Between storm and silence: Replacing the C-Drive on My Motu in Fiji

Before we could sail again, everything depended on one thing: replacing the C-Drive system on our boat My Motu.

What started as a technical job quickly turned into a journey full of challenges, uncertainty, and perseverance. From our final weeks in the Netherlands to long days working in the heat of Fiji, and even a cyclone passing through while we were right in the middle of it… this became more than just a repair.
It became a story about letting go, trusting the process, and finding calm in the middle of chaos.

And that story actually began in the Netherlands.

Before you know it, you are already halfway through your stay in the Netherlands. The good news was that we had heard from Amel that all parts were complete and that delivery was scheduled to arrive in Fiji at the beginning of March. That made us incredibly happy. Jeroen would fly back to Fiji on March 10 to handle everything with customs and make sure the heavy package, weighing nearly three hundred kilos, would eventually reach the boat.

But first, we wanted to enjoy our time in the Netherlands a little longer.

Tessa had meanwhile gotten her driver’s license, something she had been looking forward to for a long time, especially with her internship in Malta ahead of her, where she would be working as a classroom assistant. Together we had booked a hair treatment, and now that she had her license, it also meant a nice drive toward Arnhem.

The head spa was truly a wonderful experience. Our hair felt extra clean and shiny afterwards, and we even got a massage, so we walked out completely relaxed. But on the way back, just before the exit to Ede, that relaxation suddenly shifted. The car started making a strange noise and began to shake. Slightly startled, Tessa pulled over onto the emergency lane. I stepped out to see what was going on and immediately saw the problem: a tire that looked more like frayed threads than rubber.

After calling Jeroen, who immediately headed our way, we received a message from him about five minutes later: “Better become a member.” I looked somewhat confused at my phone, not entirely understanding what he meant, when suddenly there was a knock on the window. The roadside assistance had already arrived.

Unfortunately, we were not allowed to change the tire ourselves on the emergency lane, so a tow service was called. We had to get out of the car and stand behind the guardrail. For Tessa, it was an experience she will not forget anytime soon: one of her first drives after getting her license, and then this. What we both learned that day is that in such situations, you can simply call 112. They will arrange for a tow service and bring you to a safe place where you can change your tire. Did you know that in the Netherlands, this is even free?

Jeroen was already waiting for us at the carpool location where we were taken. There, he helped us change the tire, and we were able to drive the final five minutes home, once again a good story richer.

Not long after, on February 1, the moment had come: Tessa left for Malta with her friend Kiki for their internship. These are the moments when you suddenly realize how quickly everything goes and how natural it seems that nieces and nephews grow up, until you witness it up close.

Tessa starting her own adventure, Jasper now towering above us and passionately playing football, Anthony and Julian both living together with their girlfriends Sacha and Chantal, Stijn who has built his own taxi company, and Bart who builds haunted houses for Europa-Park in Germany… each of them following their own path, their own life.

Where they were once small, they now stand as young adults, shaping their own future.

The girls are incredibly excited and look forward to being truly independent for the first time, an adventure full of freedom, new experiences, and a world slowly opening up to them. At the same time, we realize we will not see her again before we return to Fiji. That makes the last hug just a little longer than usual, as if trying to hold on to something that is already changing.

Wishing you all the success and joy in Malta. I understand that feeling of euphoria all too well, and sometimes I recognize little traits of myself in her, as if something is quietly passed on from generation to generation.

When we return home afterwards, the house feels a little quieter than usual. A small sense of emptiness that is hard to name at first. But as always, life picks itself back up, and before you know it, you are back in the rhythm of the day, where everything simply continues.

Things are also going well with Rajesh in India. While his life unfolds there at a completely different pace and setting, it is special to see how he is shaping his own path. He has now obtained both his car and motorcycle licenses and has progressed so far with building his house that it is now time to get back to work.

His Dutch friend Jesper managed to obtain a journalist visa for India, and together they are now travelling through the country for three months, interviewing musicians from different regions and artists who use their music to tell social and political stories, giving voice to what lives within their communities.

As I write this, they are still on the road, moving from place to place, immersed in conversations and recordings. As a cameraman, Rajesh not only captures the images but also organizes everything around it. Jesper mentioned that Rajesh’s presence makes a big difference, because he understands the language and culture and acts as a bridge. It helps the artists feel more at ease and allows them to open up more during interviews.

It is special to see them working together like this, not only as colleagues but also as friends sharing this adventure. And while Jesper will eventually turn all this material into a short film, they continue their journey for now, searching for stories that want to be heard.

Weeks fly by, and before we truly realize it, we find ourselves at the start of Jeroen’s last weekend in the Netherlands. A weekend that holds everything: celebration and letting go, laughter and the quiet awareness of saying goodbye.

We celebrate our birthdays together, but somewhere beneath the surface is the realization that this too is one of those moments you try to hold on to, while knowing it is temporary.

And then, as if it is meant to be, the weekend becomes even more special.

Angelique, our (sister-in-law) who now lives in Sweden, suddenly shows up unexpectedly. Bart drives all the way from southern Germany to be there. Jeroen’s parents have returned early from Spain and are there as well. Everything comes together.

It becomes an evening full of stories, memories, laughter, and that warm feeling of togetherness you cannot plan, but that simply happens when everyone is there. One of those evenings you know you will carry with you.

And then comes Tuesday, March 10.

Schiphol.

Suitcases, people, movement everywhere… and us, standing still for a moment.

