Niue Island
Throughout the night the National Geographic Endeavour beat an easterly course through the great belt of the Southeast Trades towards Niue Island, one of the world’s largest coral islands yet one of its smallest nations. A low pressure cell, swollen with moisture and wind unleashed in the form of pelting, driving rain, held firm in the middle of the central eastern belly of the South Pacific. It granted us no reprieve during the course of our transit. Our night aboard the National Geographic Endeavour passed fitfully, enlivened by confused swells mounted by strong currents running opposite to the prevailing easterlies.
At daybreak it was clear that Mother Nature would no time soon grant us any quarter. The sky remained an angry patchwork of low, gray clouds, and the sea state bordered on menacing. In the post-dawn hours Niue Island shown through a veneer of haze and drizzle as a low-lying, dark gray stretch of raised, verdant-covered coralline reef – ancient – born of biological origin and elevated as above-sea topography by mighty, slow-moving geologic forces.
Over the public address system our Expedition Leader, Tim Soper, informed us of our current position and the morning’s plans, “Ladies and Gentlemen, to the east, approximately five miles ahead, lays the island nation of Niue. Once we’re near, a scout boat will be launched to assess landing conditions. I’ll inform you all of our plans once it has returned with a report. Until then I encourage you to come out on deck and watch our approach as our vessel continues to bridge the gap between us and this unique South Pacific locale.”
Many of us heeded his advice, while others wiled away the time in the comfortable internal clime of our mother ship. Unbeknownst to most all of us a story outside was developing, one that would hold us rapt in the coming hours, and lodge in our memories as a brilliant though disturbing manifestation of expedition travel’s hidden possibilities and unpredictable nature.
From the bridge a radio transmission on constantly-monitored channel sixteen, internationally reserved for initial ship to ship contact and emergencies, was intercepted. “Sailing vessel Anna Paula this is the fishing vessel Jacqui M. What is your status? Do you copy?”
The skipper and lone sailor aboard the small sailing yacht Anna Paula replied, “My anchor is holding, but am being lashed by strong waves. I’m only meters from the coastline.”
The officers and staff of the National Geographic Endeavour immediately pricked up their ears and turned up the radio volume. It is an unwritten rule of the sea that if in the vicinity of another vessel in distress, that vessel will come to its aid if safe and possible. From the first intercepted transmission it was clear that another vessel near Niue might be in trouble. The current weather and sea conditions lent physical heft to the supposition initially raised by the radio transmission. Off our port quarter the fishing vessel, a long-liner out of Rarotonga, was seen steaming towards Niue on an almost parallel course to the National Geographic Endeavour’s. As the minutes passed and the nautical miles slipped by, our vision of Niue’s coastline sharpened. Off Niue’s western coastline, just offshore from its principle town, Alofi, were three pleasure yachts moored in the turbulent waters. Two were far enough off shore to place the National Geographic Endeavour’s bridge officers at ease concerning their status. But the smallest vessel, Anna Paula, was in grave proximity to the island’s jagged coralline cliffs. It bobbed and tossed at anchor on the edge of the breakers like a cork in a Jacuzzi.
Once the small craft’s dire situation had been visually assessed a wave of grave concern and also of helplessness washed through the bridge ranks. The National Geographic Endeavour was still a good ten minutes from a position to offer aid. On the bridge, bridge wings, and fore decks binoculars and naked eyes were trained upon the unfolding drama. On a rocky promontory some twenty-five feet above the tortured sea a contingent of Niue’s residents attempted to aid the struggling craft. In an act of concentrated concern they had thrown a couple of lines to the Anna Paula. It was a token effort, for there was little they could do from the land. The island’s residents had no vessel that could be safely launched. Nor were there any means of safely securing the vessel from their perch. At best their lines might have aided the lone sailor in climbing the precipitous cliffs if his vessel had to be given for lost.
A shore side operator acted as informer and coordinator of the unfolding rescue effort. Expedition Leader Tim Soper of the National Geographic Endeavour kept in contact, “Shore side operator can you give us an update?”
The reply was quick and to the point, “The Anna Paula has no power. Her anchor is holding, but we don’t know for how long. The fishing vessel Jacqui M is coming to her aid. We are doing what we can from the shore, but our efforts are falling short.”
