Mayday, mayday

Story and photograghy SALLY ANDREW

Sailing out a tricky pass in response to a mayday call and rescuing two fisher men; flying over the lagoon in an ultralight (ULM) aircraft: kayaking to an island full of birds; racing aboard a traditional sailing canoe; swimming in a circular vol canic lake teeming with blind eels ...

Our passage to France’s smallest Pacific territory was perfect, with light winds and flat seas. Fellowship arrived off the pass at first light and negotiated the deep-water pass into the lagoon at a slack low water.

We headed for the day at Gahi, a calm, protected anchorage, though some morn ings it is quite noisy with children yelling and roosters crowing long before sunrise.

And when the tide is up, the swell reflects off the seawall, making the water in the anchorage lively. Several small runabouts moor here.

Visiting yachts can also anchor off the administrative centre at Mata Utu, on the

west side off the wharf at Halalo or at Faioa, one of several tiny uninhabited atolls strung like baubles along the barrier reef.

In the center of the lagoon, the main volcanic island of Uvea is carpeted in rich

red earth and lush green gardens over grown with taro, kumara and bananas. All gardens are neatly fenced round with colourful hibiscus or croton plants -though one had a unique border of old pipe valves, all set in a straight line.

After completing our normal “landfall routine” - checking-in with officials, re provisioning with fresh food and collect ing mail - we shifted to the peace and quiet of the anchorage of Faioa, enjoying halcy on days in the sun, lying under the shade of our awning, listening to music and shortwave radio, reading books.

After several lazy days at anchor, the tranquility was broken. A mayday call sud denly shattered the silence of the VHF radio. I waited. Nobody responded. The call came again. Nobody listening? I picked up the microphone and pushed the button. “This is yacht Fellowship. I copy you. Go ahead with your transmission.”

A man and his 15-year-old son were in trouble. While fishing outside the lagoon, both motors had stopped - they were “not

going around”.

The skipper was excited and spoke very quickly. I couldn’t under stand him. ‘Parlez-vous Anglais?’ He switched to English.

Thanks to GPS, a worldwide satel lite Global

Positioning

System, he was able to relay their exact co-ordi nates. Their posi tion - 13 degrees 22.8 South, 176 degrees 17.2 West

- put him about 6.5 miles away and slow ly drifting away from the island. We had to make a decision.

While I plotted the location of their 5.4metre Bonito runabout on the chart to determine our compass course, Foster got

Bird’s eye view of the lagoon at Wallis

Fellowship ready to go to their assistance.

A yacht anchored off the administrative centre at Mata Utu, Starlight of Santa Barbara (California), raced ashore by dinghy to inform the gendarmerie.

We took down our sun awning, removed sail covers, hauled the anchor and

headed for the open ocean.

It was exactly slack water when we exited the often-tricky pass and the weath er conditions were perfect, blue skies with 10.12 knots from the southeast.

We sailed at about five knots, our sails being more efficient than our tiny 13hp

Yanmar diesel.

We found the runabout, easi ly, and after passing a long tow line attached to a bridle, headed slowly back towards the pass, close hauled, motorsailin'g, beating into the wind.

As we approached the pass, a local fishing boat with lots of horsepower took the tow line from us. By radio, the much relieved skipper invited us for dinner later in the week.

The following morning,

friends picked us up in their noisy car and took us to the Kafika Grille for coffee and

pastries.

Francoise Guillemoteau, the man we rescued, was there too.

Much to his dismay, it was con taminated fuel that had clogged

both his engines.

At our “heroes’ dinner” I found out that Fran9oise taught natural science at the high school. He was also an ultra-light machine (ULM) pilot.

When I murmured, in the best French I could muster, “To fly, it is my dream!” he

Kayaking at Wallis

said, “I can take you up!” So three days later at Sam I found myself soaring over the lagoon in a tiny aircraft with a man who’s motors had broken down in a ‘Mayday’ sit uation five days earlier. Was I stupid or brave? Who cared? I was rapt! What a view!

We flew slowly over the stunning lumines cent blues of the lagoon, soaring above the necklace of tiny white-rimmed islets which dot the barrier reef, following the line of pounding surf right round the island in a yellow Coyote II ultra light.

The local gendarme and his wife, Catherine, had been invited to the “heroes’ dinner” too, and we quickly discovered that they shared our love of kayaking.

So we made plans for a paddling expe dition. Catherine picked us up and, after loading the kayaks onto a small trailer, we drove to the village of Vailala in the north.

Here, we found two sailing canoes hauled up on the beach.

A third, named for the local Church of St. Jean-Baptiste {Sangato Soane Patita ) and brightly painted in green, orange, red and white, lay under some trees.

We paddled across to Bird Island - He des Oiseaux or Nukufotu - then beached the kayaks at Nukuloa, lunching on bread, pork

pate, cheese, chocolate and lemon drinks There was no doubt that birds were nesting nearby - we could smell them! Fairy terns, sooty terns, frigates flew over head. The wind picked up, as did the chop on the water, making the return rugged. Aware that even a day-trip in the lagoon can be dan gerous, since squalls often give little warning, we were well equipped with radio, flares, drogue, emergency light, food, water.

One never turns down an invi tation for French cooking so when Catherine asked, we accepted. It had been a long and exciting day - flying at first light and kayaking all afternoon.

Catherine started sauteing gar lic and mushrooms in the kitchen, her three-year old daughter along side. Little Alizee, mixing up her butterflies and mushrooms, kept chanting “ papillons , papillaris” as she munched “ champignons , champignons”. Butterflies had never tasted so good. ■