Category Archives: Natural History

South Pass at Fakarava Atoll, Tuamotus

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We spent three days anchored at the south pass at Fakarava. Our initial attempt at anchoring was abandoned when I snorkeled to check the anchor and found that the area was traversed by cables from a long-abandoned pearl farm we moved half a mile east and found a nice sandy patch. We went for a snorkel around the boat and were immediately targeted by the Remora fish, assuming were sharks due for a clean I guess!

I managed to join Enata Diving for a two-tank drift dive through the pass, which turned out to be a top experience and worth every penny. The pass is 30m deep in places and they fill the tanks with nitrox as a matter of course to avoid all the mucking about with decompression stops and bottom time limits that would come into play with two relatively deep dives in close succession. Technicalities aside, the dive was truly spectacular: literally hundreds of sharks cruise the pass, mingling with gigantic napoleon wrasse, manta rays and too many other species to mention.

I was privileged to have Jacqueline Evers from The Netherlands as my dive buddy. She is truly inspiring, solo sailing around the world in her 27-foot sloop.

Yesterday Maria and I went back in the dinghy and snorkeled the edge of the pass twice, drifting with the dinghy in tow. A great experience as the colours are always better in the shallow water. The sides of the pass are really steep, so we could see all the way to the bottom. No shortage of sharks either!

Winged Hitchhikers of the Galápagos

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The Galápagos passed to port with barely a ripple — a distant suggestion of land cloaked in mist and mystery. We didn’t stop, but the islands reached out to us anyway. For several days around mid-to-late April, Sunny Spells became a floating aviary, visited repeatedly by the boldest, most characterful seabirds we’ve ever encountered.

It started innocently enough — a lone booby circling at dusk, then a second one inspecting our wake. Within hours we had a pair roosting on the solar panel frame, bobbing serenely along as though they’d booked passage. Over the next few nights, they were joined by friends. Boobies, noddies, and even what we’re fairly certain were storm petrels all took turns flapping aboard, inspecting the rigging, and claiming corners of the boat as their own.

It quickly became clear these birds knew the drill. They were utterly unfazed by us — not skittish, not cautious, just… entitled. One particular red-footed booby adopted the radar dome as its personal throne, glaring imperiously down at us if we dared speak too loudly or open the companionway hatch too fast.

Of course, with visitors come gifts — and let’s just say the deck wash hose saw more use than usual. Still, it was hard to resent them. Each evening they arrived just before sunset, circled a few times, then flopped onto the solar panels or lifelines for the night. Come dawn, they’d stretch their wings, preen a bit, and launch off into the rising sun, leaving us with feathers, footprints, and the vague sense of having hosted some eccentric but oddly charming stowaways.

There was something surreal about sharing night watches with a dozing booby perched a metre away, rocking gently in time with the swell. At one point we had five aboard, spaced out neatly like ornaments on a Christmas tree — one on the pushpit, one on each side rail, and two on the bimini. All facing forward, as if contemplating the journey with us.

The Galápagos may have been out of reach this time, but the archipelago sent ambassadors. And in their quiet, unruffled way, those seabirds left a deep impression — a reminder that even on an open sea, you’re never truly alone.

Current Affairs: Drifting West in Good Company

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With the gooseneck repaired and the sails once again doing their thing, we settled into what can only be described as a low-drama westward slide. For a full week, from 17 to 24 April, Sunny Spells glided along in the company of a generous current, light trade winds, and the kind of quiet routine that long passages are made of.

The North Equatorial Current was firmly in our corner, pushing us along with up to 2 knots of extra speed over the ground. Combined with breeze in the 8–12 knot range, we regularly made 6–7 knots without touching a line. Day after day of this — no squalls, no sail changes, no stress. Just reading, firmware tweaking, eating well, and checking how far we’d drifted while asleep.

By the 19th we were deep in “miles quietly earned” mode. The kind of sailing where you forget you’re underway until you check the chartplotter and realize you’ve made 150 miles without trying. No other boats, no land in sight, just the soft hiss of water past the hull and the occasional slap of a lazy swell.

From the 21st onward, we began seeing more signs of equatorial life: a handful of flying fish in the scuppers, a few visits from dolphins, and a rising sense that the Galápagos weren’t impossibly far away anymore. The full moon faded, and the skies turned darker at night, which made for stargazing of the “planetarium” variety. Not bad when you’re brushing your teeth under Orion’s Belt.

By the 23rd and 24th, the wind was softening slightly but the current held steady. Boat speed dropped to the low 5s, but we didn’t mind. With good power from the sun, steady progress west, and an autopilot that hadn’t glitched in days, we were firmly in the groove. We began looking ahead to landfall — not quite in range yet, but real now. It’s a strange transition: watching Galápagos grow from an idea on the horizon into an actual waypoint on the chart.

There will be more drama in time — there always is — but this stretch was a rare treat: seven days of silence, sun, and slow, steady progress west across an empty ocean. We’ll take it.