On Our Way to Fiji

The ocean lay before us, blue, endless, inviting. And we were ready. We left Aitutaki with six boats at once. Each with its own destination, its own story, but for a moment we shared the same horizon. During the first 24 hours, we stayed surprisingly close together. You could still see each other on the horizon, a sail catching the sun, an AIS signal blinking on the screen. But slowly, the inevitable happened: the fleet began to scatter. Each boat followed its own wind, its own course. Towards Niue, Tonga, Samoa…

And us? We went for it all at once, straight to Fiji.

The forecasts on PredictWind and Windy change so quickly and so often that you can barely plan more than a day ahead. But if the weather doesn’t get worse, a narrow window opens toward Fiji. We were prepared for anything. Bad weather? We could divert to Niue. Too rough? Then north to Samoa if needed. But for now, we stayed on course: westward.

This would be our second-longest passage: around 12 days on the open sea. And never before had we been this… empty. Not emotionally (though that flutter in your stomach is always there), but literally: the fridge, freezer and pantry were not restocked, we still had to rid ourselves of everything Fiji prohibits. No meat, no fresh fish, no fruits or veggies, no seeds, honey or herbs.

So we ate like royalty. Generously topped sandwiches with chicken burgers, beef patties or fresh tuna (caught on the way to Aitutaki). In the evenings, steaming curries, still loaded with fresh vegetables, were prepped and frozen in Aitutaki for the rougher days. On My Motu, no emergency rations. Only comfort food on our way to the horizon.

The wind was in our favour: a comfortable 15 to 20 knots, coming from behind. The waves, about 2.5 meters high, first rolled in from the side but slowly shifted behind us. As soon as the sails were set, a deep calm settled on board. We were underway. Truly underway.

Our bodies needed a couple of days to adjust to the ocean’s rhythm. No seasickness, but the constant motion and new watch system took their toll. We each found our own sleep rhythm and adjusted to our watch schedules. By day three, we were feeling more energetic again, slowly becoming one with the pulse of the sea.

The first days at sea after leaving Aitutaki were eerily quiet. The ocean stretched around us in endless, empty blue. No birds circling the mast. No flying fish leaping in panic. No dolphins coming to lift our spirits. Just us, the waves, and a seemingly deserted ocean.

We sailed for days in a kind of vacuum, a silence of life, where you feel very small. As if the sea was holding its breath. As if all that normally buzzes with energy had withdrawn, waiting for something big to happen.

And then suddenly, at sunset, dolphins! A big group came to play in our bow wave. What a gift. For half an hour, they danced beside us. Life at sea returned. From then on we saw birds, flying fish, and the dolphins came back again the next evening. Tuna jumped playfully from the water.

During the night, we passed close by Niue. Just a few lights on the horizon. The moon failed to appear, and thick clouds trapped the stars. We saw nothing of the island itself. Then the wind dropped and we motored for six hours. A bit later, the wind picked up again, shifted more aft, and at around 25 knots, we picked up speed. We were sailing at 6 to 7 knots again. And somewhere out there, between Niue and the endless void toward Tonga, it happened: we crossed the International Date Line. Suddenly, we jumped from being 12 hours behind the Netherlands to 10 hours ahead. On paper, we lost almost an entire day. No fireworks, no fanfare, no dramatic ticking of the clock — just a sudden realisation: wait a minute… where did our Wednesday go?

Then the forecast changed. A large depression was moving in from behind, with waves reaching heights of almost 6 meters. We did everything we could to stay ahead of it. The waves were already impressive, reaching 3.5 to 4 meters directly from behind. We surfed down the slopes at speeds of up to 10 knots. As long as you kept looking forward, it felt manageable. But glancing back and seeing those towering walls of water behind the boat, that’s when you really feel how tiny you are on this immense ocean.

The autopilot started slipping. First, occasionally, then more and more often. A twitch in the wheel, a jerk in the course. Not good. We decided to install the backup autopilot. While Jeroen got to work, I took the helm, steering manually in the long swell, focused for an hour and a half, navigating the dark ridges.

But as soon as the new autopilot started running, we both knew: something’s not right. The sound was too loud, like something was grinding, like the gears needed grease. We left it running, but the doubt lingered. Jeroen dismantled the old autopilot. Diagnosis: a worn V-belt. And of course — it was the one part we didn’t have in spare. Typical.

