Cyclone-free in the Marshalls

Upon arrival in the Marshall Islands, the first question you may ask is why aren’t the Marshalls swarming with visiting sailboats and tourists? Well first, this scattered group of 29 atolls and five low coral islands is very remote, lying between 4° and 12° N and 160° and 175° E, virtually in the middle of the tropical North Pacific. That’s about 600 nm of easting a sailor would need to get back to a central South Pacific departure point, just for starters. Second, until recently the country had a reputation of being a very undeveloped backwater, and what little information that trickled out wasn’t all good. For example, at least one prominent travel writer went on and on about piles of stinking refuse and unsightly wreckage all around the capital of Majuro and the high density of poverty-stricken Marshallese packed into this small area without proper health care, sanitation and, in some cases, nutrition. The Marshalls became famous in the 1950s when the United States conducted repeated atmospheric nuclear tests at Bikini and Enewetak atolls. Dangerous radioactive fallout rained down on a wide swath of the northern islands, causing health problems that remain an issue today.

Image Credit: Scott & Wendy Bannerott A section of Majuro atoll seen from the air. The islands above are a favorite retreat of voyagers wishing to take a break from downtown Majuro.

We asked ourselves about some of these topics as the calendar turned to November in Vava’u, Tonga. We’d journeyed to New Zealand twice previously, the refit was complete, and now we were ready for some warm-weather payback.

Several friends who’d been to the Marshalls recently on business reported large improvements across the board for Majuro and attested to the unmatched beauty of the outer atolls. We studied our charts, pilot books and oceanographic texts, and concluded we’d have no problem returning to Tonga if we wished to do so.

Our last hurdle was a strange medical problem nerve damage to Wendy’s arm from a recent bout with parasitic meningitis, caused by infection with rat lungworm. She’d ingested larvae present in raw cabbage. (The lesson here for us: Be sure to soak all green leafy vegetables in 10 percent bleach or Microdyne for 15 minutes prior to consumption anywhere in the tropics.) Chronic pain continued to hinder her significantly, especially since we now did double duty taking care of our 41-foot aluminum centerboard sloop, Élaný(the Auckland refit was major, like I said), as well as our 14-month-old son Ryan. A timely email from our author friend Peter Jenkins saved us. While working on his current book in Alaska, Peter had met an adventurous 18-year-old fellow whose childhood dream was to sail the South Pacific. Mike Jayne flew to Vava’u to give us a hand, while Wendy and I checked for any ominous low-pressure systems that might cause us problems and then took off.

Majuro is a little more than 1,700 nm from Vava’u. The rhumb line passes straight through Funafuti, Tuvalu and Tarawa, Kiribati, with numerous potential stops at attractive atolls in between. A slight jog to the west would allow a pause in Fiji. We decided, however, that a late-November departure right up the gut of the cyclone belt for the first half of the trip was a poor idea and would put us harder on the anticipated northeasterlies upon arrival to the southern Marshalls. Instead, we sailed the shortest possible route out of the descending arc of the South Pacific Convergence Zone (SPCZ), a straight shot to Tutuila, American Samoa, in mostly light southeasterlies (see the diagram Wind Patterns, Significant Clouds and Ocean Currents, Novemberýbelow). This would add a few days and 325 nm, or so, to the trip but would set us up for a very pleasant passage. The weatherfax remained clear of developing lows, so we sailed quickly past the west end of Tutuila and turned NNW. At one point a large humpback whale cruised across our bow and gently dove, with Ryan shouting and pointing at the immense tail splayed skyward, and we caught two hours of CNN Television News out of Pago Pago with our omnidirectional TV antenna. One dense squall passed by us with gusts to 40 knots just northwest of the island, but we soon saw patches of the blue sky and white cumulus of the equatorial dry zone in the distance. Tutuila was a gray smudge on the southeastern horizon by sunset, the last land we’d see for 16 days.

Anxious to exit the South Pacific storm zone, we sailed west of the small scattering of atolls comprising Tokelau while experiencing a light easterly set from the South Equatorial Counter Current. We could have steered north for Kiribati’s Phoenix Islands and spent some time in the secure, cyclone-free anchorage at Canton, but we rejected this as too isolated in case Ryan needed emergency medical care. Alternatively, we could have had a fast downwind run west to Funafuti; however, this port lies in the northern margin of the storm belt, so we put off a visit until the right time of year. We relaxed in the sunny, light northeasterly conditions of the equatorial dry zone, and 10 days after leaving Vava’u, Élan’s bow punched through latitude 5° S at 176° W, and the westerly set of the Equatorial Current became stronger.

