out of the ship and starting back.   I  have replayed what I remember from that part of the dive and am aware of some of the sensations.   I now realize I was having great difficulty focusing on my dive gauges and making sense of them.   I also was feeling frustrated with my guide because he was in fact pushing me out of the confined spaces.

 

All's well that ends well.    I am grateful to have had the opportunity to dive the Coolidge and thankful for having been with Tim, who is a true professional.   I learned a lot about my limits – mental and physical.   I also learned that I do not have a career as a deep wreck diver, and am looking forward to diving next week with Ann and Bear and playing underwater with beautiful corals and fish.   Nearly all the good stuff in the tropics is no deeper than 60' – including me! 

 

E

Big Nambas

Eric and Bear with Chief Jean-Marc

The men dancing

The woman and children

There are big namba villages and small nambas villages and I’m not sure what the difference is. Namba in Bislama seems to have a couple translations. Nambawan means number one so it stands to reason that namba means number. A namba is also the name of the traditional men’s outerwear which consists of a leaf wrapped around his penis – and nothing else. So when we arranged for a visit to a “Big Namba” village, we weren’t sure if we were entering a village composed of men with large members or one with a large population or something else entirely. What we did learn was the the big nambas and small nambas were once rival warring tribes who ate each other. Today, some of the namba villages still live in traditional kastam ways in the high mountain regions. Near the coast, the kastam ways are for special ceremonies and tourists. This is where we visited: the Big Namba village of Mahe.

(The photos on this blog were not cooperating....)

Posted by Ann

Millennium Cave Death March

Those of you who know Eric have probably heard stories about the “Death March” – hikes that he and his buddies have done throughout the years in the Utah deserts, canyons and mountains. I participated in one Death March where we hiked through a forest fire, rappelled down hot ash and walked through a river for miles to exit Zion Canyon. I considered it to be “full on”. Then yesterday, we (Eric, Bear, Jo, and our friends Jackie and David from s/v Jackster and I) hiked the Millennium Cave in Vanuatu and now I feel like I really know what “full on” means. As I write this, I have to carefully move my aching legs so they don’t cramp on me!

Bamboo Bridge

The Millennium Cave tour is billed as a strenuous, all day hike through lush jungles, primitive villages, an awesome cave and pristine river water. It was all that and then some. After a 45 minute drive up a bumpy dirt road, a stretch of which was an old WWII American airstrip, we parked in the middle of nowhere and began to walk through the jungle along a narrow, muddy path. Along the way, we crossed a bamboo bridge which was just that – a couple dozen bamboo logs piled on top of each other and laid across the expanse that rolled and slid as you stepped on them. A little dicey. We passed through one village, then stopped in a second one to pick up our guide, Gerry, for the canyon trip. There we got the low down for the remainder of the adventure via a map drawn on a blackboard. We were told to expect: a 60 minute descent into the canyon, a 30 minute walk through the cave in knee-deep water, a 30 minute “challenging” hike in a canyon river, a 45 minute float down river and a 30 minute climb back up to the village. No problem. Let’s go!

Ladders

 

Armed with a life jacket and surrounded by a contingent of village kids (great for entertaining Bear), we set off into the jungle again where we soon came to the descending part which consisted of scaling down steep hillsides holding onto ropes, scampering over boulders and climbing down a series of ladders made from four inch round tree limbs. The ladders clung to canyon walls that felt as steep as the side of a building at times and spanned the equivalent of at least fifteen stories. Every so often, Gerry would call up, “Watch out! Step broken!” And we’d have to reach down four feet to the next rung in the ladder, clinging onto the muddy, slippery rungs above. I didn’t dare look down, just kept a steady pace while concentrating on each step.

Eric painted for protection

Just before our final descent into the canyon, Gerry painted our faces with red clay. We were told this was to pay our respects to Mother Nature and, in doing so, she would protect us on our journey. So now we even looked ready to tackle nature’s obstacles. Bring it on!

