#suwarrow

the waters surrounding our entry to the remote Pacific atoll of Suwarrow reflected inconceivable shades of blue. Sugar white sands encircled long, palm tree spotted islands in every direction, and a perfectly playful righthand reef break peeled along the entry channel. Paradise. But, beauty can be deceivingly dangerous. We'll get into that later. 

Our first few days tucked into this ideal atoll consisted of clear blue skies above, playful reef sharks (puppies of the sea) below, and breathtaking sunbeam arrivals and departures. The islands themselves were completely uninhabited. Only a groundskeeper and a couple of his family members stay in Suwarrow six months a year, and this was his off-season. Back in the 50's, 60's and 70's Tom Neale lived here in complete solitude for years at a time, and wrote the epic tale fittingly titled An Island to Oneself. You can see an unnervingly creepy commemorative statue of him just outside the groundkeeper's home. (Though in passing, I always tried my best not to see the Tom Creepy Mc Creeperson Neale sculpture.) In contrast to the complete absence of people, the crab community, consisting of hermits and gargantuan coconut crabs, was absolutely bustling. If you take a moment to glance at the seashell-strewn shore around your feet, you'll notice that no two glances are quite the same, as each shell quickly sprouts legs in constant relocation. The coconut crabs are much less subtle. In urban legend fashion, their massive coconut-cracking claws protrude from an enormous armored shell, as they bulldozer sideways through the palms. 

I stuck to the completely empty righthand reef break, literally peeling in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, like the shark puppies stuck to me. Each sunrise, midday, and sunset, I was surfing that playful face. Every night I would then tuck myself in with the noodly appendages that used to be my arms. In those first idyllic days, I did manage to take a break from surfing to spend some time on a paddleboard. Many near success/near disaster attempts at a floating headstand eventually succumbed to listlessly paddling into the horizon. Between the atoll islands, the horizon ceased to exist, as sea seamlessly merged with sky. That evening, from a popcorn wafting cockpit, we projected Step Into Liquid onto the main sail. A sea of rafting dinghies bobbed around us in an oceanic drive-in cinema.     

On our final bluebird day, Kelsey, Britt and I hopped onto a catamaran that we had befriended in Bora Bora for a few hour adventure to Bird Island. The captain of Blue Lotus, works in the business of teas, and the three of us just happened to be currently in the business of consuming teas; naturally, it was a done deal. His two kind-hearted and constant-smiling sons crewed their homey Byron Bay cat, and hosted the daily homemade chai and earl grey tea breaks. Catamarans sit much higher in the water than monohulls, so we were able to anchor right inside the Bird Island reef. Additionally, they have a massive 'trampoline' between the hulls perfectly built for lounging above the occasionally splashing cool waters. Lounged and sipping chai, on the way to free dive untouched reef, my hand grasped my shoulder and gave a slight pinch- just had to check.

True to the ocean/sky merge on the horizon, water on the reef was as clear as air. It was the perfect arena for shark chasing and sea turtle dazing. I did, however, spend every possible moment submerged under the surface. There is an obvious reason for the naming of this island, although I personally would have gone with The Birds Island. Surely years ago Hitchcock snorkeled these very same waters.

Our stay in Suwarrow was technically legally limited to those first picturesque 72 hours. However, an approaching torrential high pressure system brought caution to undertaking the next crossing to Nuie any time soon. For the time being, boats deliberated on their "should I stay or should I go", while continuing evening business as usual: an open fire daily catch beach barbecue. To celebrate the end of our stay in paradise, we three ladies cooked up some homemade brownies (an extremely precious rarity in the sailing world), and set out in the dinghy on a dessert delivery to neighboring boats. Only, we were a moment's brownie edge-crisping too late. Turbulent breakwater grabbed hold and quickly tossed us towards the billowing ebony towers. The deep howling winds from an enraged sky above seemed to beckon "Daaaaangiiiit Ladieeeees, Where. Aaaaare. MY Brownieeees!?" Alas, we had not cooked extra, and the originals were now unintentionally sea salted. Still, the demanding new guest had arrived, and to our empty-handed welcome, he entered a fit of fury.      

(photo credit above: Oleg Ivanov)    

The storm system's solid-wall downpour crashed onto our tiny anchorage in the fleeting daylight. Far too Impatient to wait for sunset, the ravenous squall prematurely devoured the sun on its descent. Its jaws then fell upon us, still hungry. We climbed back aboard Zoe, now a liquid-based see-saw, and prepared to stake out the night. A frenzy of action abounded this sleepy atoll, as each boat performed emergency preparations. Most anchor chains were now wrapped around "bommies" (large coral heads), posing the worried "well it provides extra stability… but if it breaks off we're gone". Our boat clearly had this issue of debate, but decided to place our faith in that coral stronghold. For us, the plan worked brilliantly; we stayed on watch all night and gratefully thanked our bommy in the morning. However, not everyone faired so safely. 

The Australian catamaran, Ensemble, rested upon a much more fickle bommy. In one thunderous gust and metallic echoing snap, they were thrust, anchorless upon a bed of coral. "Mayday! Help please we are in trouble," called out in echo across every VHF radio, as everyone hectically bared the storm. Still, in brilliant camaraderie, countless sailors from the fleet dinghied into the black squally abyss to help a friend in need. 

The rescue scene was strikingly organized/dire chaos. Ensemble was taking on mass amounts of water. Fast. A rally dinghy shuttled helping hands and supplies to and from the sinking yacht in shifts throughout the night (and somehow in the midst of everything, also rescued a stranded young boy in his kayak from shore- you know, saving lives while saving ships, just another day in the life...) In extreme irony, the newly wed couple on this multimillion dollar catamaran had set out a candlelit feast on their finest dinnerware just as the storm approached. Only an hour later, a bucket brigade of bodies rapidly dumped water over the stern, the sea within rising just quicker than could be expunged. A thousand-member-fleet of tiny instant cappuccino pods floated past rapidly fleeting the scene - every bean for himself! as the rescuers periodically popped one to stay alert through the night. As the portside hull began to completely submerge, our high power pump was successfully rewired and rigged to the rescue. 

For those of you unfamiliar with a bucket brigade, basically the boat was a flurry of the footage below from 1:10 - 1:30min into this video. Imagine those 20 seconds on repeat, for hours, on a sinking vessel.  

Over the next 48 hours, in the desolate center of the Pacific Ocean, our fleet worked together to upright and hand-patch our shipwrecked member, an incredible team effort. It was a quintessential display of selfless action and camaraderie as sailors worked to their muscles' exhaustion, blood-shot eyed, through the night and into the morning.