Our crew was all dialed in to the offshore rhythm. Mike, though he’d never been to sea, performed like he’d been sailing for years. Tropical birds paid occasional visits. Spinner dolphins and pantropical spotted dolphins appeared in small groups to ride our bow pressure wave. We flew the spinnaker overnight a few times under starry skies and emptied the bucket on fish recipes as we continued to eat mahi mahi caught days before. Large yellowfin tuna frequently accompany dolphin herds in the tropical Pacific, leading to a startling incident: I was taking a “dip-bucket” sea shower on the aft deck around sunset one evening, just after a visit from a group of dolphins. The flexible PVC bucket made a popping sound each time I chucked it down for a new fill. On about the fifth repetition, the bright yellow bucket, secured to my wrist of course, disappeared in a dense white explosion of seawater as a big yellowfin tried to eat it. He missed completely, and it was over in a flash, but the implications were clear: Though a successful attack would not have snatched me overboard because I was harnessed on, dislocation of my wrist, elbow or shoulder seemed certain. I’ve dip-bucketed with half a hand loop ever since.Mili Atoll

The green-tinted water of the Equatorial Current boosted our westerly progress, at times close to 2 knots, and the dry ENE breeze puffing over our starboard quarter varied from the mid-teens to over 20 knots as we traversed the equator. Our right-angle transit through a light portion of the SPCZ near American Samoa had been painless; now we watched the thick belt of clouds across the southern Marshalls on the weatherfax and wondered how the southward-moving Intertropical Convergence Zone (ITCZ) would treat us. We crossed the unusually sharp demarcation between the Equatorial Current and North Equatorial Counter Current at 4° 24′ N, 174° 25′ E. The opaque, verdant waters of the westward flow boiled by the deep-indigo blue of the easterly flow in an abrupt color change marked by rips, swirls and eddies in a straight east-west line. Thirty-six hours later we sighted the lush coconut palm forests of Mili Atoll, the southeastern-most Marshall island.

If statistics reflected reality, we should have been reefed down, experiencing blustery northeasterlies with passing squalls, each packing winds occasionally into the low 30s, maybe 40-plus knots, deep in the clutches of the ITCZ. Instead, our spinnaker flared in front of us, filled by gentle easterlies, and we lounged on deck under sparkling blue skies dotted by occasional, puffy white clouds. This bespoke the dynamic nature of the ITCZ, which behaves like wisps of swirling steam, sometimes there, sometimes absent. The sun was low and the wind next to nothing by the time we skirted the southern shore of Arno Atoll, and darkness fell well before we motored into Fordyce Channel, the nine-mile gap between Arno and Majuro atolls. We hove to northeast of the pass into Majuro before midnight, the bright glow of civilization to port, and the piercing deck lights of a tuna purse seiner, also hove to, off our starboard bow.

I started easing us toward the mouth of the pass as the sun rose to clear skies. Élan knifed through calm seas under power, and Ryan and Wendy came up on deck. Ryan immediately squealed with delight, “Daddy, Daddy!” as he motioned energetically toward the beaches and dense forests crowning Kolalen and Irooj islands. Mike joined us on deck, beaming with pleasure. We motored across the slick, calm lagoon to town, took a mooring, and within an hour and a half, I’d been to the port captain at Uliga Pier and to customs and immigration downtown. Exactly 20 days after sailing out of Vava’u, we were all checked in and walking down the sidewalk in Majuro. Cyclone season was the last thing on our minds.Sweet Majuro

The Marshallese have been through a lot. Spanish explorers made fleeting contacts in the 1500s, the British surveyed, charted and named the area in the late 1700s, and Russian explorer Otto von Kotzebue carefully recorded scientific visits in 1817 and 1825. Whalers, missionaries and traders invaded later in the 1800s, despite very successful early repulses by native warriors. Germany, in collusion with Chief Kabua, annexed the Marshalls in 1885, and the Japanese took over with the United Nations’ blessing at the beginning of World War I, in 1914. They quickly violated the terms of their administration by building military installations and formulating plans to de-populate the area in favor of occupation by Japanese citizens, and early in World War II they used the Marshalls as a springboard for additional Pacific attacks and incursions. The U.S. Navy, Marine Corps and Army put an end to this, assaulting and taking well-defended Kwajalein and Enewetak atolls, and lightly guarded Majuro, in early 1944. Other Japanese bases, for example on Maloelap, Jaluit and Wotje, were attacked by air and sea and then cut off and left to starve until the end of the war. The U.S. military saved the Marshallese from genocide, but then they performed 67 nuclear test explosions between the end of World War II and 1958, which displaced some locals and irradiated others.

