Sheltering from the Storm in Aitutaki

Sometimes, you just know. Your whole body feels it before your mind even catches up: this was the right choice. The only choice, at the only right moment. Take shelter. Wait. Don’t try to be brave or heroic, just bow to the raw, unpredictable power of nature.

The storm that initially led us to divert to Aitutaki was still mild when we arrived in the harbour. The surrounding hills, covered in dense greenery and swaying trees, softened the wind’s force, giving us a sense of protection. But it quickly became clear that this wouldn’t last. On the weather charts, we watched a menacing dance of swirling systems: multiple cyclones racing across the Pacific. One of them seemed to head straight for Aitutaki, a worrying forecast that started to gnaw at the back of our minds. An emergency meeting with Lille Venn: should we sail north or stay put?

Thankfully, the tide turned, literally. The cyclone shifted course a day and a half ago, veering south just below Aitutaki. No direct hit, but its tail still threatened strong gusts. Over the next two days, we can expect winds exceeding 40 knots, coming from the northwest, the one direction in which the island offers no shelter.

Yesterday, all the boats in the harbour gathered for a meeting. Because even here, in what at first glance appears to be a safe haven, we are far from invulnerable. The wind races unimpeded across the water, tugging relentlessly at masts, lines, and our nerves. Together, we decided to shift all our shorelines four meters to starboard, so now we lie like a tightly organised fleet at anchor, each boat perfectly aligned to face the wind. A small community on the water, tied together by ropes, trust, and mutual respect.

Deep into the night, we’re jolted awake by the unmistakable sounds of storm-force winds, howling, hissing, roaring through the rigging, and voices from aboard Lille Venn. Uneasy voices. I ask Ralph if everything is okay, but his answer leaves little room for comfort.

The mooring line of the catamaran next to them has snapped. The full force of that massive boat now rests on its only remaining safeguard: Lille Venn’s snubber. If it gives out, not only they, but likely all of us, would be pushed toward shore, powerless against the brute force of wind and water.

Jeroen immediately heads over to help Ralph, and I wake Rajesh so he can assist too, no time for questions, no space for hesitation. In shrieking gusts reaching 42 knots, they begin the work of making the boats safe again.

Fixing a broken line sounds simple until you have to do it in a storm. Nature doesn’t lie. The forces you think you can handle often turn out to be bigger, more ruthless than you imagined. Together with several other sailors, they rearrange the lines and replace the broken ones. After more than an hour of focused, tense teamwork, everyone is, at least for tonight, relatively safe again.

I sit in the cabin, warm and dry, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee, eyes fixed on the screen, and deep inside I know: we made the right call. Out there on the open ocean, this wind, together with its towering waves, would have been a deadly enemy. Here, in this modest harbour, it is ‘only’ a challenge. One we face, acknowledge, and try to withstand.

An Unexpected Welcome
Aitutaki was on our route to Fiji, a stop born out of necessity. But as is often the case at sea, and in life, it’s the unplanned detours that leave the deepest impressions.

We were welcomed here by calm waters, a lagoon shimmering in every shade of blue, and a language that suddenly felt familiar again: English! After months in French Polynesia, where every conversation felt like solving a cryptic puzzle made up of half-understood phrases and warm smiles, it was like words flowed freely again. What a relief.

And the people… such warmth. As we hauled our freshly filled diesel jerrycans, islanders approached us from all directions:
“Need a hand?”
“Want help carrying that?”

No hesitation. The people are just genuinely happy that you’re here. Visitors aren’t merely tolerated here; they are welcomed.

Scooters Through the Island’s Heart
Now that we’re staying a little longer, and honestly, it doesn’t feel like punishment, we rent scooters. Flip-flops on, hair blowing in the breeze, and off we go. Aitutaki is small enough to circle in a few hours, yet big enough to make you stop again and again—for the lagoon views, for a roadside sandwich, for a chat with a curious local asking where you’re from and how long you’re staying.

We have lunch on a wooden deck overlooking the sea. This is the very spot where, in a day and a half, we’ll probably see the first waves of the coming storm roll in. The thought makes us quiet, but also grateful. For now, there’s only the scent of grilled burgers, the crunch of fresh lettuce, and the simple joy of a chair with a view. The clouds hang low and grey, perfect weather for riding around without sunburn or overheated feet.

After lunch, we ride on. We see homes clearly maintained with love: modest, but neat. Big beds, soft couches, fans, and almost always a wide veranda where someone sits quietly watching the day unfold. The grass is green, and the palm trees sway lazily in the breeze. Everything breathes calm. Simplicity. Care.

The Supply Ship
Every two weeks, it appears again on the horizon: the supply ship. Big, bulky, too deep to cross the reef. It drops anchor outside the lagoon, and then the ritual begins. A smaller cargo boat ferries containers and barrels back and forth in a two-day operation—all in the same little harbor where we are moored.

The supermarkets slowly begin to fill again. No overflowing shelves like back home, but just enough to make the island feel like it can breathe again. Vegetables remain scarce. A local shopkeeper explains that most of the island’s produce is sold to the resorts, and families keep the rest for their own use. What’s left ends up in a small corner of the shop: a few cucumbers, green tomatoes, sometimes a lonely onion.

Pausing Instead of Pushing Forward
On an ocean crossing, it’s easy to get stuck in go-mode. Everything revolves around weather charts, departure windows, and perfect timing. The temptation is always there to keep looking ahead, to the next leg, the next destination.

But Aitutaki, you were a gift on the way to Fiji. And we’re carrying you with us, in our hearts.

Then, a weather window appears. A chance to sail to Niue at the very least—and, if the forecast improves, maybe even all the way to Fiji. On May 14th, we haul in the lines, raise the anchor, and head out through Aitutaki’s narrow pass. At the very end, a rogue wave crashes straight onto our bow. A deluge of seawater floods the deck… and yes, the hatches weren’t quite closed.