Sailing at the limit

The wind has been whistling through the shrouds at 35 knots for a good hour now. White streaks form on the water, interrupted again and again by a crest of waves. The ocean is gray-black, nothing like the deep blue from which the term “blue water sailing” originates. The two islands of Manu'a Island and Ofu Island, which lie around 70 nautical miles off American Samoa, are covered by a gray curtain of rain and cannot be seen. We are sailing in 2nd reef and are still making ten knots. The wind is gusty and reaches 40 knots at times. After three hours, the magic is over and the wind slowly dies down. The sea becomes calmer and the veil in front of the islands dissipates and the first contours become visible. If it had continued like this, we would have reached American Samoa on the same day. But we are glad that the wind has died down a little. Unfortunately, it then dies down again completely by lunchtime. The low pressure in the south has already upset things and the last few hours to our destination are once again a challenge.

The weather changes

We started in Bora Bora ten days ago. The weather window didn't look too bad. But as is the case with weather forecasts, you might as well ask a fortune teller to read your cards. For the area between French Polynesia and Samoa, there seems to be very little weather data that can be used for a weather model. However, all the weather models were wrong. This is astonishing because in the past at least one model has always been right. You always have to get the right one. Which we rarely manage to do. For today, for example, all the models predicted a maximum of ten knots of wind.

After the storm is before the storm

So we sail along at ten knots. Gaby has moved inside, while I bravely brave the rain at the helm. I start to freeze even at 27 °C air temperature and have to put on my Frisian mink. Also an erotic new experience, a Frisian mink and nothing else. After the wind had actually reached ten knots in the afternoon, it suddenly started to turn westwards across the northwest. Towards the evening it came from the south and freshened up again to 17 knots. Somehow you develop a certain instinct when you've been sailing for a long time. We reef the main and take the genoa away completely. Less than half an hour later, the wind is blowing again at 35 knots, this time from the south-east. We leave before the wind because otherwise we would reach Pago Pago in the middle of the night. This time it takes until midnight. Fortunately, the wind calms down and, as before, it dies down completely. We still have 30 nautical miles to Pago Pago. I hoist the main and start the engine. We are approaching our destination at three knots and will reach Pago Pago at sunrise. I lie down on my bed because I've been on my feet for 24 hours and am dead tired. Two hours later, we have between 17 and 20 knots of wind again. The boat is already going five knots again. Far too fast for the plan to work, so I put it in reverse and reduce the speed to three knots.

Clearing in on American Samoa

We reach Pago Pago in the early hours of the morning. Harbor Control instructs us to anchor with the other boats. We anchor in eight meters of mud. Happy to have arrived after eleven days, the weight of fatigue falls over us. Despite being tired, I get the dinghy ready to clear in. According to my information, I first have to present the necessary papers to the harbour master, then visit Bio-Security, Customs and Immigration. But things turn out differently. I get a radio call on channel 16. Please weigh anchor and move to the dock at the marina. All the officials would be waiting there to clear us in. Great, I think to myself, but it's no use. We pull up the anchor again and move to the concrete wall, against which the wind is pushing us at over twenty knots. The fenders are working hard. The lady from Port Control smiles at me and asks for six copies of the crew list. Of course, I don't have that many to hand, so I make some by hand. Meanwhile, the boat fills up. All the above-mentioned disciplines suddenly sit around our saloon table and present me with their forms, which I have to fill in. While Gaby positions herself on deck for a photo shoot with one or two of the officials, I dutifully fill in every form. Immigration takes the passports and brings them back stamped half an hour later. “You can take down the yellow flag now, welcome to American Samoa.” 

A warm welcome in American Samoa

But the story is not over yet. While I'm filling out the last form, the salon fills up with officials again, which surprises me at first. The crew of the Tuvalu has now arrived with the dinghy, and it is agreed to clear in pragmatically on our boat, as we have arrived here together and we know each other. I have to smile a little because this would never have been possible in Germany. So we wait for the Tuvalu to clear in on the Katinka Enjoy and then move back to our anchorage. With the certainty that we have entered American Samoa, we fall into a deep sleep that doesn't wake us up until the next morning. I'll tell you all about our experiences in American Samoa next time. Until then, fair winds and keep a stiff upper lip.