Entrance to Cave

Finally at the canyon floor, we were stunned by the awesome sight of the cave entrance. Sixty meters high and twenty meters wide, the limestone walls were shaped like the interior of a cathedral with swallows swooping in and out while bats slept away the day. The rush of the river swept gregariously into the darkness, daring us to follow. Into the abyss we went. Armed with flashlights, painted for protection and donned in lifejackets, we stepped gingerly into the chilly water which quickly crept up to our thighs – up to Bear’s chest (so much for knee-deep water). Ropes and chains were strategically secured throughout the cave to help guide us through more difficult passages. The limestone rocks were like sandpaper which reassuringly helped prevent slipping. At times, we swam from rock to rock and the guide explained that the water was higher than normal due to the rain of the past couple of weeks.  Leaning on exposed rocks sometimes resulted in a palm slimed with guano (bat poop) but the sides of the cave were smooth and stable. Halfway through the cave, we all turned off our lights. With zero ambient light, the blackness was surreal. Three quarters of the way through, there was a gushing waterfall which pummeled the canyon floor and filled the cave with noise like an oncoming freight train. Bear took a ten second brutal shower before we continued on. Light beckoned us to the exit where the cave river merged with another mountain stream. Crossing that river, I was swept away by the current and Gerry had to rescue me before I washed down river. Once on the other side, we all collapsed on the shore to regain ourselves. The village kids, who had taken our backpacks around the cave, met us with our lunches and we eagerly ate. We were only halfway “there”.

Thinking the most difficult part was behind us, we left the lunch spot with renewed energy and plunged into the river for a float. Vines hung down from the canyon rim hundreds of feet above while we kicked leisurely along under small waterfalls. Just when we were relaxing, the guide pulled us to the side of the river where we once again found ourselves in a precarious spot. Large boulders blocked the water’s path, sending it raging through narrow passes. We also had to go through those narrow passes, without being washed away into the flow. One by one, Gerry helped us through. There were many of these situations. One particular cut had two rapids to cross and the water was high. It was the only time Gerry seemed unsure of the best route. David went first and made it across to the boulder on the far side. Our angst was somewhat alleviated. Taking no chances with Bear, Gerry carried him across and placed him safely on the rock next to David. Eric went next and almost made it but lost his footing on the last long step in the second rapid. As he was clinging to Gerry’s hand, Gerry yelled, “Can you swim?” (Fine time to ask, I thought.) “Yeah. Should I swim?” Eric responded. “Do you want to swim?” was Gerry’s reply. And they released hands. Whoosh! My heart skipped a beat but within two seconds, Eric bopped up and was in knee-deep water on the river’s edge. Three down, three to go. Jackie went next. Jackie is tiny – 110 lbs soaking wet. The first rapid took her down pretty fast. Gerry and the other guide jumped in right after her. She was fine but shaky as she made it on her second attempt. I went next and narrowly made it on the last step. Jo lost it where Eric did and rode the chute and was fine. Overall, it took us 45 minutes to cross that one stretch.

Finally, the over-abouts and pass-throughs were finished and we did float and laugh and congratulate ourselves. Surely, it was all downhill from here. But wait, we were down in a canyon that we still had to get out of. So back up we went. This time, there were no man-made ladders but nature-made waterfalls with surprisingly sturdy, green rock footholds. Up we went as the stream of water came down. Wow.

Back in the village, we finally knew there were no more surprises. After some refreshments of coffee and bananas, the chief escorted us part way down the path we’d come on six hours earlier. Returning through the muddy jungle, across the bamboo bridge, seemed like a cakewalk after what we’d just completed. Exhausted and full of accomplishment, we bounced our way home in the truck feeling very satisfied.

Death March – Vanuatu style. Well, if you can’t play with fire, let water be your playground. Full on!

Posted by Ann

John Frum

In addition to the Yasur Volcano, Tanna Island is home to the John Frum 'cargo cult'.    Legend has it that in the 1930s, an American named John befriended a traditional village and convinced them that the missionaries were wrongly leading them away from their customary life.   He taught them that by returning to their 'kastoms' they would eventually be blessed with material goods sent to them from America.   In WWII, Vanuatu was a major staging area for the  Pacific war.  The arrival of 1000's of US troops and their gear (cargo) reinforced the promises of John Frum (John from America).    To this day, the religion of this village and region of Tanna is a mix of Christianity, traditional kastoms,  and the worship of the return of John Frum.   When questioned about how they can still be waiting for his return more than 60 yrs after the war, they reply that Christians have been waiting over 2000 yrs, so what's the big deal?