Somehow, 60,000 or so Marshallese survive today, about half of them drawn to the city lights and economic opportunities of Majuro, another 15,000 crowding on to tiny Ebeye Island in order to commute to jobs at the nearby U.S. Army Missile Range, still very actively operating on Kwajalein Atoll. Not only do they survive, they retain a great sense of humor, a quiet, very friendly manner, and their generosity is extreme. Like in other democracies, prosperity mixes with poverty on Majuro. You can find plenty of ghetto-like areas beyond the glitter of the business buildings, like island capitals all over the world. The difference here is that your respectful yokwe (hello) will be returned with a smile no matter where you walk, and your chance of encountering criminal violence is near zero. The government continues to make large strides in community cleanup, pride and health. For a visiting sailor, the positive attributes of Majuro Atoll vastly outweigh any imperfections. And it’s a perfect place for voyagers to give back something to an island community while we were there, visiting sailors did everything from wiring and installing lights in the traditional canoe-building shed to providing English lessons for struggling students.Off to the out islands

Once you’re all caught up with civilization, your attention will turn to pursuing dream-like interludes far from town. This starts with filling out an application for a visitor’s permit to each atoll on your itinerary at the Ministry of Internal Affairs in Majuro. Fees vary from $25 to $175 per permit, and approval in some cases took weeks as personnel sought to gain consent from the mayors of each atoll via SSB radio. This unwieldy process was undergoing change at the time of our departure, with a proposal to grant arriving sailors a single cruising permit for a reasonable fee that enables visits to multiple islands. Remember, this place has only just begun to receive any appreciable number of visiting sailboats they are very pleased to have us, and they’re doing everything possible to be accommodating.

If your professional background provides an opportunity to do something useful for the government or the people, you might be able to mix work with play. The Marshall Islands Visitors Authority asked us, for example, to perform whatever sport fishing surveys we could in the course of our planned visits to Arno, Aur, Maloelap, Wotje, Erikub and Likiep atolls in the Ratak Chain. Our friend Greg Soroka, aboard Alcidae III, sailed to Likiep and set up a free electronics repair shop on the beach, open three days a week, and managed to fix generators, televisions, radios, you name it, from scrounged scrap parts and circuit boards found on the island. The local senator graciously procured special, unprecedented permission for him to exit the Marshalls directly from Likiep on his single-handed passage to Dutch Harbor, Alaska, and many local residents had tears in their eyes when he left. Dr. Robyn McIntyre, a physician from New Zealand, aboard Alchemist II, was flown all over the Marshalls to perform gynecological exams for villagers and has now returned after a cruise to Fiji to work on a one-year contract.

Out-island experiences in the Marshall Islands rank among the very top voyaging adventures of our lives. Crewman Mike had departed long before to work in Alaska, and so we were back to our normal crew of three. Several men appeared one afternoon at Arno Atoll as Ryan and I did some beach combing on a small islet. Councilman Wajir explained that they’d seen our boat anchored here for several days and were concerned that we might be too shy to come visit their village (barely visible five miles away), so he and the other men had walked over (barefoot over coral reefs and islands) to be sure we knew we were welcome in their homes any time. They also gave us drinking coconuts.

Weeks later we entered Aur Atoll through the southern pass, just after our fishing-survey partner Ron Douglas, aboard Kaimana, and got a jolting strike on the trolling outfit. An hour later, at a pristine anchorage, we added that 18-lb dogtooth tuna to the two 45-lb yellowfin tuna Ron had landed en route, and had ample fresh steaks for the grill, the refrigerators of both boats and the grateful mayor and villagers of Aur, with a stunning tropical sunset for good measure.

