We arrived in Tonga at the start of the Blue Water Festival.  This festival is primarily designed by the tourism board of various towns and marinas in New Zealand to convince sailors it’s a good idea to sail South for Cyclone season.  But, on the third day of the festival (and the day of my US Birthday) the Tonga Boat Yard invited all the yachties to the yard for a barbecue. So, we figured the festival would give us information about both options, and we ponied up our admission price.

The morning of the Yard Barbecue, we strayed into dangerous territory.  It’s easy to get rattled by the notion that one big decision affects all other future decisions.  The decision to stay in Tonga or go to New Zealand will impact our timing for our next sailing season.  It requires us to choose between visiting certain places we really want to see: Australia v. Vanuatu or extending the length of our trip.  If we extend the length of our trip, then we need to think about so many other factors.  Money, time, other responsibilities and life goals.  In a diversion from his usual course, Andrew strays into the Wild West of options with me.  

Bouncing along in Grin, Andrew sits at Kitty’s helm and I sit facing backward from the bow.  We list all concerns and conditional what ifs; we try to predict the future.  But of course, predicting the future takes longer than the fifteen minute dinghy ride to the boat yard.  We hop out, and push the pause button.  As we flank Grin and heave him out of the water onto shore, he breaths a sigh of relief.  “Too heavy, guys.  Too heavy.”  He says, referring to our topic of conversation.  

We trudge up a long boat ramp and see a line of boats already nestled into their cyclone cradles.  Tall cliffs hug the boat yard in all directions.  The boats are backed up against the cliff, snuggled in nice and tight.  Huge, blue straps lead from one anchor point cemented into the ground, up through the boats’ bow and stern anchors, then stretched tight to a second cemented anchor point on the other side.  The boats are all naked of sails and other deck detritus, ready for a blow.  A yard dog takes chase of a wild pig, shooing her off the premises then turning back to the party with tail wagging.  She spots us and heads over for a pat on the head.  Her yellow eyes are filled with the satisfaction of a mission accomplished; she taught that pig.  

The party has started under a large shade tent. Beers, coca cola and ice cold water are being passed around the group.  Ribs sit on a smoker, sausages are hot off a barbecue, and two smoked fish filets are for the picking.  Everybody chit chats until Kate (the owner’s partner) explains the yard’s workings to the group.  Owned by a Brit who spent several years in Caribbean hurricane holes, the yard is gathering a whole team of crackerjack boat technicians.  There is Kevin and his wife Brandy from Texas as the mechanical engineer capable of helping with diesel engines, outboards, and other mechanical issues;  Ken, the aluminum and stainless steel welding specialist from New Zealand; A Tongan Shipwright with a beautiful smile and even better woodworking skills; A crew of five Tongan yard employees; Connections with two local sail makers; and knowledgable administrators who can help secure cyclone insurance and deal with customs paperwork to make sure Sonrisa doesn’t get deported while we are away.  

We make friends; we ask a million questions. We learn that last year, while Tonga experienced several cyclones, the yard only experienced a maximum of 30 knot winds.  Sonrisa has ridden out more than that at sea and sitting in the marina in San Diego.   We learn we can pay a beautiful and fabulous fakaleiti to clean Sonrisa of any mildew or mould once per month for $15.00/hr.  We meet the boats and learn some of their histories, too.  All of them are storied cruisers, and I’m sure Sonrisa will make fast friends if she stays. 

A couple hours in, a circle of Tongans form around a large wooden bowl of Kava.  At first, they are just hanging out drinking Kava on their own, but as the crowd thins out, a handful of us join the circle.  Andrew takes a seat and the gents indicate I should take my shoes off and come around to the other side.  

“What?  Where should I sit?”  I ask, eyeing the already full circle, save for the spot behind the Kava bowl.  

“Here, here!” The Tongans exclaim.  “You can be our Toah!  Our Kava Queen!”

