By Monday night we had accomplished all we needed in Port Vila and Rod was scouting out cruising destinations. The weather is not cooperating – instead of the normal trades, the wind is coming from an unusual direction which makes the usual recommended anchorages suspect. Rod selected Havannah Harbor approximately three hours away for our first stop – a quiet protected area that we visited last year. We pulled out of Port Vila Tuesday morning and were on our way.

Havannah Harbor was quiet and placid. Mayflor and I went ashore after lunch for a walk along the beach at low tide (at high tide there is no beach!). Most of the way was firm sand but freshwater streams from the island running out to sea created estuaries that we had to cross – these had soft muddy bottoms and sometimes our feet would unexpectedly sink shin deep into the muck. Our destination was a wrecked sailboat high and dry on the shore. I walked it off as about a 40 footer, and obviously it had been abandoned there for quite some time. Nearby the sand gave away to limestone tide pools where we saw fossilized giant clamshells, a festive little nudibranch with waving pink tendrils, and a tiny translucent octopus who sucked himself down a burrow in the sand when I poked at him. After our walk, hot and sweaty from the humidity, I went snorkeling along the reef which offered good coral and a reasonable selection of fish, although the visibility was a bit blurry from an influx of fresh water from the nearby river. We spent the peaceful evening admiring the stars, the Milky Way, and eventually the full moon as it rose over the hills, hiding and reappearing between overhanging clouds.

Next morning I set the alarm for predawn as the morning promised perfect photo kayaking conditions. The full moon was still in the sky so I spent an hour or so paddling in circles around AVATAR to capture a portrait of the boat by simultaneous moonlight and lavender sunrise. Solo kayaking at dawn is a peaceful and mesmerizing activity, absorbing the scenery and sounds of early morning – the lap of wavelets, the occasional splash of fish jumping, the breath of a surfacing turtle, roosters crowing ashore, smoke rising from village cook fires, birds chattering in the thick green mangrove canopy. A child on the riverbank called out ‘bye’ as I coasted past in my little inflatable boat.

I even had a close encounter with a dugong, although the evidence is all circumstantial. Louder than the usual water sounds, I heard a much more emphatic splash and saw a significant wake where the sea surface had been broken by something very large swimming along the edge of the reef. That happened twice, and then a third time much closer to my kayak, accompanied by a loud exhale of breath. And then nothing. Later chatting with some villagers in their canoes, I asked if a dugong lived in the bay and they confirmed that one did.

Then, as it was also high tide as well as calm, I struck off to the mangroves that lined the shore. When the tide is in they offer inviting waterways to navigate – at low tide they become muddy and knobby with mangrove ‘knees’. I spent a couple of hours meandering through the green thickets dappled with sunlight, eventually locating a lagoon with white herons and colorful lorikeets high in the branches.

We spent two nights in Havannah Harbor, and then set the alarm clocks for 5 a.m. and set off again. Knowing we would be moving the boat before dawn when coral spotting is impossible and chart accuracy suspect, Rod had planned ahead when we arrived on the first day by sailing our exit route and recording the track on the electronic chart. Now, as we sailed away in the dark, we had a pre-determined safe route through the pass to deep water.