Memories of Los Roques

Sharing Sailors’ Tales

Gunter and I hosted sailing friends Rolf and Daniela during the past two weeks. They entered the Port of San Diego after being stuck on a dock in Crescent City, CA—enduring nine “atmospheric river” storms before they could resume their passage. We four world sailors have a lot in common: They sail a 431 Catana catamaran, the same model as our yacht, Pacific Bliss. Ours has a blue-and-teal color scheme. Their yacht, aptly named YELO, sports a yellow-and-white scheme. We first met YELO in French Polynesia. Later, we buddy-boated with them from Port Vila, Vanuatu to Uriparapara in the Northern Banks Islands. We’ve kept in contact over the years; buddy-boaters tend to become best friends forever. Gunter and I completed our circumnavigation in 2008, but Rolf and Daniela have continued to sail the world for the past 22 years. The four of us had a wonderful time going out for dinner, buying boat parts at West Marine, a computer at Best Buy, and provisioning at Costco, and just hanging out—all the while, telling sailors’ tales. 

• 

• 

• 

• 

A Pan-Pan Call in Los Roques

At our condo one afternoon, we traded tales about one country in particular: Venezuela. 

“We didn’t sail to the mainland but the Venezuelan National Park of Los Roques was one of my favorite places,” Gunter began. “Gorgeous sandy, sun-bleached beaches. Great snorkeling. And an abundance of fish and lobster. But what I remember most was the day we had to make a Pan-Pan call. Not a Mayday. This wasn’t a life-or-death situation.” 

Seated on our sofa, Rolf leaned forward. Gunter—in his usual chair by the window—had his attention. “That’s fortunate.” 

Gunter continued. “We waded through Venezuela’s complex customs and immigration process, picked up a few provisions and headed for Pirate’s Cove. We planned to purchase lobster from fishermen there. We could taste them already! So, we hurriedly pulled anchor and motored across the bay, surprised to face a 20-knot wind right on the nose…”

I refreshed our drinks and sat next to Daniela while Gunter paused. 

“Anchoring at the little cove was difficult and of course, there were reefs on either side. Lois dropped the hook and I reversed the engine, pulling back to set the anchor. It refused to hold. I revved up both Yamahas to gain control through the swells, and dragged the anchor back away from the island to deeper waters, all the while staying clear of the reefs.”

Rolf nodded. He’s probably been there, done that.

“Now the anchor line was hanging straight down. I cut the engines. Lois was up front at the windlass control, frantically pressing the control buttons up and down. But the windlass skipped every time. It could not lift the anchor! It felt like the anchor was hooked onto something. An underground cable? Lois said our chart didn’t show a cable, but as you know, much of Los Roques is not charted at all.” 

“All of a sudden, Pacific Bliss started moving! We began to drift toward the main island of El Roque, with the anchor hanging straight down…”

“What then?” Rolf interrupted.

I jumped into the conversation. “Gunter said to forget the cable idea. He thought there must be a very heavy weight that attached itself to the anchor—or maybe a huge hunk of coral.”

“So I sorted through the options,” Gunter responded. “We could have cut the anchor chain and attach it to some kind of float…”

“But there was no time,” I said. “The wind was pushing us toward the reefs. So we decided to make a Pan-Pan call to the Coast Guard. They had seemed friendly enough when we checked in. I headed for the nav station and made that call. Within ten minutes, an inflatable arrived with a half-dozen young men in tight tees and short swim trunks.” Daniela and I giggled until the guys give us the look.

“A few of the men had diving gear. They dove in and swam to the anchor line. Three of them boarded Pacific Bliss and headed for the bow. After a whole lot of shaking (more giggles) the heavy object dislodged and sets the anchor free.” I paused for effect. “But there is more to come. The anchor was free, but still, I could not hoist it. So one of those gorgeous hunks dislodged the anchor chain from the windlass.”

Gunter turned toward Rolf to explain. “The anchor chain had dropped all the way to the bitter end, a section of rope that was still fortunately fastened to the windlass. All 280 feet of chain and rope! Now Pacific Bliss had solidly anchored herself in 120 feet of water and we could not free the anchor from the ocean floor.”

Rolf laughed. “That’s a long way to dive,” Gunter said. “Fortunately, our Venezuelan friends were real pros. One diver worked his way all the way down. He lifted that heavy chain, hand over hand, to his team in the dinghy, who in turn, brought it up to those on the bow.”

“Strenuous work,” I added. “But those young Venezuelans were young, strong, and fit.” I glanced at Daniela who was also laughing. “With the anchor and its chain all the way up, I wound the chain around the windlass using the control, until the last 25 feet arrived, which had to be done by hand. Then I asked for help again. As I recall, a few of the men rode back with us and the rest took the dinghy back to Puerto El Roque. After we anchored close to the Coast Guard station, we thanked them and gave them a well-deserved tip. Gunter asked their leader whether he could dinghy them back to shore. He declined. Then we watched as one after the other dove into the sea and swam toward the beach with powerful breast strokes, muscles rippling. 

Daniela giggled again. 