I bring Jeroen to the airport. We say goodbye, knowing it is temporary, but also knowing it is not insignificant. Three weeks later I will follow him to Fiji, but first he has to go ahead alone. Forward to a task that will determine everything.

Because there, on the other side of the world, lies our boat. And without a solution, our adventure stops.

Jeroen immediately dives into the unknown. The new C-Drive system has to be installed, and although Amel provided instructions, they are so minimal that they create more frustration than clarity. This is not a job you just “do quickly.” It is puzzling, figuring things out, understanding what you are doing and especially why.

Fortunately, there is Bill Kinney, a familiar name from the past, someone we once met in Grenada who has gone through this process before. Jeroen reaches out, asks questions, gathers every possible tip as if they are pieces of a map he still has to draw himself.

And then the real work begins.

In the heat.

With mosquitoes constantly buzzing around you.

With parts that are heavy, complex, and unforgiving if they are not perfectly aligned.

It requires not only technical knowledge but, above all, perseverance. There are moments when nothing works, when nothing seems to fit, when frustration builds and doubt creeps in.

But stopping is not an option.

If this fails, everything stops.

My farewell at work was one that touched me more than I had expected. My colleagues had made a beautiful card, and as I read their kind words one by one, I felt my eyes slowly fill with tears. It made me realize how special this period had been. You are in the middle of it, working, living, and only when you say goodbye do you realize how much it meant and how many wonderful people surrounded you.

I look back on an incredibly beautiful time, one I will cherish and hope to experience again in the future, even though that is still uncertain. For now, it is a temporary farewell, but one without a clear return date. Still, I know the connection remains, and that makes it lighter.

Then my own departure suddenly approaches, and everything feels different again. My flight to Fiji seems less certain this time, as I am flying via Abu Dhabi, and there is unrest between the US and Iran. Moments like that remind you how much is happening in the world and how little control you have over it, while it suddenly directly affects your own plans.

For a moment, it is uncertain whether the flight will go at all, but in the end, it is only adjusted in timing, and I am still able to leave.

And so, on March 30, I set off once again to the other side of the world.

What makes this journey extra special is that, for the first time in my life, I am flying business class. What a gift. Thank you, Luc. An experience that almost feels unreal. The space, the calm, the comfort, the food, the sleep… everything. I truly feel spoiled and enjoy every moment, knowing this is not something to take for granted.

And then, two days later, I finally arrive in Fiji.

The warmth, the light, the scent of the air… and there, in the midst of everything that feels so familiar, is Jeroen. And of course, My Motu. In that moment, everything comes together again. As if the distance, the time, and everything in between simply disappears, and you are exactly where you are meant to be.

Arriving at the boat, I see everything Jeroen has already done. The lower part of the keel is in place. He is working on installing the second gearbox from above, a process that is anything but smooth, as if every component has a will of its own.

Then it turns out the drawing for the alignment tool we received from Amel is incorrect. The tool we had made in the Netherlands is not usable as intended. Once again, searching, adjusting. Fortunately, Jeroen finds a company that can correct the tool, but every extra step costs time, energy, and patience.

And at that exact moment… the next thing arrives.

A cyclone.

The tension shifts.

Do we stay on land?

Do we go into the water?

Back into the cyclone pit?

If we go into the water, everything has to be right. The propeller must be installed. The hull must be treated with antifouling. And that propeller must be set at a specific pitch. One mistake and we lack power. One mistake and we have to haul out again.

So we work together. Step by step. Focused. No room for haste, despite the pressure building.

In the marina, there is chaos, but also organization. There is still one cyclone pit available for us.

For two days, 27 people work incredibly hard to make everything safe. Normally there are 110, but due to the Easter weekend staffing is minimal. Still, everything that can be done is done. Boats are secured with heavy straps to concrete blocks in the ground. In the water, boats are positioned so that masts cannot hit each other as they move. Anchors are attached to a large central ring. Fenders are secured with lines underneath the boats so they cannot pop up during heavy movement.

Everyone helps. Everyone knows: this is something you do together.

The next morning, My Motu is moved into the cyclone pit. Afterwards, there is a briefing in the marina. What to expect. What to do. And especially what not to do.

We hesitate. Do we stay on board or not?

Because the eye of the cyclone will not pass directly over Fiji and the predicted winds remain below 75 knots, we decide to stay. A decision you make with your head, but feel in your entire body.

When it begins, the wind first comes from land. 35 to 52 knots where we are. At the café, they even measure 70.9 knots. A large tree gives way and falls across the road. Immediately, the staff get to work, cutting branches and securing everything so the road becomes accessible again.

If you want, you can still get food at the marina café. We do that too. At 6:00 PM, we walk there. Seeing people. Talking. Briefly forgetting what is still to come.

But when we walk back to the boat… that is when it really starts.

The wind has shifted.

Straight onto our bow. It feels stronger, harsher, and the boat sometimes shakes heavily. Still, we are not afraid for a moment, because we know our boat cannot capsize.

The wind remains around 45 to 50 knots. Hour after hour. Deep into the night. Until six in the morning.

The sound is intense. Not just something you hear, but something that moves through you. Without earplugs, I would not have slept at all.

And yet… somewhere between the force and the constant roar, we drift off from time to time.

Until daylight comes.

No boat has sustained damage. Everything went well. Calm slowly returns, and while the marina takes a breath again, Jeroen is already back at work the next day, determined to align everything down to the smallest detail.