We came face to face with World War II history at Tarawa Island, Maloelap (don’t confuse this with Tarawa, Kiribati). We heard that U.S. dive-bomber pilots ravaged the Japanese base and blasted the guts out of a Japanese troop ship, now resting upright in the crystal-clear lagoon, masts towering above the sea surface. A lone gun emplacement at the northwest end of the beach bore mute testimony to battles that were difficult to reconcile with the prevailing tranquility. Farther north we had the same feeling after the hook settled in clear water just west of Totoon Island, Wotje. Ron called on the VHF, bringing to our attention a submerged dark mass near the beach, clearly illuminated by a brilliant full moon. He was using his laptop computer to read a report saved on CD. “That’s the sunken remains of two patrol boats that were here with the small Japanese lookout garrison on the island. Commander Miller and his gunners aboard the Navy PBY-4 bomber Thunder Mug strafed and sunk the first one on Jan. 9, 1944. They spotted it while mining the southern passes into the atoll by air €¦ then on Feb. 23, 1944, Marine First Lieutenants Henry Schwendimann and Harry Neville were flying reconnaissance in their F4U-1D Corsairs when they spotted a second patrol boat tied up to the sunken hulk of the first. They made two southwest to northeast runs 500 feet off the water and fired 2,200 rounds of .50-caliber ammunition, destroying and sinking that 50-foot boat as well.”

Our heads were swiveling back and forth from the wrecks to the sky as we listened, engrossed in the raw terror of the moment, 50-odd years before, when a loud splash at the transom broke the silence and rocked Élan sharks were attacking the carcass of a 44-lb dogtooth tuna we’d hung off a cleat after processing the meat. We dashed aft, and Wendy photographed as two gray reef sharks, then up to five more, circled in and out of the light and became progressively bolder, streaking in to maul the remains. Suddenly a considerably larger shape loomed out of the darkness, scattering the gray reef sharks, then swinging around purposefully before shooting towards us to deliver a violent attack, head and shoulders out of the water. The 8.5-foot silvertip shark made one final lunge, engulfing the head of the carcass and severing the rope.

The following morning we crossed the lagoon to the main island of Wotje to check in with the mayor and pay our permit fee. We passed the buoyed wreck of Borudou Maru, at 415 feet, one of the largest World War II Japanese supply ships sunk by the Allies in Micronesia, now resting on its side 123 feet down, on the lagoon floor. The wreck of Toyotsu Maru, a 305-foot converted gunboat, sat to the south, on the beach of Egmedio Island. The historical survey discussed more riveting episodes in the assault on Wotje, made more poignant by the physical evidence surrounding us. We read that U.S. dive-bombers sank a Japanese landing craft carrying 40 soldiers sent to kill Marshallese escaping to Erikub on traditional outrigger sailing canoes. Marine Capt. Tucker’s F4U-1 Corsair took a hit over the base, he managed a safe crash landing in mid-lagoon and was rescued by a Navy PBY-5 the wreck sits deep, waiting to be found. Time was getting short, however, and we departed Wotje for nearby Erikub to continue our sport-fishing survey work, vowing to return as soon as possible.An Erikub interlude

We’d spent most of our survey efforts to this point using fly-fishing tackle in the lagoons. Searches for some prime species like bonefish had been unsuccessful, while fly-fishing for some of the trevallies and other reef denizens had shown glimmers of brilliance. By now it was clear that near-village netting activities suppressed fish abundance. Ron suggested we check out uninhabited Erikub to get an idea of what a more pristine situation might yield. We quickly sailed the 10 nm from Wotje’s south pass to Erikub’s northeast corner, then worked around to the western pass, leaving time to cross the uncharted lagoon with the sun still high and behind us. We cruised the small cluster of islets on the southeast side and found the best anchorage behind Jogan Island. As the sun got low, a large swarm of frigate birds, boobies, noddies and terns accumulated around us and gracefully came in to roost in the trees. Wahoo steaks sizzled tantalizingly on the grill. We heard nothing but the sounds of nature bird language, whispering wind, waves hissing on the outer reef. The moon rose bright, sending silver flickers to reflect on ocean swells marching in from the east. I think we knew right then that Erikub would be one of the most stunning stops we’ve ever made in our travels.

Image Credit: Scott & Wendy Bannerott The author’s 41-foot aluminum sloop Elan in Majuro lagoon.