“Come on!” Gunter frowned and offered to top off our drinks. Now it was Rolf’s turn to tell a sailor’s tale.

Help from the Venezuelan Coast Guard

Los Roques Under Socialist Rule

“We also stopped in Los Roques in 2001 and found it to be a beautiful country and a nice cruising experience. But the Los Roques we found when we came around again in 2018 was totally different under socialist rule. This is the first time I had sailed into a bankrupt country. Daniela and I were shocked to find the shelves bare! Nothing could be sold in dollars because that was now the devil’s money. Generators broke down many times every day. Cellphones didn’t work most of the time. The stores suffered about 20,000% inflation per year. The bolivar was worthless. You’d see a price posted beneath a few items left on the shelves in the morning that were twice that amount by evening! Prices changed by the minute, but each hour, clerks would post the new number.” 

We fell silent. What could we say?

Rolf continued. “Two fishing boats arrived with groceries and produce twice a week. A line formed at the store and wound around down to the beach. Only six customers were allowed into the store at a time. Daniela had to stand in line for hours. Hung on the wall at every office and business was a framed portrait of Nicolas Madero and Hugo Chavez. Men in uniform swarmed everywhere—army, navy, coast guard, military police—as well the National Park rangers we’d seen the first time around. Everybody looked around to make sure there were no uniforms around before they dared to complain.” 

Rolf explained that corruption was rampant. For example, the governor of Los Roques commandeered a local home and declared that it was her home now. But eventually, she had enough of blackouts and lack of cell phone coverage. She boarded her private plane and left her post! But the locals were as nice as they were on their first visit. They would beg visitors: “Please take us with you.”

On Monday, our Presidents Day, we wished Rolf and Daniela Bon Voyage. They sailed south to Ensenada, Mexico and plan to spend some time relaxing in the Sea of Cortez before heading off to parts unknown. Who knows where their next adventure will be? Meanwhile, my head is still swimming with sailors’ tales!

• 

• 

• 

• 

Los Roques Today

In 2022, Human Rights Watch reported that Venezuela was facing a severe humanitarian emergency, with millions unable to access basic healthcare and adequate nutrition. Persistent concerns include brutal policing practices, abject prison conditions, impunity for human rights violations, and harassment of human rights defenders and independent media. The exodus of Venezuelans fleeing repression represent the largest migration crisis in recent Latin American history. In 2023, the U.S. State Department issued a Level 4 Do Not Travel advisory. Mainland Venezuela is not safe for travelers and cruisers. The safety of  Los Roques, a National Park, can change quickly. The best advice for sailors is to rely on the network of cruisers who are there at any given time. 

About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award-winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon and on her website.

 

Cruising down The Mighty Mississippi: Part II, Vicksburg

The Role of the Mississippi in the U.S. Civil War. Our Lower Mississippi cruise began in Memphis, Tennessee, where Gunter and I met my sister Ret Ekdahl and her husband John Ekdahl. Founded in 1819 by Andrew Jackson, James Winchester, and John Overton, Memphis was named after the ancient capital of Egypt located on the Nile River. “Birthplace to the Blues” is the city’s modern claim to fame.

The four of us arrived at the Graceland Guest Hotel, part of our Cruise Package, the evening before our departure for Vicksburg.  We were surprised to find that Graceland Hotel was not located at Graceland, Elvis’s iconic mansion.  But no matter. We enjoyed a wonderful creole stew—a foretaste of the sumptuous Southern cuisine to come. And we didn’t miss Elvis; his songs were streaming continuously on the hotel TV—one channel each for the fifties, sixties and seventies—and his portraits filled the hallway walls.

After breakfast, we were called by groups to a hotel room set aside for Covid tests. Following that, we boarded buses to our cruise ship, American Melody. Our reserved staterooms on Deck 1 had been upgraded to Deck 2, so a set of passengers with disabilities could be closer to the dining room. We loved our larger suites with sliding doors to private balconies. On the wall behind the king-size bed hung three drawings, encompassing the entire Mississippi and its tributaries. How cool! We had only begun to check out the view of the Mighty Mississippi and the shining Memphis Bridge when we were called to muster on the lower deck for safety drills. Finally we were underway to Vicksburg. The river was much wider than the Upper Mississippi. We met the longest lines of barges I’d ever seen—two wide—pushed upriver by a lone towboat.

The view of the Memphis Bridge from our balcony

Artwork above the headboard depicts the Mississippi and its tributaries

Towboat pushes a line of barges that seems to go on forever–upriver.

We docked on Levee Street at 1:30 pm the next day, eager to explore this historic city high on a bluff on the east bank of the Mississippi. Built by French colonists in 1719, Vicksburg survived an attack by local Natchez Indians ten years later. The city was incorporated in 1825. By1860, Vicksburg, at 4591 souls, was the second largest city in the state. (Natchez was the first.) The current population is more than 26,000.

Gunter views the levee and Vicksburg above.

Gaining sole control of the Mississippi River was vital to winning the Civil War. The river not only brought strategic military advantages but also allowed for easier transport of supplies and soldiers to the Western Front. When the war began in 1861, the Confederacy controlled the entire Mississippi below Cairo. We knew, of course, how the Civil War ended. But we didn’t fully understand the role that Vicksburg had played. 