Meanwhile, the new autopilot started sounding worse and worse. After dinner, we decided to remove the V-belt from the new one and install it in the old one. Naturally, this all happened as complete darkness fell. No moon, no stars, only pitch black.

I took the wheel again. With the waves from behind, in the dark, you steer by feel, by instinct. You sense the power of the swells and the wind on your head, which must stay at your back. Jeroen, wearing his headlamp, worked silently and steadily down below.

We worked for two hours in complete focus, each of us at our respective stations. Then: a thumbs-up from Jeroen. Everything is in place. We tested the autopilot, and the familiar sound returned. Steady. Strong. It worked again. A glance between us said it all. No words needed. We had fixed it.

We’d never read so much on passage. Book after book devoured. No surprise — for nine days, we’d barely touched the sails. Day and night, everything stayed the same. The boat glided over the waves, the wind held its course, and we disappeared into our stories.

On day ten, deep in the night, we sailed into Fijian waters. We passed between a group of atolls, and just then, the skies unleashed: heavy rain, thunder, and wind gusts up to 40 knots. But sheltered between the atolls, the waves stayed relatively low. Fiji offered us protection, just in time.

Suddenly, the boat started moving strangely. I got up to check. Jeroen’s shift had just started, it was 5 a.m. He was steering by hand, because the autopilot was making a disturbing noise. He’d wanted to let me sleep a few more hours until daylight, but that idea was quickly abandoned. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, furled the sails, and took the helm so Jeroen could calmly figure out the issue.

It was, of course, pitch black. I had to get used to the feel of the waves again, to feel the forces beneath the hull until everything aligned: wind from behind, manageable swells.

A screw had come loose, and a small plastic bushing on the shaft had broken. Luckily, we had the part in stock, and Jeroen knew precisely what to do. An hour and a half later, the autopilot was reinstalled. We hoisted the sails again and set course for Levuka, our check-in port.

That morning, we received a message from Lille Venn. They had already arrived in Levuka. The health officer had just come aboard, and they were sitting at the table with customs, immigration and biosecurity. The biosecurity officer had to take the ferry to reach Levuka and planned to leave that same evening. It could take one or two weeks before she returned. Thanks to Ralph and Barbara from Lille Venn, who gently persuaded her to stay one more night, we had a chance. But we had to arrive the next day before noon. Not a minute later.

We gave it everything we had. Our final night at sea was one straight from a novel: a sky full of stars, waves no higher than two meters, steady wind of 23–27 knots, and a boat speed of 6.5 knots all night long. The perfect end to a long voyage.

The next morning, the horizon stayed grey for hours. Fiji remained hidden behind a massive raincloud. But around 8:30 a.m., the sky opened just enough and there it was: the pass through the reef. At 9:00 a.m., we dropped anchor in the bay of Levuka. We had arrived. Barbara and Ralph came to greet us immediately. What a joy to hug each other again. We were in Fiji. Really here.

We called customs via VHF. They arranged for all the officials to come on board. Not even thirty minutes later, a tropical downpour began, perfectly timed, as our water tank was nearly empty. Between showers, health, customs, immigration, and biosecurity climbed aboard. Thanks to Barbara and Ralph, who had already withdrawn local cash for us, everything went smoothly. What a support. And the people here are unbelievably kind.

Levuka is not a standard port of entry, much to the regret of both residents and officials. Last year, only eleven boats checked in here. This year, we were boat number three.

But Levuka is special. Not your average arrival port. This small, charming town on the island of Ovalau was once Fiji’s very first capital. In 1874, when Fiji was colonised by the British, Levuka was the political and economic heart of the country. The treaty that handed Fiji over to the British Crown was signed here.

Back then, Levuka was a bustling port filled with sailors, traders, and adventurers. You can still find colonial buildings, an old Anglican church, and the oldest post office in Fiji. In 2013, the entire town was designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site, precisely because it remains such a well-preserved example of an early European settlement in the Pacific.

Today, it feels like time has gently stood still, the perfect place to begin a Fijian adventure.

Because it was Sunday, we had to wait until the next day to arrange our cruising permit. That afternoon, we were invited to the home of Sala, a local woman who welcomed us warmly. She would teach us how the sevusevu ritual works (including drinking kava), and where we could buy the traditional clothing required for visiting remote villages and of course, where to find the right kava: the essential gift for every village visit.

But that… is for the next blog. 😉