Eight Days in Suwarrow, Cook Islands
We’re sorry for the long wait between blog posts. We’ve been distracted by the responsibilities of land life and the horrors unfolding here in the United States. But since we’ll return to lovely Tonga soon, we realized we needed to catch up. We still have so much to share. And even during political dumpster fires, people need stories!
The Best Laid Plans…
At 1400 on July 20th, we pulled anchor in Tapu’amu, Taha’a, and headed south for the pass. It would be 8-10 days to Independent Samoa. We heard about customs issues there, so we ensured all our paperwork was in order. Our lavalavas (Samoan sarongs) were clean and ready to wear for our clearance formalities. I even downloaded basic phrases and numbers in Samoan to study during the passage.
With a low-pressure system forecast to form south of our route a week later, it wasn’t ideal weather to leave. But it was the best we could get before our French Polynesian visa extension ran out. We figured this could be a passage to endure rather than enjoy. Still, we checked every system on the boat and left nothing to chance.
Once we exited the pass, however, we turned and eased out of the weather. With following seas and wind at our backs, we found it would be manageable, even fun. My new seasickness medication worked, and we relaxed into our normal routines.
The next morning, we turned on Starlink to check on the forecasted low-pressure system as its direction and intensity would impact our route. Starlink can often take an hour offshore to connect, especially in rolly seas. And with four meters behind us, they certainly were rolly!
But this time, we couldn’t connect at all. After four hours, we turned it off. With repeated squalls and overcast skies, we didn’t have the solar power to keep it on much longer.
On the third day, we tried again for three hours. Nothing. Much like its CEO, Starlink can be unpredictable and unstable. And don’t get me started on the drain on resources!
Fortunately, we did have an active Garmin Inreach onboard. While we couldn’t download weather files with it, we could type simple texts. We texted my mom and she enlisted Dave’s dad for assistance with the weather. A sailor himself, he was used to reading grib files and assessing risk. We also contacted our friend Adam, who did this passage in 2016 and offered to weather route if needed.
With their invaluable help, we learned the front moved east along our route, and we were at risk of hitting it before Samoa. We decided it would be safest to make a quick stop at the only island en route: Suwarrow, one of the most remote atolls in the world. We would stay there only long enough to wait out the front and fix our Starlink issue before resuming our passage. At least that was the new plan.
There was only one problem: we weren’t legally allowed to go there.
Suwarrow
I caught my first glimpse of Suvarov–the pulsating, creamy foam of the reef thundering before us for miles, and a few clumps of palm trees silhouetted against the blue sky, the clumps widely separated on the islets that dotted the enormous, almost circular stretch of reef…we were in the lagoon, and it was as though the [boat] were floating on vast pieces of coloured satin…As I looked down into the water, I thought I had never seen so many colours in my life as the vivid blues, greens and even pinks that morning; no painter could have imitated those patterns formed by underwater coral at differing depths.
-Tom Neale, who lived on Suwarrow Island alone for 16 years,
upon seeing the atoll for the first time
Although Suwarrow was first discovered by the Polynesians, it was uninhabited when the Russian American (now Alaskan) ship Suvorov stumbled upon it in the 1800s. It passed colonial hands numerous times before New Zealand adopted the modern spelling. Adventure writers like Robert Louis Stephenson raved about the island’s unique beauty.
In 1952, Kiwi hermit Tom Neale built a homestead on the motu now known as Anchorage Island and lived alone on Suwarrow for 16 years. He cherished the times when sailboats would arrive, and he swapped stories and goods with them.
The atoll is now a territory of the Cook Islands and a protected national park. Like centuries before, it is still untouched by the outside world. Until last year, two rangers lived at Anchorage Island and protected the rare and flourishing sea bird colonies and endangered coconut crabs. They kept invasive species at bay. To protect all wildlife, they made sure all visitors (sailors and visitors on supply ships) only stopped at Anchorage Island and the small basin in front of Anchorage Island.