We would be docked in Vicksburg for two days. The four of us were unanimous: the National Military Park would be our first tour. After that, we’d explore the town. For the second day, we signed up for a tour called the “Antebellum Vicksburg Experience.”

Vicksburg was Vital to Victory. Although the nation was divided, both sides agreed that Vicksburg was the key to winning the war. For Jefferson Davis, this town overlooking a river bend was “the nail head that holds the South’s two halves together.” Confederates fortified strategic river points such as Vicksburg with artillery batteries and a ring of forts whose 172 guns guarded all land approaches, including swamps and bayous. The river was the South’s lifeline for supplies and troops.

But Vicksburg could be the North’s lifeline. The Federals could pass supplies to the South by river, road, or rail. By cutting off Confederate supplies and recruits, they could isolate Texas, Arkansas, and Louisiana. Union navy and ground forces gained more control of the river as the war progressed, fighting north from the Gulf and south from Illinois—closing in on Vicksburg.

President Abraham Lincoln understood the value of Vicksburg. “The war can never be brought to a close until that key is in our pocket.” 

The Federals captured post after post. Then they set their sights on Vicksburg. That battlefield is what we were about to see. Our tour bus driver took a 16-mile route that put the campaign and the siege of Vicksburg into perspective. At various stops, we left the bus to follow a park ranger past cannons, grave markers and memorials, and on to various to lookouts. Amazingly, the ranger made the battles come alive as he demonstrated the placement of Union and Confederate troops. I highly recommend this tour.

Each state that participated in the war contributed a monument to be erected at Vicksburg National Military Park. This is the Wisconsin statue.

Confederate General John C. Pemberton

Another stop was the USS Cairo Gunboat and Museum where we boarded a restored gunboat that had been sunk in the Mississippi River. I was amazed to see a huge wooden boat clad with sheets of iron! Named after towns along the upper Mississippi and Ohio rivers, seven formidable-but-shallow gunboats prowled the Mississippi River and tributaries. They preyed upon Confederate supply lines and shore batteries.

Restored USS Cairo showing armor and cannon.

Among the most important legacies of the Civil War was the addition of three Amendments to the Constitution, promising freedom and full rights of citizenship to African Americans. Racism, however, delayed the full implementation of the amendments. Mississippi was readmitted to the union in 1870, but a century passed before the federal Civil Rights Act of 1964 finally outlawed racial discrimination. Even so, struggles for civil rights continue until this day.

These tours taught us that the viewpoints of those legacies differ from north to south and vary from person to person. Even in our small group, opinions differ. I was raised in the Midwest; my education echoed the Union position; I was fascinated to hear the other side.  Ret and John also grew up in the Midwest, but moved to Texas in the 1970s, as adults. They’ve picked up the Southern dialect and use y’all  in their emails, but retain Midwest culture and values. Gunter was raised in Germany, but immigrated to the U.S. in the late ‘60s. His perspective is not that of a Northerner or Southerner, but of a European/Californian.  

Back on board American Melody, our differing opinions made for interesting conversation as we four relaxed and enjoyed the cruising life with cocktails, dinner and an evening performance. It felt wonderful to be waited on! 

Lois and Gunter on American Melody.

Ret and John with American Melody.

Ret and Lois on American Melody.

Antebellum Vicksburg Experience: Touring the Duff Green Mansion. The following day, we took a walking tour through Vicksburg, including a visit to the Christ Episcopal Church. The rector pointed out the two Tiffany windows and compared the current church to that of Vicksburg during the 1800s and 1900s. From there, we walked to The Duff Green Mansion, now a Bed & Breakfast.  Built in 1856 by a local cotton broker for his bride, the mansion was designed for entertaining in the grand antebellum lifestyle. When war reached Vicksburg in 1863, that lifestyle was cut short. Duff Green is credited with saving his neighborhood, including the nearby Christ Episcopal Church, by designating his home as a hospital for both Union and Confederate soldiers. Most of the town’s homes were demolished by Union cannons, but from Reconstruction to the Great Depression, this former Soldiers Rest Home was again used as a Grand Home. During the next fifty years, the mansion fell into disrepair while being used as a boy’s orphanage and later, a Salvation Army Headquarters. The mansion was meticulously renovated by Mr. and Mrs. Harry Sharp in the mid-1980s to the Grand Home we visited.

The presentation by our docent, a descendant of the original owners, was among the best I’ve ever heard. Delightful, entertaining, and knowledgeable, she held us spellbound! The mansion, accurately restored to pre-Civil War elegance, was filled with period pieces that evoke the spirit of the Antebellum South. I especially loved the pastoral paintings and the elaborate vases.

Duff’s Mansion

Duff’s Mansion parlor.

Duff’s Mansion silver set.

