I’ve been feeling generally uninspired by Majuro. Engaging with the locals is difficult; taxi rides are awkward at best, and despite dressing to blend in we still get stared at everywhere we go. We’d been warned directly that the locals were unfriendly, and while I wouldn’t necessarily use that word nor apply it to everyone, there is an underlying dissonance. Though I’m sure it’s exaggerated by the fact that we’ve come from Fiji where everyone treats you like family, even in the city. The city itself isn’t attractive. It’s pretty fucking filthy, a feature highlighted by the recent hepatitis outbreak and my refusal to get in the water.
To think we almost didn’t come here. To think they almost didn’t let us come here! After sitting down with customs and immigration in Fiji and having a carefully worded conversation, they granted us a visit for the sole purpose of refuelling before continuing north. Our “special permission” came on a very official-looking sticky note and was accompanied by intimidating eye contact and the stipulation that we were neither on vacation nor to go surfing. Though the weather window we were looking at was less than ideal it was the best we’d seen in weeks and we were impatient to go, so we backed out of the office while still in their good graces and prepared Cavalo for passage.
Up until a few weeks ago, if you’d asked us where we were headed next the answer was Vanuatu, New Caledonia and then Australia. It’s more or less the usual route everyone takes around here, and this is likely one of the reasons we’ve opted for the alternative. There are a number of reasons, really, and the more you try to unpack it the more complex the decision becomes. In the end, though, we realized an opportunity that probably wouldn’t present itself again, and I have a strong personal aversion to predictability.
Resort guests stroll up and down the dock, pointing to the boats that excite them the most. Penthouse-style motor yachts, carbon catamarans, classic monohulls. The motor yachts are usually a favourite. Exclamations of admiration and desire make their way out of mouths not privy to the fact that most of these boats are broken.
Immediate agendas are generally not discussed much amongst sailors. The bigger picture, sure, but the short term is better left to circumstance. It’s pretty much a guarantee that any attempt to stick to a schedule will leave you feeling like things didn’t go ‘according to plan’, so we tend to make a general outline and then take it day by day.
Northward, ho! We broke up the trip with a stop along the way, but tried to save some locations for the sail back down again. Octopus Resort on the island of Waya had a reportedly decent anchorage, so we popped in for a better night’s sleep and a quick poke about the area. It’s a fairly small resort, geared largely towards the primo diving along the reefs to the west, with a stellar sunset view and a quiet easiness only attainable in these more isolated locations. The bar has a creative selection of unexpectedly affordable tropical cocktails (here’s to happy hour), and the man at the dive shack was able to offer us some insight on the local reef fish and which ones are best for eating.
So we’ve been parked in Musket Cove for a silly amount of time now. The surf has been pumping ever since we showed up and we haven’t been able to create an excuse to sail away from it. Even on windier days it provides some ideal grounds for kiting, and after a brief encounter with a palm tree I’m finally starting to pick up the sport. So many activities! But all good things must come to an end, and after a four-day downpour both the wind and swell died with no forecast of resurrection. Time to look elsewhere for fun.