Though clearing into the country at Suwarrow was always a legal gray area, previous rangers followed in Neale’s footsteps and welcomed sailboats with open arms. For years, it was a convenient, must-see stop between French Polynesia’s leeward islands and the Samoas.
Unfortunately, Henry, the island’s beloved and most recent ranger, passed away last year, and the island lay uninhabited for many months. Without anyone to protect the atoll’s many native and threatened species, the Cook Islands government closed the island altogether.
As we sailed closer, we saw the AIS targets for several sailboats in front of Anchorage Island, one of which we knew from our time in the Marquesas together, and messaged them. They informed us the atoll was still uninhabited, and there were 11 boats in the small basin at Anchorage Island. Some had written to the Cook Islands government to request safe anchorage in this storm and never heard back. They were waiting for the front to pass.
We would do the same. Stopping there was a risk, but one greatly outweighed by continuing our passage. We decided our safety had to come first.
At 1600 on July 25th, five days after leaving French Polynesia, we meandered through the narrow pass at Suwarrow. Since the more shallow area of the anchorage was crowded, we dropped on its far edge in 92 feet. We let out all of our 5/16” chain and another 60 feet of nylon rode. Due to the long rode, we did not use a snubber or a bridle as we typically would. Since we weren’t sure how high the bommies were from the seafloor, we didn’t want the rode to be too close to the bottom, and we floated our chain as usual. We still had a few days until the big winds arrived and we’d keep an eye on everything.
In retrospect, we should have added a snubber or bridle as a backup and simply tied a hitch to a loop in the rode.
As for Starlink, the issue was simple. After we traced cables, checked for corrosion, and started a ticket with the company that went forever unanswered, we learned that the software just needed an update. Without this update, it couldn’t connect to mobile priority data. Frustrating. Safely anchored within 12 miles from “land” though, we could connect and install the update.
“Is There a Doctor in the Anchorage?”
**Trigger warning: If you don’t like gross things, skip to the next section: “Oh, snap!”**
“Attention vessels at Suwarrow, attention vessels in Suwarrow, is there a doctor in the anchorage?” I desperately called out on the radio.
“Hiya, this is Bill on SV Pixie. How can I help?”
“Denise on SV De Novo here. Can we switch to I-7?”
“Switching to 1-7.”
“Hey Bill, you know that feeling when you look down at your poached eggs and see worms on your plate? And you see one slide out of the yoke you’ve been eating?”
Dr. Bill’s laughter on the other end was warm and unbridled, a good sign.
“Yeah, I just want to make sure I didn’t eat a tapeworm or roundworm or something. We have parasitic medication onboard–should I start taking it just in case?”
I described the worms. Turns out they were moth larvae. Basically maggots–not the tastiest of the insect variety, but fortunately not dangerous either. Bill did warn me about spouting wings and avoiding bright lights, but otherwise, I would be fine. And the silver lining? He and his wife Cathy invited us for drinks aboard their perfectly appointed 27 ft. Bristol Channel Cutter, a vessel they’ve been aboard, cruising the world since they retired several years ago. If you hear me complain about the lack of space on our 36-footer, remind me of the Canadian boat Pixie and how Bill and Cathy graciously make it work.
Dave and I spent the next two days exploring Anchorage Island, paddling around turquoise waters, spending time with new friends, and prepping for the high winds to come. While we snorkeled, a giant reef manta ray approached us in a life-changing, life-affirming experience. Suwarrow was paradise. Maggots aside, we were living the dream in one of the most remote places on Earth. We were thankful for this gift from the island in the calm before the storm.
Oh Snap!
I’ll be honest, this part is hard to write. We made mistakes on Suwarrow. I don’t necessarily want to 1. relive those days, 2. expose ourselves to criticism by armchair travelers, and 3. dwell on my imposter syndrome as a sailor.
That being said, the only way to the other side of hard things is through them. So here we go…
On the fourth day, the storm hit us. Since the anchorage is nestled against the north part of the atoll, about five miles from the southern motus, we weren’t protected from the south wind and fetch. It was better than the open ocean, but not by much.