We all listened with rapt attention to the docent’s emotional story. She described how the families of Vicksburg survived the final 47-day siege of Vicksburg. While their young men were off fighting the Union troops in hills and valleys of what’s now the Military Park, women, children, and elderly men lived in caves. These were natural caverns in the Mississippi’s bluffs or manmade structures. Over 500 caves (which the Union soldiers called Prairie Dog Village) were dug into the hillsides. During the day, women would go back into the town to scavenge for what food they could find. During the evenings—with cannons exploding—they cooked and slept in the caves, while caring for their children. The presentation reminded me of stories Gunter and his siblings have told about surviving the bombing of Munich during World War II. It also reminded me of Ukrainians currently escaping bombing by living in the basements of homes, schools, and railway depots. 

The 47-day siege of Vicksburg eventually gave control of the Mississippi River to the Union. It was part of the Union’s Anaconda Plan—a naval blockade, a thrust down the Mississippi, and the strangulation of the South by Union and naval forces. The plan worked. On May 16, 1863 Ulysses S. Grant defeated a force under General John C. Pemberton at Champion Hill, twenty miles east of Vicksburg. Pemberton retreated, and Grant sealed the city by the end of May. In three weeks, Grant’s men marched 180 miles, won five battles and captured some 6,000 prisoners. The town of Vicksburg would not celebrate the Fourth of July for 81 years.

Scott’s great snake. Geography and Map Division, Library of Congress

The Siege of Vicksburg

About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award-winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon and on her website.

 

Tsunami in Tonga, Part III: Relief, Friendship and History

Update on Tonga Relief:

Thank you, readers, for your interest in Tonga. International humanitarian aid continues to arrive by air and sea from Australia, China, France, Japan, and New Zealand.

• Initial Damages Assessment (IDA) data has been completed and being is collected and analyzed by Tonga’s National Emergency Management Office (NEMO).
• “28,900 people have received water, sanitation and hygiene assistance throughout the country.” (“TONGA: Volcanic Eruption”)
• “Some 1,000 people (204 households) have received shelter assistance.” (“Tonga: Volcanic Eruption Situation Report No. 3 (As of 3 …”)
• The Secretariat of the Pacific Community (SPC) has supplied about 1.5 tons of maize and a variety of vegetable seeds to the Ministry of Agriculture, Food, and Forests.
• Donors and international organizations have committed some US$ 27 million in financial assistance plus a considerable amount of in-kind support to the relief effort in Tonga. (“Tonga: Volcanic Eruption Situation Report No. 3 (As of 3 …”)

This Polynesian country of over 170 islands has intrigued me ever since I viewed a TV broadcast of Tongans on the beach greeting the new millennium on January 1, 2000. Their feverish dancing was contagious. Later that year, I was captivated by the news that the 440-pound King Taufa’ahau Tupou IV had gone on a diet-fitness program and lost one hundred pounds! Gunter and I vowed to include this charming island in our circumnavigation plans.

Now, my heart continues to go out to the people of Tonga as I reflect on the few months that Gunter and I spent there during our travels. We sailed our catamaran Pacific Bliss to Tonga from Palmerston Island and arrived at Port of Refuge, Neiafu on August 28, 2002. I wrote this in my journal:

“The Kingdom of Tonga. The name evokes mystery, a sense of the exotic, perhaps because I have never been here before. Or perhaps because it is one of the few remaining absolute monarchies in the world. Tonga has a fierce reputation: It is the only island in the Pacific that was never colonized.”

Pacific Bliss Sails to Tonga

Loaf Island, Tonga

Friendship, Tongan style. Captain Cook called Tonga the Friendly Islands because the inhabitants welcomed him warmly and graciously provided him with the supplies he needed. We cruisers enjoyed the warmth of the locals as well. One Tongan who became my friend was Lucy, the owner of the Unisex Hair Salon. Her salon was the best because it was the only one in town! A mother of seven, she didn’t sit around—even though she’d had a stroke three years earlier. “Do what you love,” a wise Tongan doctor told her. “You will gradually improve.”

A hairdresser to the Royal Family, Lucy talked about them unceasingly while she did my hair. “We love our princess,” she gushed. “She is a princess of the people. She is beautiful, like Diana.” Lucy continued to let water run through my hair. “And she comes to all our functions. She likes us.” 

I told her that we can’t let the water run that long on our yacht. “We make our water from the sea, so we have to use it sparingly.” 

“You can come here and use my shower any time you want,” she said. That’s the way they are on those islands!

Dedications in Tonga are a big deal. The first one I experienced was shortly after we arrived in Tonga when I attended the dedication of an elementary school. Gunter and I arrived at the stated time, but these events run on island time. And island time means take your time. Being early, we had the privilege of watching the preparations. Teachers decorated the speaker’s podium with Tongan mats, then they fastened them in the back with rolls of duct tape. King Tupou IV was in attendance, but a pole holding up the canopy hid him from view! We changed our seats so we could see him clearly. 

The King of Tonga (left) and President of French Polynesia (right) speak at the dedication of a new school in Vavau.

A few weeks later, I attended the dedication of the new Arts and Handicrafts Center. The princess Lucy had praised took her seat on the stage and with a desultory stare, fanned herself during the monotonous dedication speech and long-winded prayer that followed. Halfway through the speeches, an intermission allowed us to walk around the hall and study the handicrafts for sale. The governor and princess dutifully rounded the tables. I watched them walk up to each display and talk with the artist. The ceremony continued. The princess spoke in Tongan and then English. “We have so many guests visiting us in Vavau. Welcome! May you enjoy your stay here.” Her warmth was contagious. I was impressed. After the princess spoke, groups of dancers performed, facing the princess—with their backs to the audience! 