Apparently, women do not traditionally partake of Kava. A true Kava ceremony requires an unmarried virgin to pour the Kava for the circle of men.  It seemed that no unmarried virgins were available today, so I was the next best choice.  I took my place sitting on top of two blocks of wood, and began to ladle out the Kava. 

There is proper Kava Queen technique.  I’m not sure I received the full tutorial, but from what I gathered three things are key:  (1) you must keep stirring, otherwise the Kava falls out of solution with the water; (2) you must wipe any dribbled Kava from the sphere of the bowl; and (3) you must stand ready to respond to a series of available cues that can be translated to: “Woman, I need a drink!”   

Soon, a fine bearded gentleman from Hawaii named Chris begins pulling all sorts of instruments out of his sailboat, currently on land for a bottom paint job.  A giant drum, a guitar, a ukulele, a banjo, tambourine, and one of those little metal shakers are all passed amongst the group for an impromptu jam session.  Kevin’s son joins; He taught himself to play the guitar like an ace in only two years time makes a perfect jam partner for Chris.  As time goes on, the Americans in the crowd seem to trade songs with the Tongans.  We sing something we know, then the Tongans sing something they know.  

As the Kava Queen, I am surrounded by the Tongans.  One to my left and right, one behind me, one in front of me.  Each time it is their turn, they retune the stringed instruments a step more sharp and begin to sing.  They sing in rounds.  They sing in harmony.  There is a deep base, baritone and a falsetto (a male high voice) in every song they sing and they sound rich and smooth.  Sometimes they sing acapella (without any instrumental accompaniment at all) and their harmony vibrates all around me.  Sometimes they pluck their guitars and ukulele with a relaxed island pace. Grown men, dressed in boat yard clothes all close their eyes and sing their hearts out.  They all know all the words, each individual knows his place in the harmony, each individual plays different components of the instrumentation if there is instrumentation.  It’s as if they practice together every week.  I guess they probably do, over Kava just like this!

This is magic.  

After the song finishes, I receive two sharp claps with cupped hands.  Oh!  That’s a Kava request!  I pour the thin liquid that tastes a bit like dirt into polished halves of coconuts.  The coconuts are passed down the circle to the men furthest from me, he drinks, and the coconut returns for a refill.  It is passed around again to the men flanking those who just partook, and this continues until everyone gets a round.  “Mahlo, Toah.” They say reverently, meaning “Thank you, Kava Queen.”  And I am supposed to say “Mahlo,” in return.  

If another song does not immediately start up, then everyone talks and drinks beer until someone lets off a high pitched: “Heeeeeeyeip!”  At first, it does not register at all.  Then, two more: “Heeeeeeeyeip!  Heeeeeeyeip!”  I turn to the Tongan to my right making the sound.

“What does that mean?  That sound.” 

“It’s a warning.”  He explains.

“A warning about what?”  

“A warning that we are about to want another round of Kava soon.”  Of course.

I make sure my Kava is well stirred and in solution.  Every now and then, I get distracted and my ladle slows its movement.  The Kava powder falls to the bottom of the bowl, leaving clear water atop.  I hear a grunt of disapproval to my right.  Stir, stir, stir.  Clap! Clap!

By the end of the day, Andrew and I were both sore from sitting on the ground, and Andrew was so filled with Kava he seemed like he might float away.  But, both of us felt good about our decision to leave Sonrisa in Tonga for the season.  We will pull her out of the water and settle her on land in a cozy cyclone cradle. She will have some boat friends, a yard dog, and some Kava drinking friends. She might even be serenaded now and then by a quintet of beautiful Tongan singers.  While she sits tight and waits, we will fly home to the US for a visit and fly to New Zealand for some land travel.  We will return to Tonga in early April to get her ready to sail forward to Fiji, Vanuatu, New Caldonia, Darwin, Indonesia, then end the season in Thailand.  She will be safe and secure, and we will be able to make our sail to Thailand at a leisurely pace. Seems like a plan!