N.B. Before visiting Suwarrow Atoll you must obtain permission from the authorities on the main island of Rarotonga. Otherwise you are considered to have crossed the national border illegally. The penalty can be a fine of up to $100 or the pleasure of spending up to two years in a Cook Islands prison.
During the pandemic, trying to obtain permission was doomed to failure, so we did not even attempt it. A notice on the beach also says that landing on the atoll is prohibited after 1 November. We did comply with that rule, arriving twelve days before hour X.
After New Zealand hermit Tom Neale, who lived here for a quarter of a century until 1977 and wrote *An Island to Oneself*, the next Robinson Crusoes were Ron and Anne Falconer. For some reason the country's administrators were not very pleased about this. After several months the pair had to retreat to the Tuamotu Archipelago, and after twenty months there they moved to Caroline Atoll, four hundred miles north of Tahiti.
After them, John Samuela and his wife Veronica lived on Suwarrow with their two sons. They warmly welcomed cruising yachts while spending most of the year in isolation without the comforts of civilisation. Eventually the family gave up the post because they wanted more freedom and left to search for another uninhabited paradise elsewhere.
In 2015–2016 the island was guarded by Harry Papai and his son Pae. Harry is mentioned in Russian-language sailing blogs.
Today, if we have understood the chart hanging on the wall correctly, rangers change every few months. The crossed-off days begin on 31 January. The most recent rangers left their post three days before we arrived.
The peculiarities of Polynesian laid-backness
After inspecting the place, the captain declared with authority that nobody would be coming back in the near future. The buildings had been disconnected from power, the generator was locked away inside, and there were no gas bottles or fuel. The chicken coops were empty and the garden had wilted :).
Naively, for the first few minutes I thought that if this was a national park, and signs on every palm tree told visitors to protect nature and not litter, then surely the park would be properly mothballed for cyclone season. That is what years of living in Australia do to you.
So at first I could not believe the rangers had really left while leaving rubbish in an outdoor bin, plastic bottles and pies, shoes and items of clothing on the porch and washing lines. Piles of tins and boxes containing perfectly good food had already been knocked onto the floor by yesterday's strong wind, while about six batteries were standing in different places exposed to sun and rain.
This magnificence is complemented by signs promising fines for rubbish and food brought onto the island.
Perhaps the provisions were left as emergency supplies for passing boats. But in that case, why were they not put into the closed cupboards that are available here?
Then we quickly remembered that Polynesians simply do not worry about these things. The environmental rules are rules. They make sure visitors behave properly and keep the approaches to the house clean, but do not lose sleep over the fact that everything left exposed for cyclone season will soon become rubbish scattered across the atoll and the ocean.
On that positive note, we shall stop grumbling about the imperfections of the world and enjoy the island.
And this island is uninhabited. — What, completely? Absolutely!
Imagine our luck. We can stop for repairs and replenish water on an island that actually has fresh water — four enormous tanks beneath rain gutters. If we became desperate for food, there is something to eat. We could sleep ashore. And there are so many coconuts that a hundred yachts like ours could not finish them.
Admittedly, a hundred yachts would never fit into the anchorage. Ten at most, and even that is doubtful.
The day before yesterday a twenty-five-knot south-easterly arrived. We had to pay out almost a hundred metres of chain and bounce in a one-metre chop that had built across the entire lagoon. Given the dimensions of the anchorage there is not much room to manoeuvre.
In 2015, in similar wind, Mikhail Kolmogorov's anchor broke free and his yacht was carried toward the reef. Only quick reactions and ingenuity saved the boat. The crew tied themselves to coral heads with three lines and survived.
There are women in Russian villages
The captain spent all day trying to revive the watermaker. The result was grim: — We no longer have a watermaker.
It lasted almost four years and died. Five thousand dollars. Amen.
Strict water rationing continues.
The girls and I were responsible for carrying water from shore. Three twenty-litre jerry cans plus another twenty-five litres in plastic bottles. We made four trips in a day. Under oars, because we are anchored far away.
Nastya went first, in the worst heat and without a trolley. She carried the jerry cans herself for the hundred metres between the tank and the dinghy. Afterwards our water carrier was diagnosed with bruises everywhere and sunburn over practically every inch of skin, so the deckhand and I took over.
By then rain had begun and the sun did not have time to incinerate us. Having learned from Nastya's experience, we excavated a trolley from the depths of the hold. For half the distance from the house to the dinghy it rolls. Then it sinks into loose sand and large chunks of coral. Still, dragging a trolley is easier than carrying a jerry can in fragile female hands.
Then comes the pier: small, battered and lined with sharp living rock.
The first mate carried her fill and spent the entire night feeling sorry for her aching arms. My back, at least, survived. Apparently years of yacht life have taught me how to lift heavy things properly.
Ladunya also filled containers, carried things, washed and rinsed everything she could find without stopping. We returned from the third run at dusk with a full bucket of clean laundry after showering under a hose in coconut-and-mosquito paradise.
Happy, exhausted and eaten by mosquitoes — tiny but vicious ones.
Yesterday the captain sawed the boom off. Just like that: picked up a hacksaw and cut it. Why and how — that will be in the next post.
There are still endless repairs to do, a huge wash planned, and several days of rowing water back and forth.
Until next time, friends! We still have only satellite email, one mailbox for the entire crew, and that is where this post is being sent from. It reaches the website with a miserable photograph because one decent image would consume a month's data allowance. Once we reach internet access, there will be photographs and video, including drone footage.
But your comments do reach us, and you cannot imagine how much we love receiving them. Greetings from the mainland are the best medicine for loneliness.
The crew has not seen a single other person for fifty days. Though that is not yet our record — we have gone longer.
Hugs! Enormous thanks to everyone supporting the expedition's fighting spirit through YooMoney and PayPal. Hugs to every one of you. Thank you for including messages with your transfers. May everything you have planned come true.
Sent by satellite from 13° S. To see where we are now, visit travely-family.com and open the Route tab. It shows Lady Mary's track from the Rockstar Iridium 360 tracker provided by MVS Telecom.