Boys pose after they dance for the Princess.

At the end of the performances, we all rose as the princess and royals stepped down from the dais and walked along the aisles toward the rear of the hall, shaking hands. I was seated on the aisle. The princess reached out and grasped my hand with a firm, confident handshake as she looked me right in the eye. Her smile was genuine, warm, and inviting. I began to understand why the only Polynesian monarchy continues to exist.

These stories, and many more, are told in the second book in my “In Search of Adventure and Moments of Bliss” trilogy, “Sailing the South Pacific.”

• 

  Catholic Church, Colonial Style, Neiafu

• 

  Hut in Vavua, Tonga

• 

  Whale watching in Tonga.

• 

  Before the Dance.

• 

  Boy dancer, Tonga.

• 

  Cruising yachts

The death of King Tupou IV in 2006. The King died on September 11, 2006. Gunter and I were on a passage from Bali to Singapore and didn’t know about it until we read the Singapore Times at Raffles Marina. We realized that was the first King either of us had met. We were sad but weren’t surprised; he was 88.He had been the King of Tonga since the death of his mother, Queen Sālote Tupou III, in 1965. His son was sworn in immediately as King Tupou V, but the coronation would be held in 2007 after an official six-month mourning period. That made sense to us. What blew our minds were the Tonga Riots of November 2006. By then, we were in Yacht Haven Marina in Phuket, Thailand, pre-occupied with preparing Pacific Bliss for our January Indian Ocean crossing. As we worked, we wondered: Why would the peaceful, law-abiding Tongans storm their capital, Nuku’alofa?

The Tongan Riots. Tongans expected democratic reforms under the new monarch; after all, the government had formed a committee to do so following a 2005 strike by government workers. They demanded that a vote on at least some of these reforms take place before Parliament adjourned for the year. That didn’t happen. So on November 16, 2006, a pro-democracy rally of several thousand marched to parliament in Nuku’alofa. After the peaceful march ended outside parliament, an irate crowd of 2,000-3,000 took to the streets. The rioters spanned all ages, from children to the elderly; however, most were young men. As they rampaged through town, they tipped over cars, attacked government buildings, smashed windows, looted businesses and then set them on fire. For many Tongans, it was like a Christmas give-away bonanza that had come early. By the night’s end, the mob had burnt down a remarkable 80% of the Central Business District of Nuku’alofa. Six people were dead, and damage totaled millions of Pa’anga (the currency of Tonga). 

Building burns in Tonga during 2006 riots.

The Tongan government, fearing that it was facing a revolution, quickly requested armed assistance from Australia and New Zealand to quell its unruly subjects. About 150 Australian and New Zealand troops and police officers arrived. After a few weeks, over 570 people were arrested, most of whom were beaten by soldiers and police.

Tonga’s Transition to a Constitutional Democracy. The ceremonial accession of King Tupou V was deferred to 2008 due to his decision to focus on the reconstruction of the damaged capital. 

Two ceremonies marked Tupou’s coronation. The first was a Taumafa Kava(Royal Kava Ring Ceremony). The king sat on a pile of handwoven pandanus mats facing the sea while 200 Tongan nobles and chiefs wearing woven skirts and seashells marched around him. He wore a garland of flowers and the traditional Tongan ta’ovala (woven mat skirt). Hundreds of baskets of food and seventy cooked pigs were presented to the King and his assembly of chiefs and nobles. Later that night, schoolchildren carrying 30,000 torches lit the sky to proclaim the coronation. 

A second, European-style coronation ceremony took place on August 2, 2008 in the Nuku’alofa Centennial Chapel, attended by royalty and nobility from around the world. Archbishop Bryce presented Tongan regalia: the ring, scepter and sword; then he placed the Tongan Crown on the monarch’s head. 

As a Crown Prince, King George had been in favor of a gradual transition to democracy. He said that the Constitution of Tonga protected free speech. After his coronation, he announced that he would relinquish most of his power and follow the recommendations of his Prime Minister, who would manage day-to-day affairs. The King also sold off lucrative business interests and announced parliamentary reform and elections in 2010. The royal palace spokesperson announced, “The Sovereign of the only Polynesian kingdom … is voluntarily surrendering his powers to meet the democratic aspirations of many of his people … [The people] favour a more representative, elected Parliament. The king agrees with them.” 

In July 2010, the government published a new electoral roll and called on Tonga’s 101,900 citizens to add their names to the document so that they could take part in the historic vote on November 25. King George would lose his executive powers, including the ability to appoint the prime minister and ministers, but he would remain head of state. Unfortunately, a year later, Tupou V died from cancer. Friends and political leaders from around the world sent condolences. “He believed that the monarchy was an instrument of change and can be seen as the architect of evolving democracy in Tonga,” said New Zealand Prime Minister John Key. “This will be his enduring legacy.”