We secured everything on deck. As the conditions intensified, we grew distracted with interior projects.
We hadn’t checked on the anchor since the night before.
At around 1300, our anchor alarm went off.
We immediately rushed outside–Dave to the anchor windlass, and I to the helm. We were moving close to another boat and quickly. I turned the ignition and started to drive us away. I yelled to Dave to pull it all up.
“It’s all gone!” Through the loud gusts, Dave’s words were muffled. Staying low, he pulled himself back to the cockpit. “The rode snapped! We have no more anchor or chain.”
Shit.
Looking back, it appeared as seas built, the nylon rode jumped off the anchor roller and lodged itself between the roller and the roller bar. The rough edge chafed away at it all night and morning. We had a spare anchor, but it would be useless in these conditions. We also had 33 ft. of chain and more rode for our stern anchor, but that’s not nearly enough to drop anywhere safe here. As a lightweight cruiser, we can’t carry two sets of bow anchor chain without drooping our bow. Our storm anchor, hundreds of feet of chain, and most of our rode lay on the bottom of the atoll floor, 92 ft. down.
I should also mention that a large supply ship anchored just east of us in deeper water that morning. After nearly a year, the new rangers finally arrived. A smaller boat brought them to the homestead on Anchorage Island and ferried the gear and provisions they would need for the next nine months. What awful, cursed timing.
Remember, none of us were permitted to be there.
Riding and crashing into each wave, Dave and I circled the anchorage and took inventory of our situation.
We could leave and head straight to Samoa, but we’d be sailing to weather in potentially unsafe conditions. That was a no go for me. We’d also be essentially littering in a national park by leaving all of our ground tackle here. Then, we’d arrive in the next country with no way of anchoring in deep water. Shipping new ground tackle to Samoa would be exorbitantly expensive, if not impossible.
So we would stay here and try to solve the situation. But how? How would we re-anchor? More importantly, how would we re-anchor quickly and safely? The sun would set in a few hours. In the light, we could see the uncharted reef and shallow bommies; in the dark, we couldn’t. In the best case scenario, I imagined De Novo would wash up on a reef right here in the middle of the ocean, where we weren’t allowed to be in the first place.
The Cruising Community, Part 1
Fortunately, that wasn’t the best case scenario. My brain just tends to marinate in saucy darkness when I’m scared. As we continued to circle, we started to think more clearly. We fished out the 33ft. of stern chain and our nylon drogue rode.
Fortunately, the Danish couple on SV Luna called on the radio and said they would scuba dive for our tackle once the storm passed. Whew. Thank you, Luna!
Minutes later, they called back to say they were just scolded by the government officials. Scuba diving is forbidden in the national park. The officials have mostly ignored us as they unpacked their rangers, but at that moment, we all sensed they weren’t happy with our presence.
But other sailors chimed in with offers. Eddie from the Dutch boat Kiskadee dinghied over with another 30 feet of chain and his oversized, spare storm anchor. Soon after, the crew of the Danish boats Luna and Atlas came over with another 25 feet each. Thank you, both!
Though we wouldn’t be able to anchor in deep water, we could anchor!
Meanwhile, other boats in the harbor who couldn’t dinghy in this weather but still wanted to show support called us on the radio. As expected, the cruising community comes through. We can all imagine ourselves in tough situations at sea and do whatever we can to help. We are so grateful we were stranded with the people we were.
Since everyone’s chains were sitting unused for a while, some had seized shackles. This made connecting them difficult. Dave sat on our bucking foredeck for hours as the waves crashed over him, trying to work them with every tool and solvent we had in our arsenal. I continued to drive around, avoiding the obstacles. We were fighting time.
As the sun was setting, Dave finagled just enough chain for a swing radius in the only empty and safe (enough) spot left. It was about 20-25 feet, which was the deepest we could go with our limited chain and a reasonable scope. It was also shallow enough for Dave to dive on the anchor and hopefully deep enough to avoid grounding in big surf.