Tim Soper replied, “We can launch our Zodiacs and aid in the rescue effort. Would you like our assistance?”
It was at this juncture that the shore side coordinator officially asked for the Endeavour’s help, “Thank you. Any assistance you could provide would be greatly appreciated. Good luck, and be safe!”
Tim then informed all on board of the situation, “Ladies and gentlemen we have officially been asked to aid in the rescue effort. We are close enough now to hopefully provide some help. Shortly we will launch Zodiacs in an effort to aid the stricken craft.”
The move to action was swift and immediate. Three Zodiacs were launched. Chief Officer Magnus Sundin and Deck Foreman Villaruel Bunquin launched first, equipped with extra life preservers and an array of lines. EL Tim Soper, with naturalists Tom Ritchie and John Kernan, launched in the second. Naturalist Peter Carey, Divemaster Martin Enkell, and ship videographer Joshua Newman descended to the violent seas in the last Zodiac. From the safe perches of the National Geographic Endeavour the seas appeared to be large and agitated. From water level they appeared almost mountainous – an average of five meters would not be an exaggeration.
The Zodiacs approached carefully but rapidly, devising and coordinating a rescue plan as they went. Their own safety was paramount. The first law of rescue demands that the rescuers do not become part of the problem. On final approach to the Anna Paula it was clear the vessel’s situation was grave. She was held fast by a chain-link anchor, but was dangerously close to Niue’s cliffs. Sideways to the swells, her beam was being lashed by an unrelenting stream of white water. Her lone skipper sat huddled in the exposed cockpit, victimized by the constant rocking that began during the dark of night, and drenched by water washing over the beam and into his small craft. The Anna Paula’s predicament was exacerbated by the fact that she was in the “rebound zone.” Breakers rebounding seaward from the cliff face joined forces with the incoming breakers to produce wave action around her hull of perilously frightening magnitude. Closing the gap Tim beckoned for his attention, “Hello there, can you throw us a line? We’ll take it to the fishing vessel, and she’ll try to tow you out to sea.” The Anna Paula’s skipper was clearly traumatized by the scene around him, a scene that cast him as the central player. However, he had
Throughout the night the National Geographic Endeavour beat an easterly course through the great belt of the Southeast Trades towards Niue Island, one of the world’s largest coral islands yet one of its smallest nations. A low pressure cell, swollen with moisture and wind unleashed in the form of pelting, driving rain, held firm in the middle of the central eastern belly of the South Pacific. It granted us no reprieve during the course of our transit. Our night aboard the National Geographic Endeavour passed fitfully, enlivened by confused swells mounted by strong currents running opposite to the prevailing easterlies.
At daybreak it was clear that Mother Nature would no time soon grant us any quarter. The sky remained an angry patchwork of low, gray clouds, and the sea state bordered on menacing. In the post-dawn hours Niue Island shown through a veneer of haze and drizzle as a low-lying, dark gray stretch of raised, verdant-covered coralline reef – ancient – born of biological origin and elevated as above-sea topography by mighty, slow-moving geologic forces.
Over the public address system our Expedition Leader, Tim Soper, informed us of our current position and the morning’s plans, “Ladies and Gentlemen, to the east, approximately five miles ahead, lays the island nation of Niue. Once we’re near, a scout boat will be launched to assess landing conditions. I’ll inform you all of our plans once it has returned with a report. Until then I encourage you to come out on deck and watch our approach as our vessel continues to bridge the gap between us and this unique South Pacific locale.”
Many of us heeded his advice, while others wiled away the time in the comfortable internal clime of our mother ship. Unbeknownst to most all of us a story outside was developing, one that would hold us rapt in the coming hours, and lodge in our memories as a brilliant though disturbing manifestation of expedition travel’s hidden possibilities and unpredictable nature.
From the bridge a radio transmission on constantly-monitored channel sixteen, internationally reserved for initial ship to ship contact and emergencies, was intercepted. “Sailing vessel Anna Paula this is the fishing vessel Jacqui M. What is your status? Do you copy?”
The skipper and lone sailor aboard the small sailing yacht Anna Paula replied, “My anchor is holding, but am being lashed by strong waves. I’m only meters from the coastline.”