The politics of Tonga currently takes place within the framework of a constitutional monarchy. The King is the head of state and Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces. The Prime Minister is appointed by the King from among members of Parliament, after having won majority support of its members. Executive power is vested in the Cabinet of Ministers. Legislative power is vested in the King through the Parliament, and judicial power, in the Supreme Court. 

The “Kingdom of Tonga” we experienced during our circumnavigation is no more. Tupou VI, the younger brother of the late King George Tupou, is now the King of Tonga. The current prime minister is Siaosi Sovaleni, elected on December 15, 2021.

King Tupou VI

“If a boat ends up on a reef you don’t blame the reef;
you don’t blame the boat;
you don’t blame the wind;
you don’t blame the waves;
you blame the captain.”

— Tongan Saying

(Tongan riots, 2006 – libcom.org)

The Tongan monarchy eventually got it right. The country may have floundered on a reef temporarily, but now it is solidly on course.

In case you missed them, click to read my Tsunami in Tonga Part I and Part II.

About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award-winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon.

 

Planning to Travel Again

FESTPAC, the Festival of Pacific Arts and Culture, was first on my Bucket List.

This week’s Sunday paper tells me that there’s a boom in people planning, but not making, travel arrangements. Until Covid clears, people just want to put some joy back into their lives. I’d don’t blame them. As an adventurer with wanderlust in my blood, dreaming of traveling again is like giving a drink of water to a parched soul. So, Gunter and I spent part of the day making out a new bucket list.

Back in 2004, during our world circumnavigation, we attended the Festival of Pacific Arts, the world’s largest celebration of indigenous Pacific Islanders. This festival is hosted every four years by a different Pacific Island nation. At that time, we’d vowed to attend another one when the country and timing suited us. This could be the year! The 2020 festival was cancelled due to Covid and rescheduled for June 18-27, 2021 in Honolulu, Hawaii. The last such event, held in Guam in 2016, drew 90,000 visitors. This year’s festival will be made up of 28 nations, 3,000 delegates and could attract 100,000 visitors. I turned to Günter: “Because we have no schedule for this year, this fits perfectly. Shall we plan but not book?”

That turned out to be the applicable question. The very next day, Günter went back to the website to check on hotel reservations. The 2021 festival is now cancelled! The next one will be in 2024. FESTPAC will remain on my Bucket List but will no longer be Number One.

The following story about our experiences during 2004 FESTPAC is excerpted from The Long Way Back, the third book in my sailing/adventure trilogy:

A Taste of the Pacific Arts
Palau Marina Hotel, Koror, Palau
August 1, 2004

Even though Pacific Bliss is now berthed in Australia, I’m not quite ready to put the South Pacific islands behind me. I’d love to be able to sample even more of the culture of these islands before we sail on to Indonesia and ports beyond. So, I talk Günter into treating me to the Festival for my birthday. The Festival occurs every four years and changes venues, like the Olympics, but that’s where the resemblance ends. First, it’s a celebration, not a competition. And second, the way it’s organized is island-style: It flows freely from one event to the other; schedules are treated as guidelines. Attending the Festival will be a grand finale to our South Pacific adventures and provide a taste of those islands we haven’t visited.

We arrive at the Palau Marina Hotel after a day’s layover in Guam following a flight from Cairns, Australia. In the lobby—decorated with bamboo furniture and giant shells—our taxi driver introduces us to the Japanese man who owns the hotel. We bow and talk with him while our driver translates. Smiling Filipina waitresses lead us to our table where we enjoy an arrival dinner of sushi and Asahi (Japanese beer). On leaden legs we climb the steps to our third-floor room and crash. We will have two days to rest up before the action-packed Festival begins.

The next day, we order the “morning set” for breakfast: a semi-American breakfast consisting of scrambled eggs and toast, grilled sausages cut at a slant, and finely shredded coleslaw with dressing. For lunch, we order a bento; yakitori for me and squid for Günter. The side dishes here differ from our old standbys at Ichiban’s in Pacific Beach, San Diego: fish balls, poi-like sticky balls, spinach, seaweed, and other odd delicacies. Emily—one of the trio of Filipinas who works here—fans away flies as we dine on the veranda facing the peaceful harbor ringed by the tantalizing Rock Islands. Our view is a kaleidoscope of colors and patterns, the sea’s sun-sparkles giving way to darkening wavelets as the wind freshens. A warm, tropical shower gently drifts past the veranda toward a perfectly domed, mushroom-shaped island, then encloses a backdrop of rounded hills in an ethereal mist reminiscent of Japanese paintings.

I turn to Günter. “Even if this is the rainy season here, I won’t mind.”

Mind? I will soon take back those words as I become intimate with the July-August weather slightly north of the equator!

As we leave the veranda for a sightseeing walk, a second shower appears. This time it’s the real thing. A million sharp-nosed bullets dive into the sea until it’s a mass of perforations, like a high-tech sound studio. We decide to retreat to our room to take our pensioners’ nap, a habit perfected in Australia.