We dropped the hook by hand, reset the anchor alarm, and fastened a new bridle.
Dan called from the Kiwi boat Fraid Knot and mentioned he was a free diver. He offered to dive to our first float, about 40-45 feet down, in the light tomorrow. Another lifesaver.
After the sun set and the seas calmed, the crew from the Aussie boat Vivaldi stopped by to check on us. The young woman aboard, Clara, handed us homemade food so we wouldn’t need to cook tonight. I realized neither Dave nor I had drunk or eaten anything since this morning, and after keeping it together all day, I finally cried. Of all the generous help we got that day and the days to come, it is Clara’s thoughtful gesture that still makes me choke up. A warm meal does so much for the soul.
After dinner, Dave and I started to feel human again. I hugged him, and we stayed standing there in an embrace for a long time.
We knew the shackles connecting each chain were the weakest links of our new setup, and we were nervous about changing wind directions, so we took turns as an anchor watch all night.
The Cruising Community, Part 2
The next morning, Dave joined Dan to search for our anchor. Our old anchorage coordinates were still saved in our NoForiegnLand app so Dave used his phone GPS to find the spot, and Dan jumped in the water to look around. He instantly saw our bright yellow float and dove down on it with a line. He looped a line through the submerged float line and brought it back to the surface, where they tied it off to another large buoy.
We now had a solid connection from anchor to air!
With a marker on the water, we could theoretically hook the line, feed it through our windlass, and pull everything up. We requested support via radio, and Vivaldi, Luna, Kiskadee, Atlas, and Sirius sent their strapping young crew to help Dave pull it up. Eddie and Clara helped me in the cockpit.
I motored up to the buoy so the crew up front could grab it. It was difficult to stay in one spot in such big surf and wind, and even more difficult to see our float. Even with no canvas out, I struggled to keep the boat from sailing. I continually had to floor it and reverse to stay with the mark, and if we lost it, I had to circle to line it back up again. Meanwhile, those up front grew beaten, bruised, and rope-burned in the crashing waves. After two aching hours, it was no use.
One of the Danish boats had a high horsepower motor in their dinghy and decided it would be easier to pull it up with less freeboard. We used De Novo to block them from as much wind and surf as possible, but admittedly, I did get a little too close at times. After another hour and numerous failed attempts, we concluded that the anchor was stuck.
Despite our embarrassment, frustration, desperation, and hopelessness, the most poignant emotion we felt was gratitude. We were touched that people would devote their day to helping us do something so bone-achingly difficult.
We re-anchored among the bommies and set up for another restless night. I called our friend Jeanne on SV Lucky Dog as she has both studied and experienced trauma at sea, and she, much like the sailors in our anchorage, provided a cocoon of warmth around my soul.
The Sun Comes Out
The next day, the storm lessened. It was arguably safe enough to dinghy to the island on a lee shore again. The large shipping vessel left, and it was time to talk with the rangers. Jens from Luna offered to use his large dinghy to go in with us.
The new rangers, Johnny and Keanu were busy clearing bush when we arrived, but they stopped to greet us. Their warmth immediately put me at ease. They understood about the storm conditions and permitted all boats to stay and wait them out. We scuttlebutted for a while, learning more about the flora and fauna and the fascinating lives rangers on such a remote island must lead.
They also permitted Jens and his partner, Benedict, to scuba dive on our anchor to free it. Apparently, it was all a misunderstanding; they couldn’t scuba for pleasure, but to retrieve tackle in a specific spot was fine.
Hallelujah!
Back at De Novo, we noticed another sailor lost his dinghy, and it was drifting fast toward the reefs on the far north side of the atoll. The conditions were still sporty, and the sailor was in the water yelling for help. The winds had chafed through the painter line, and the man tried to swim after it. Dave’s lifeguard training kicked in, and he jumped in the water for a rescue.