The officers and staff of the National Geographic Endeavour immediately pricked up their ears and turned up the radio volume. It is an unwritten rule of the sea that if in the vicinity of another vessel in distress, that vessel will come to its aid if safe and possible. From the first intercepted transmission it was clear that another vessel near Niue might be in trouble. The current weather and sea conditions lent physical heft to the supposition initially raised by the radio transmission. Off our port quarter the fishing vessel, a long-liner out of Rarotonga, was seen steaming towards Niue on an almost parallel course to the National Geographic Endeavour’s. As the minutes passed and the nautical miles slipped by, our vision of Niue’s coastline sharpened. Off Niue’s western coastline, just offshore from its principle town, Alofi, were three pleasure yachts moored in the turbulent waters. Two were far enough off shore to place the National Geographic Endeavour’s bridge officers at ease concerning their status. But the smallest vessel, Anna Paula, was in grave proximity to the island’s jagged coralline cliffs. It bobbed and tossed at anchor on the edge of the breakers like a cork in a Jacuzzi.
Once the small craft’s dire situation had been visually assessed a wave of grave concern and also of helplessness washed through the bridge ranks. The National Geographic Endeavour was still a good ten minutes from a position to offer aid. On the bridge, bridge wings, and fore decks binoculars and naked eyes were trained upon the unfolding drama. On a rocky promontory some twenty-five feet above the tortured sea a contingent of Niue’s residents attempted to aid the struggling craft. In an act of concentrated concern they had thrown a couple of lines to the Anna Paula. It was a token effort, for there was little they could do from the land. The island’s residents had no vessel that could be safely launched. Nor were there any means of safely securing the vessel from their perch. At best their lines might have aided the lone sailor in climbing the precipitous cliffs if his vessel had to be given for lost.
A shore side operator acted as informer and coordinator of the unfolding rescue effort. Expedition Leader Tim Soper of the National Geographic Endeavour kept in contact, “Shore side operator can you give us an update?”
The reply was quick and to the point, “The Anna Paula has no power. Her anchor is holding, but we don’t know for how long. The fishing vessel Jacqui M is coming to her aid. We are doing what we can from the shore, but our efforts are falling short.”
Tim Soper replied, “We can launch our Zodiacs and aid in the rescue effort. Would you like our assistance?”
It was at this juncture that the shore side coordinator officially asked for the Endeavour’s help, “Thank you. Any assistance you could provide would be greatly appreciated. Good luck, and be safe!”
Tim then informed all on board of the situation, “Ladies and gentlemen we have officially been asked to aid in the rescue effort. We are close enough now to hopefully provide some help. Shortly we will launch Zodiacs in an effort to aid the stricken craft.”
The move to action was swift and immediate. Three Zodiacs were launched. Chief Officer Magnus Sundin and Deck Foreman Villaruel Bunquin launched first, equipped with extra life preservers and an array of lines. EL Tim Soper, with naturalists Tom Ritchie and John Kernan, launched in the second. Naturalist Peter Carey, Divemaster Martin Enkell, and ship videographer Joshua Newman descended to the violent seas in the last Zodiac. From the safe perches of the National Geographic Endeavour the seas appeared to be large and agitated. From water level they appeared almost mountainous – an average of five meters would not be an exaggeration.
The Zodiacs approached carefully but rapidly, devising and coordinating a rescue plan as they went. Their own safety was paramount. The first law of rescue demands that the rescuers do not become part of the problem. On final approach to the Anna Paula it was clear the vessel’s situation was grave. She was held fast by a chain-link anchor, but was dangerously close to Niue’s cliffs. Sideways to the swells, her beam was being lashed by an unrelenting stream of white water. Her lone skipper sat huddled in the exposed cockpit, victimized by the constant rocking that began during the dark of night, and drenched by water washing over the beam and into his small craft. The Anna Paula’s predicament was exacerbated by the fact that she was in the “rebound zone.” Breakers rebounding seaward from the cliff face joined forces with the incoming breakers to produce wave action around her hull of perilously frightening magnitude. Closing the gap Tim beckoned for his attention, “Hello there, can you throw us a line? We’ll take it to the fishing vessel, and she’ll try to tow you out to sea.” The Anna Paula’s skipper was clearly traumatized by the scene around him, a scene that cast him as the central player. However, he had