Later, we don rain jackets and slog along the pitted dead-end street to the Palau Aquarium. Outdoor pools hold sharks, a hawksbill turtle, and a variety of large game fish. The magnificent interior contains the best live displays of marine life along a coral wall that I’ve ever seen.

Afterwards, we walk to nearby Fish & Fins to introduce ourselves. This premier dive-and-tour operation is run by an energetic Israeli couple who sailed their sailing vessel Ocean Hunter to Palau eight years ago, fell in love with the fabulous marine life here, and—like many cruisers we’ve met during our voyages—decided to stay in the place that captured their hearts. They charter out their sailboat for overnight excursions to the Rock Islands, along with Ocean Hunter II, a motor dive boat. We check on snorkeling tours for later in the week.

Remarkably, the Opening Ceremony on July 22 begins without the omnipresent rain. “Alii!” begins Palau’s President Tommy Remengesau, Jr. “Our home is your home; our food is your food; our island is your island; everything that we have, we want to share with you…except our spouses.” I chuckle. “The Pacific Way” has evolved! In a ceremony that reminds me of the Olympics, the delegates of 24 of the 27 participating nations march or dance across the PCC Track and Field, each to their own country’s traditional music. Each delegation presents gifts to the dignitaries of Palau according to the custom of these islands, stakes a box-art gift into the soil, and then performs in front of the grandstand. And what a show it is—absolutely awesome! For cruisers, I’d recommend the Festival over the Olympics anytime.

Günter and I privately declare the delegates from Papua New Guinea Best Dressed, not that they wore a lot of clothes! They sported flamboyant headdresses topping their fierce, tattooed faces with grass skirts and bare chests. (We had the good luck to talk to a few of these delegates briefly before the festivities began and noted their friendly dispositions. Later, Günter observed two of these warrior-dancers holding hands, as is their custom, as they ambled past the craft stalls.)

The Maoris of New Zealand draw gasps from attendees who have never witnessed their indigenous greeting: the warriors march forward—eyes bulging, tongues protruding, and spears thrust—while their women yell threats and twirl balls on the end of bungee-like cords.

The speeches, performances, and gift giving seem to go on forever as Günter and I shift our weight this way and that on the hard stadium seating. Then volunteers hand out box dinners of rice and fish (symbolizing a feast) to all. Yes—one box to every one of the participants: the media, the organizers, the dignitaries, and the attendees in the grandstand—all 8000 of us! Why? Because that is The Pacific Way. Altogether, the opening ceremony lasts five hours—despite a downpour during the last two—and closes with incredible fireworks, courtesy of Taiwan.

The Festival incorporates multiple simultaneous venues and activities—from symposia, movies, and plays to crafts, culinary arts, and natural history tours—forcing us to make difficult choices. We decide to make dancing our priority. Each of the 27 participating islands has entered a dance group into the competition. Taiwan, Japan, and Indonesia, as sponsors, have sent performers as well. The dancing program continues day and night at the ball field, the stadium—and when raining—the gymnasium.

After attending dance venues for days, we narrow our favorites down to half a dozen:

1. Papua New Guinea: for their flamboyant style while displaying fierce demeanors and fabulous headdresses.

2. Solomon Islands: for dancing to the most primitive rhythms while hunched over huge homemade bamboo flutes.

3. The Cook Islands: for the toughest workout: Male dancers sensuously knee-slap to a fast, pulsating drum beat, then twirl their women in perfect sync.

4. Rapa Nui (Easter Island): for the best choreographed routine—sophisticated, yet vigorous—muscled bodies moving to a hot beat.

5. Yap (one of the Federated States of Micronesia): for an astounding Las Vegas style, all-male chorus routine—ending with pelvic thrusts bouncing critically placed feathers.

6. Torres Strait, Australia: to Aborigines for enacting realistic stories from their lives; in one dance simulation of fishing, the performer falls to the floor, catches the bait with his teeth, and follows a fishing line in, writhing all the way across the stage. That performance raises the roof!

The routines of the Hawaiian and French Polynesian dancers, though the choreography was polished, lacked the drama of indigenous dancing.

From pages 28-29, The Long Way Back.

As the festivities continue, we note that music of the Polynesians, Melanesians, and Micronesians reflects a common, linked heritage while Asian Special Performances are clearly different. The songs of the Taiwanese highland tribes, for example, are sophisticated operatic arias with the typical dissonant chords of Asian music. They are 1000 years old!

This ten-day extravaganza has to be the ultimate Pacific tourist opportunity! Imagine mingling with locals from 31 islands while you’re shopping in the stalls, having lunch in Koror, or walking through the college campus to attend a symposium. We get to know and love these islanders as never before. We talk with and photograph dancers before and after their stage performances. Often dancers are having their own photos taken with performers from other troupes; we join right in. By the end of the Festival, I realize that the participants themselves are beginning to “mix it up.”

But it’s not only the participants who are learning from each other. About 7000 people attend the Festival events here each day, including about 3000-4000 Palauans. One local says to me, “This is a tremendous once-in-a-lifetime experience. I am proud to be a Palauan; I have seen my Pacific brothers and sisters, and now I know that there is no shame in being an islander.” (In Pidgin, this enlightened view is called Blong One Talk.)