The Frum village has a large center open area surrounded by family groupings of small huts and buildings.   Each morning, the village elders have a ceremony where they pray to the return of John Frum and raise an American flag and a US Navy flag.   The symbol of their religion is a red cross – not a crucifix, but a red cross patterned after a medic's cross from WWII.    Each Friday night the Frum villagers and many others from the surrounding area assemble for an all night session of dancing and worship.    An open sided thatched roof building in the center of the village becomes center stage as groups from each represented village take turns with the men sitting in the center playing guitars and the women sitting around the perimeter singing songs of worship and praise.    Other villagers and guests frequently stand outside the hut and dance or groove to the music.   These weekly festivities begin at sundown and continue to sunrise.   Every 45 minutes an elder pounds a stick on a log to indicate it's time for the next group to  move into the center spotlight.   To a guest, every song from each group sounds nearly identical.    This rotation continues all night.

A number of us from different boats piled into the back of an old pickup truck for the 40 minute crash and bash from our anchorage to the Frum village.   By the time we had loaded the yachties, added some local villagers, and stopped at a backpackers' resort for more guests, we had 16 people bouncing along through the night.   Our friends on s/y Delos had visited here a month before us and had spent enough time to get to know the villagers.    They were told that the single kerosene lamp that lit the festivities used to be an electric light bulb powered by a car battery and charged with a solar charger.   Unfortunately, the battery had died and been replaced with the lantern.   With a little advance planning and help from our friends on Jackster, we were able to buy a new battery in Fiji and we had it in the back of the pickup with us.   Perhaps John Frum could pay a visit bearing gifts frum America?

When we arrived at the village, the singing and dancing were already well underway.   We were counseled by our truck driver that this was a religious event and we were told we were welcome to dance, but we should be quiet and respectful of the music.    I told the driver what we had for the village and that I would like to present it to Chief Issac personally.   We found the chief and gave him the gift.  Issac wasn't much for small talk and he caried the battery into the music hut and placed it at the base of the main support pole for all to see.   No one made any effort to hook it up to the light and it just sat there like an offering on an alter.

 

We spent a couple hours listening and dancing to the constantly repeating music.  It truly was mystical.  I stepped back from the hut and heard the music mixed with the crash of the surf on one end of the village and the rumble and orange glow of the Yasur volcano high above us on the other end.    I asked some of the villagers what the words and meaning of the songs were.   They told me that each song was a prayer "that the Americans would soon return".    There are not many places in the world we have heard that!

Just before we left, I asked to say good by to Chief Issac.   Apparently, he had gotten tired and gone to bed, but his son came over to thank us for the battery and see us off.  He also decided it would be a good time to hook the battery to the single light bulb.   After 3 guys tried to wrap a couple of bare wires around the terminals there was no light.   The new battery was not charged.  Shit, time to go.  Still no John Frum.

E

Tanna Yasur Volcano

Walking along the rim

On the southern island of Tanna sits one of the world’s most accessible active volcanoes. From the anchorage at Port Resolution, Mount Yasur looms over the mountain just three miles away and spews clouds of ash into the sky. Frequently low rumbling can be heard that can be mistaken for thunder, yet no storm is visible. It’s the angry volcano gods reminding of its constant presence and potential power. It was a must to look this creature in the face.

After 40 minutes in the back of a pick-up truck on the bumpiest road in the world, we arrived at the park gate where it took two men five minutes to calculate fares for seven adults and one child. As Jackie outlined a fare chart to the driver, we read the visitor instructions and took the obligatory photos. Then up to the volcano we went.

Entrance to Mt Yasur Park

It was just a five minute uphill walk in black volcanic rock and ash to the rim of the monster. We could hear its beckoning yet threatening call but could not see anything until we stood on its rim. There were two active vents at the base – maybe a short 500 foot ski run down – that constantly belched and spewed bright orange fire and lava from their throats. The wind blew the ash and sulphur smell directly into our faces so that it was very difficult to breath, and even see without eye protection. Shielding our faces, we proceeded along the rim to gain a better view and await the approaching darkness. Several times we jumped back and gasped at the sudden roar of the animal. The mountain seemed alive and we weren’t sure it was happy we were there.

Imagine the best fireworks you’ve seen that seem to go on forever. Well, this show does go on forever. Time after time, the lava shoots straight up into the air, sometimes higher than the rim. We were mesmerized for two hours, watching this constant scene with mild trepidation but mostly exhilaration. It was a fantastic sight!