My personal alarm clock, Ryan, woke me at first light. We chatted (sort of) over hot coffee and a milk bottle. Was that a dark shape on the beach? I grabbed the binoculars and drew a sharp breath an immense female green turtle was struggling down the sandy beach, apparently exhausted after a long night of nest building and egg laying. I showed Ryan, woke Wendy and called Ron on the VHF. The old girl was making surprisingly good time toward the lagoon, and we all decided to enjoy the sight from a distance and not disturb her; we’d scarcely make it in before she’d submerge anyway. Ryan and I kayaked to the beach when the sun got higher, and we photographed her tracks and the nest. We met another youngster, a baby brown booby covered with fluffy white down, who, we learned, stood on the beach all day waiting for Mom to return from sea and regurgitate dinner into its widely-opened mouth.

Ron and I settled into a daily pattern of exploring different areas of Erikub after Ryan was down for his nap. Wendy photographed much of the action in between trying to rest her still-nagging arm pain and keeping an eye on Ryan. We moved around the southern half of the atoll, coming across several semi-permanent fish camps (no one home) and numerous nesting turtle tracks; unfortunately, most looked ill-fated, judging by surrounding human footprints at dead-end trails. We also noted numerous excavated nests. A large, very recent celebration on neighboring Wotje had apparently dictated the need for traditional food items, to the disadvantage of the Pacific green turtle population.

The fishing at Erikub was spectacular we caught and released numerous trophies and potential world records on fly tackle, bruiser bohar snappers, bluefin trevallies, rainbow runners, even a dogtooth tuna and much more 20 species in all. Trolling with more standard tackle produced stellar results; visiting sailors would clearly be able to have fresh fish for dinner every night in this place. Ron and I walked the reef shallows for a couple of hours one night with a Coleman lantern and caught 10 lobsters. We spent a full 10 days at this top gem of our surveying activities, recording the action on paper and film, never seeing any people until the last full day.

Several boats, carrying fishing crews to distribute at the various camps, arrived from Wotje. We met an elderly man and his two grandsons camped at Aradojairen Island, inshore of where Élan and Kaimana swung on their anchors. They welcomed us to Erikub and adopted Ryan, and though obviously living day to day, generously invited us to eat with them and tried pressing all kinds of fish and lobsters on us. We bade them a fond farewell the next morning and packed up for the last jog northward to the better-known sailor’s paradise of Likiep Atoll.Likiep and the journey south

If Majuro has everything most voyagers could possibly want in terms of services and amenities, Likiep Atoll would take first place for the ideal out-island stop. The anchorage at Likiep Island, on the southeastern-most corner, is extremely well protected and has excellent holding ground. The attractive beach fronting the village features a clean, well-run hotel called Likiep Plantation Haus Resort. Manager Joe de Brum is a living legend and thrives on the few visits he gets from voyaging sailors. His door is open in every respect, and it’s worth spending as much time as possible with this 70-year-old encyclopedia of Marshallese history and his lovely wife Yomiko. You’ll depart as a member of Joe’s extended family, and we promise Likiep will be among the most revered locations you’ll ever visit.

Ron’s voyaging plans all pointed south, so Kaimana didn’t linger for long. Ryan was having great fun with Joe’s grandchildren, but Wendy’s arm really needed attention. The boating life seemed to exacerbate the stubborn nerve pain. We decided to save her the additional discomfort of the passage back to Majuro from Likiep, so all on the same afternoon Wendy and Ryan jumped on a plane for the short flight back, and I departed alone on Élan for the two-day passage.

Forty hours later, I sailed into the now-familiar lagoon in Majuro in the late afternoon. Instead of sailing up the main pass, I took a shortcut close around the west end of Kolalen Island. Vibrant coral reefs reflected ambers and rich browns through the clear water just off the beach, giving way to the deeper turquoise of the channel.

The next day Wendy and I decided she’d best fly home to the United States, give the arm some rest on land, pursue whatever else Western medicine could offer and take Ryan around to visit family, most of whom are unable to come see us in the middle of the Pacific. I prepared Élan for the voyage back to Tonga, where we planned to meet. That passage became a story in itself, from several perspectives, and is the topic of our next installment. n

Scott and Wendy Bannerot are the authors of A Cruiser’s Handbook of Fishing, published by International Marine.

For more information on voyaging in the Marshall Islands, visit OceanNavigator.com and click the Web Extras button. Five sidebars are included: A thriving paradise; World War II mysteries; Marshall Islands sailing directions; Murder, mutiny & mayhem; and Navigation and sailing canoes, all by Scott & Wendy Bannerot.