Halo Vanuatu

(Fiji to Vanuatu S 19° 00.184 E 172° 16.178)

A sneeze is an event. That’s how I know we’re sailing in fair winds and following seas. On smooth passages, like this one, life slows down, making every detail count. 

Trimming the sails is the hardest part. Tethered on, Michael scurries around the deck, releasing clutches and grinding winches until everything is just right. I watch him like a hawk.

Between sail changes, we rock and sway to the rhythm of the ocean. It drizzles. Then, the sun blinds us—shining against a white sky. A couple of AIS targets pop up on the plotter eight miles out—likely fishing vessels, the first boats we’ve seen in two days. 

I write and cook. We eat, and I exercise a bit. We play a card game. We watch downloaded shows. I finish another book. One eye is always on the instruments, the sails, the weather.

It’s the good kind of time out. Especially at night when the stars twinkle above—zillions of stars, but no moon. I’m waiting for a pod of dolphins, a whale, a bird. An event other than a sneeze.

I don’t have to wait long. 

We arrive at Port Resolution, just as Captain Cook did all those years ago. We raise our yellow Q-flag, then, like him, we survey the shore. A few houses are hidden in the trees and—what the hell is that? Steam hissing from coastal rocks? Mount Yasur’s lava-filled crater is far away from here. Or so we thought.

There is a system here—not like any we’ve come across before, but a system nonetheless. We try to understand and follow it. We putter to the beach, work our way around the scattered outrigger canoes and up a steep path to the thatched-roof yacht club. Here we meet Kennedy from customs, who checks us in. 

While waiting for biosecurity to arrive, we walk through a village to The White Beach.

We pass the school, the health clinic, and children—many children—dancing, playing, squealing seemingly everywhere all at once. Why? Because it’s no school Friday, duh.

Two from biosecurity arrive. A nasty wave takes the woman by surprise, drenching her socks. What’s a girl to do but soldier on? It’s nothing really because I have plenty of dry socks to give. Except the man wants an almost new pair of socks, too. Michael gladly surrenders a clean pair to the cause.

Next thing I know, we climb into the back of a pick-up—something I wouldn’t dare do at home. We’re on our way to the center of the earth. It’s like a dream.

The wooden bench we’re sitting on jostles as we bounce along the pitted sand road. We white-knuckle a metal frame with both hands to steady ourselves, careful not to get caught in the Banyan tree branches above.

The villagers hop in as we go, holding on casually. One man has an adorable baby on his knee.

Now it’s time. This is what we’ve sailed to Tanna Island to see: Mount Yasur’s caldera. We’re told this volcano has been erupting in plain sight for centuries, but all I see is the occasional puff of dark gray smoke. A volcano burp. Smelly, dusty. Nothing more. Until … wait for it … wait … To our surprise, we don’t see it; we hear it— a body-rumbling, guttural roar.

Then, a fiery spray of molten rock explodes before our eyes. Should we run? Hide? Or stay, mesmerized by our planet Earth. We stay, imagining the way stories of gods and demons must have been born.