Vuda Marina

After weeks of anchoring in deserted bays, drifting to the rhythm of the ocean, waking up to nothing but the sound of waves and an endless horizon, we set sail once more. But this time, our destination was different. No uninhabited island, no hidden reef, no sheltered lagoon. This time, we were heading somewhere unusual for us: a marina. Ten days in Vuda Marina, ten days on land, ten days living in a rhythm that has nothing to do with the sea, and perhaps because of that, feels so strangely out of place.

We sailed together with Ralph from Lille Venn, enjoying a beautiful passage with a steady easterly wind of 20 knots. My Motu glided effortlessly over the water, sailing at over 7 knots, with tight sails and a wet foredeck. As we approached the entrance, we called the marina on the VHF and received permission to come in. I took the helm and guided our floating home through the concrete opening. The heat hit us immediately. There was no breeze, only sun and concrete. Fortunately, I had bought mosquito screens for all the hatches two years ago, and that investment proved to be worth its weight in gold.

A marina offers comfort, but it also comes with compromises. There are hot showers, of course, without having to calculate every drop in your tank. There are restaurants, a laundry, and even a small library where we left a good stack of books. We rented a car for eight days, which gave us the freedom to explore. We drove to Nadi for groceries, visited nearby areas, and treated ourselves to ice cream in town.

But a marina also means heat, mosquitoes, ants, cockroaches, and flies. We did our best to keep them out of the boat. The air smelled of engine oil rather than salt. You miss the direct contact with the water. No morning swims, no fish under the hull, no snorkeling after breakfast. Suddenly, you are living beside the sea instead of in it, and it is surprising how quickly you begin to miss that feeling.

Still, a marina is also a place of connection. The docks become walkways full of stories. You hear the sound of hammers, the hiss of paint sprayers, the buzz of sanding machines. These are the background sounds of marina life. Tools change hands even faster than stories. Everyone helps each other. One person needs a gas strut, another a socket wrench, and someone else just brought fresh bananas from inland. You trade, you share, you laugh. The conversations are rich, and friendships grow among the dust of the workshop and under the shade of the coffee shelter.

During one of our walks along the pontoons, they caught our eye. Small, unassuming, almost cute. Boats barely six meters long, with simple wooden hulls and a very clear purpose. These are not weekend cruisers or pleasure boats. These are Globe 5.80s, tiny heroes with a big mission.

The Class Globe 5.80 was designed by Polish naval architect Janusz Maderski and promoted worldwide by Don McIntyre, who you may know as the man behind the Golden Globe Race. Their shared vision was clear and powerful: to make ocean sailing accessible to everyone. Not with million-dollar yachts or factory-built boats, but with self-built vessels, affordable, light, strong, and made for solo sailors with a dream.

They sit quietly in the morning sun, yet they seem to buzz with potential. Built plank by plank, screw by screw, by the sailors themselves. No expensive shipyards, no design teams, just passion, effort, and determination. They are part of something special: the Mini Globe Race, a solo circumnavigation sailed in stages, in hand-built boats only 5.80 meters long. There’s no unnecessary luxury on board, no fridge, no watermaker, but there is Starlink and an autopilot. Apart from that, it’s just you, your boat, and the ocean.

Among the 5.80s lies Trekka, the very first boat ever built in this class. On board is Ertan Beskardes, a sailor with a story that stays with you. He participated in the Golden Globe Race in both 2018 and 2022, but withdrew both times. Not because of technical failure or storms, but because of longing. “Without contact with my family, the joy of sailing disappears,” he says honestly.

In the Mini Globe Race, he sees a new opportunity. Thanks to modern tools like Starlink, he can now stay in touch with his wife and children every day, and that changes everything. The race now feels more like a true world journey, rather than a lonely challenge.

His boat is small, simple, but strong. During the Globe 5.80 Transat in 2023, he endured a storm that lasted twenty hours, in which the boat was knocked down repeatedly. But Trekka held her course. “She feels like a lifeboat the moment you close the hatch,” Ertan says. He speaks of his boat with warmth, as if she were alive. He sleeps on the highest part of the hull, cooks on a small burner. There’s no hot water, no comforts, but instead, complete freedom and a strong connection with the elements.

Ertan moved to the UK in 1979 and spent years working in military tailoring. In 1994, he and his wife started their own business. They built their first boat in their backyard and have been sailing ever since. The Mini Globe Race marks a new milestone for Ertan. “Third time lucky,” he smiles.

While Ertan prepares for his journey further around the world, we had a much more down-to-earth challenge to tackle: getting Lille Venn on land. What should have been a simple task turned out to be a real test. The trailer was just a little too wide. Some people were just a little too stubborn. There were multiple attempts, a lot of discussion, a bit of grumbling, and plenty of sweat.

But on the third try, as the saying goes, we finally got Lille Venn safely out of the water. A wave of relief passed through our team.

Ralph, Jeroen, and Rajesh rolled up their sleeves. There was still a lot to be done before Ralph would fly back to Switzerland. Final chores, clearing out, checking systems, sending sails for maintenance, making plans. Amid the tools, the dust, and the blazing sun, there was something else in the air: farewell.

It’s never easy when someone leaves. We have sailed together, shared stories, built things, laughed, and played countless games of Brandi Dog. Then suddenly, there’s a flight, a date, a goodbye. It’s part of this nomadic life. Everything shifts. Everything changes.

But it is not goodbye, only see you later. The plan is already in place: we will meet again, sometime in January or February, in New Zealand.

And so, our ten days in Vuda came to an end. Ten days on solid ground, with hot showers and constant battles against insects. Ten days of working, connecting, and saying goodbye. Ten days when we weren’t quite sailors, but residents of a temporary world filled with plans, tools, and dreams. But the sea is calling once again. The anchor waits. The horizon pulls us forward. We are raising the sails again. Because no matter how comfortable a marina can be, our hearts belong to the water.