“No, not me! Save my dinghy!” The man yelled out. Spoken like a true sailor.
Dave changed course and caught up to the small tender, climbed in, and got its motor started moments before it would have crashed upon a sharp reef. He turned it around and picked up the man on the way back to the man’s boat.
After everything the other boats have done for us here, Dave felt good knowing he could give back.
Later that day, the sun came out, and we saw Suwarrow in all its glory. Jens and Benedict would dive on the tackle tomorrow.
Extraordinary Humans
The next morning, our new Danish friends started to get their dive gear together. Thank goodness we were stranded with diving instructors! Their friends on SV Atlas, also diving instructors, decided to freedive to get a better view of the anchor tangle and report back to them.
They were used to working alone, and implied in the most polite words possible that we would get in the way, so Dave and I stayed on De Novo. He worked on projects, and I baked brownies and cookies to thank everyone in the anchorage.
But lo and beyond, before Jens and Benedict could even finish prepping their tanks, the Atlas crew emerged victorious from the depths with anchor, chain, and all!
Markus and Silje, the superhuman couple on Atlas, decided last minute to FREE DIVE 92 feet and untangle the anchor from a bommie themselves. 92 feet! For our non-American friends, that’s 28 meters! Meanwhile, the third member of their crew, Heroine* started in their dinghy and pulled 240 ft. of chain, 105 feet of rope, and an anchor HAND over HAND by herself.
Despite being professionals, they declined any payment except for brownies and hot coffee. They admitted 28 meters was a new personal record for them and, except for a little pressure in their ears, they felt fine. In fact, Markus was out swimming again a couple hours later and offered to check on our anchor after we respliced our new rode and reset it.
Leve Danmark! Mange Tak!
Eddie also came over to help us change out the anchors and provide support. His help through all of it was invaluable. Hartelijk dank, Kiskadee.
The next morning, we asked Johnny and Keanu if we could check into the country legally. They obliged. We arrived in our finest clothes and a big bag of homemade cookies to thank them for their hospitality. They had laid out their passport stamps and our declaration forms on an official desk in the middle of the jungle. It was surreal. We were the first people to check in to the Cook Islands via Suwarrow in 2024 and five minutes later, the first to check out. They wished us luck on our journey.
*Heroine is not this incredible woman’s real name, but I am ashamed to reveal I don’t remember it and could not find the boat’s contact info to ask.
Reflections
Later, when Dave and I spoke about this experience, we realized we looked at our time here differently. To me, this was a traumatic sequence of events that made me question my abilities as a sailor. To him, it was a highlight infused with important lessons and a chance to grow closer to each other and the wonderful cruising community. And he was right. We learned so much in Suwarrow. With everything going on in our country, our experiences at Suwarrow redeem our faith in humanity.
I may have started our Suwarrow journey as maggot girl, but at the risk of sounding cheesy, I emerged as something different. I became a stronger, more confident sailor who knows that if bad things happen, we have each other and the extraordinary sailing community by our side.
We left the next morning in calm, beautiful seas, we unfurled our wings and flew west.
“How puny the islets seemed in the vast rolling emptiness of the Pacific! [Others] had called them fragile but they were more than that. To me they looked almost forlorn, so that it seemed amazing they could have survived the titanic forces of nature which have so often wiped out large islands.”
-Tom Neale, on Suwarrow Island
Up next: beautiful Samoa.
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| Caterpillars for breakfast |
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| The ethereal Suwarrow coconut crab |
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| Anchorage Island |
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| A statue of Tom Neale, hermit of Suwarrow |
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Abandoned homestead, pre-Johnny and Keanu |
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| White tern, I think? |
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| Blue-footed booby |
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| Without rangers for nearly a year, ivy overtook the island. |
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| It was strange to see Ivy attach itself way out here, 250 miles to the next closest island. |
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| Circling as we determine a plan. |
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| Samoa, here we come! |
Meitaki for reading our blog. Love, Denise and Dave 💚
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