Time to Go

After weeks of relentless rain, a hike to the highest peak of Maupiti in pouring rain, grey skies, and staring at weather charts until our eyes crossed, there was suddenly, ever so cautiously, a glimmer of hope. It is not a perfect weather window, far from it, but it is just enough to break free from Maupiti’s grip. Just enough to say goodbye to the spell French Polynesia had cast over us, and set course for new horizons: the Cook Islands.

If the elements behave, we will wait out an approaching front there, with waves up to eight meters high. Once the storm has passed, we will hoist the sails again, heading to Niue or the Samoan Islands and then on to Fiji.

But we are not there yet. First, we still have to get out of Maupiti. And that means: the infamous narrow pass.

In recent days, Jeroen and Ralph have started each morning with a mission: an early-morning dinghy ride to the pass, not just for the view but also to read the danger in the waves and try to understand it. The forecasts are intense: three—to four-meter rollers pound mercilessly toward the narrow passage.

The local fishermen, men with salt in their veins and deep respect for the power of the ocean, are clear: “Trying to go in or out now? You’re playing with your life.”

The Maupiti Pass shows no mercy. Narrow, fierce, and always in motion. From the beach, it might still look manageable — a gap between the reefs, like a gateway to freedom. But don’t be fooled. This is not a pass you approach lightly. It’s an all-or-nothing decision.

The current here always runs outward, with a force of three knots or more. Once you point your bow in, the ocean grabs you like a raging river. There is no plan B, no turning back, no room for hesitation.

The waves rise like walls of water, staring you down as you charge straight at them. Your heart pounds, your throat is dry, and all you can do is trust — in your boat, in your preparation, in your instinct.

A new plan was born to play it safe: launch the drone. Not just to get a better overview of the situation, but also in hopes of capturing some spectacular footage. This time, the three of them went out together.

Rajesh set up the equipment on the beach. As he was setting everything up, they were immediately attacked by a swarm of mosquitoes. Jeroen dove into the water for refuge, while Rajesh and Ralph held their ground. The drone took off, gracefully flying over the surf… and just as Rajesh was about to start filming: poof. A message appeared: “Connection lost.”

Silence. A deep sigh. And then Rajesh’s cry of despair echoed across the beach: “NOOO!”

The drone was gone. Not crashed. Not landed. Just… vanished. Swallowed by the deep blue ocean. No breathtaking aerial shots, no stunning footage from above. Just mosquito bites, frustration, and a lingering sense of helplessness.

There wasn’t much time to grieve. Technology sometimes does the exact opposite of what you hope. Normally, the drone would automatically return to its launch point after losing signal — but this time, it simply disappeared.

So here’s a humble little call-out:
If you have a drone lying somewhere in an attic, a cupboard, or under a bed, feeling bored, and if you’re willing to give it a new life, either as a kind gesture or for a modest price, we would be deeply grateful. We will receive a visitor in Fiji soon, so the drone could even hitch a ride. My men would carry you on their shoulders.

April 30 – Time to go

The forecasts are finally favourable enough. The waves have calmed, and the morning sun does its best to usher in our departure with a glimmer of hope. At precisely 9 a.m., we lift the anchor and glide slowly toward the pass, a mix of healthy tension and excitement in the air.

We are pulled through the narrow passage at eight knots with a three-knot current in our favour. At the point where the calm lagoon meets the wild ocean, waves rise to greet us head-on. But it is nothing compared to what the guys saw pounding the pass in recent days. Our Amel doesn’t scare easily. She bucks, she bounces, but she holds her course. Stoic and determined. Once we have cleared the pass entirely, we hoist the sails. The wind grabs them, and the ocean opens up. New worlds lie ahead. New islands. New encounters. And who knows… maybe even some familiar faces?

A Chance Encounter with Delos

SV Delos has been a source of inspiration for thousands of others and for us.

We have followed their adventures for over a decade. Not as fans, but as kindred spirits. Their journey didn’t just show us what’s possible at sea — it showed us what’s possible within yourself when you dare to choose the unknown. Their videos were raw, honest, and brimming with life.

These days, Brian, Karin, and their daughter Sierra live in Australia, where they’re building Delos 2.0, a custom-made aluminium catamaran that marks the beginning of a whole new chapter. But in true Delos fashion, life doesn’t stop, not even during a new build. To avoid high import duties in French Polynesia, they set out again on their beloved Delos 1, en route to Fiji, just like us.

Our paths briefly crossed in Raiatea. Jeroen spotted Brian walking and spontaneously approached him. “Brian, I just wanted to say hi and thank you. Because of you, we also bought an Amel Super Maramu.” Brian replied with a smile, “I hope I don’t owe you money.”

Jeroen laughed. “No, no, we are super happy. We have been living this lifestyle for three years now, and loving it.” Brian smiled back. “Good on you. Enjoy!”

A simple moment, but secretly a special one. To meet someone who unintentionally planted a seed in your mind. Whether we meet again soon or years from now on the other side of the world, it doesn’t really matter. The course they set showed a whole generation that dreams really can come true.

The Passage to Aitutaki

The first days at sea are almost idyllic. The wind is right, the sea is kind, and our rainbow-colored spinnaker pulls us gracefully across the water’s surface. But, as so often at sea, things change. On day three, the wind dies completely. We start the engine and motor the final 36 hours towards Aitutaki.

The pass into Aitutaki is infamous for its narrow entry: just fifteen meters wide, eight hundred meters long, and recently dredged to a depth of 3.8 meters. Before that, it was only two. It requires a Greek-style approach: stern to shore, drop the anchor while going backwards, then run two lines to land.

As we enter, two dinghies approach to guide us. There is one tight spot left, squeezed between two other boats. The dinghies also point out where their anchors lie, so we don’t accidentally pull them up. Luckily, it is completely windless: perfect conditions. Everything goes exactly as hoped.

Jeroen and Ralph spent over an hour setting two stern anchors across the breakwater. This way, we are well-prepared for the approaching bad weather.

Clearing In & Apple Cake

We have barely tied off when the health officer arrives. Mr. E.T. — yes, really — boards the boat. He’s friendly, efficient, and quickly declares us all perfectly healthy. After that, we are officially allowed ashore.

Within the hour, Vincent from biosecurity steps aboard. Beef and pork are prohibited, as are honey and large quantities of alcohol. Luckily, we are prepared: the fridges are mostly empty, the freezer is clean, and we are nearly out of booze. Vincent calmly inspects everything with a smile. He’s friendly and relaxed, as if the island vibes have also seeped into the inspection teams.

Because it is  Sunday, we have to wait until Monday for official clearance with Customs.

And so… we enjoy. The sun is shining, Lille Venn is moored beside us, and it feels like everything is falling back into place. I’m stirring a pot of risotto while Barbara slices apples in the galley for a cake — made from the last bits of fruit that just had to be used before inspection.

Life aboard. Slow, simple, and oh so rich.