An integral part of each year’s Festival is the Traditional Navigation and Canoeing Program. At sunrise on opening day, news helicopters hover above as smoke rises from a fire, triton-shell trumpets blare, and war and sailing canoes pass below Palau’s KB Bridge. Represented are war canoes from eight Palauan states and sailing canoes from Palau, Guam, and the Marshall Islands. Missing sailing canoes from Yap and Saipan, still underway, put a damper on opening festivities. They would show up days later. The monsoon season in Palau is not an optimal time of year for promoting the canoe program!

A few days after the official opening ceremonies, the “scheduled” races are held, although not one is even close to the time on the printed schedule. Günter and I take a taxi to the Friendship Bridge near the stated finish line for the kabekl (war canoe) race. We stand on the concrete jetty, cameras in hand, on increasingly wobbly knees. Then we spread our rain jackets on the concrete. And we sit. And sit. After about two hours, an announcer explains the rules for the two heats to be held by the canoes, to be followed by the play-off. Then we sit and wait again. About a half hour later, the announcer states that, due to the delay, there will be no final race. They will hold only the 1000-meter and a 500-meter. We wait even longer.

Nearby, a few ladies dressed in red and white—with towels over their heads to protect them from the sun—are cheering for the local Ngiwal State of Palau. I decide to follow their example. I stand and cheer, then sit and wait…and wait. Another half hour creeps by and finally the race begins. Everyone stands to cheer—this time for real. The ladies frantically wave their towels like flags. The red team wins. In the 500-meter, Koror wins.

All this waiting gives me the opportunity to talk with islanders. One stocky man in a red T-shirt that must be XXL explains how the Festival has spurred the sport of canoeing. “We’ve had races here before, but with motorboats,” he says. “Our boys didn’t know how to race canoes. You should have seen them only a few months ago. They couldn’t even paddle!”

Come to think of it, I haven’t seen any sailboats in the harbors except those used for excursions. “Don’t they sail either?” I ask.

“No, ancient Palauans navigated by the stars and all,” he says, “but then they didn’t need to sail to other islands anymore. We have everything we need here. And sadly, the tradition was not handed down.”

Carrying on the island traditions and culture is exactly what the Festival aims to do. Hoping to learn how to navigate by the stars, we attend the Traditional Navigation symposium the next morning. Unfortunately, much of the discussion centers on intellectual property issues—how to prevent the usurping of traditional skills and knowledge by the West—as if we need those skills with the advent of GPS! Then the discussion turns toward how to get funding for the very program that some of the participants don’t want to share. The locals seem oblivious to the contradiction.

The Sailing Canoe Raceis scheduled for 1:00. This time, we take a taxi to where the canoes actually are, thinking that we will cleverly position ourselves at the start rather than at the finish line. By then, we have begun to understand “island time.” So, Günter keeps our cab while I venture toward the group by the canoes, potential racers who are preparing to barbeque their lunch.

“When do you expect the race to begin?”

“At one o’clock,” one of the racers responds.

“But it’s one-thirty now.” I point to my watch.

“I think the race is actually at four o’clock,” another canoeist volunteers.

“No, the program says that is the time for awarding of the prizes. Do you have a program?”

“No.”

“Hold the cab! We’re leaving!” I call to Günter.

Later, we hear that the races did occur that day—at 4:30 p.m. By then, two teams had decided not to race. Guam, Yap, and Palau—although mismatched—managed to paddle to the finish line against the wind and current under the bridge.

From pages 26-27 of The Long Way Back.

Festival activities keep us busy for the next few days. We enjoy hanging around Festival Village where we purchase souvenirs from various countries’ booths and sample their native food. We walk through the thatched-roof Pavilion to view tattooists, carvers, and weavers at work. One project, called MAT, calls for each participant country to weave a 2×2-foot square that will eventually be combined into one majestic Quilt of the Islands, to be displayed at the Palau National Museum. This Museum will also display a carved log with each country’s section, and one large storyboard representative of all carvers’ combined efforts. We view architectural displays and attend poetry readings, instrumentals, and plays. In a clever New Zealand stage play, two actresses recount the history of the Maoris from the first sighting of the white man.

During the final days of the Festival, the rains arrive to stay. A typhoon is moving toward Japan; all of Micronesia is drenched in the resulting weather system. The closing ceremony is moved to the college gymnasium. To make space, the country delegations sit on the wooden floor in the center. Even so, the grandstands are overloaded. Many Palauans are left standing outside holding umbrellas. I sympathize with this tiny country of 20,000 that has valiantly tried its best to be the perfect hosts to 4,000 visitors. But I’m proud of them as well. I’m touched by the warmth of the speeches and by the sincere effort to again feed the crowd in keeping with The Pacific Way.

“In today’s strife-torn world,” concludes Festival Host President Remengesau, “it is uplifting that so many of us have come together to celebrate the value and beauty of our heritage.”

May these Festivals continue to uplift, to teach, to inspire, and to celebrate the heritage of the islands. Attending the 9th Festival of the Pacific Arts was a birthday gift that I will cherish forever.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

 

Other SailorsTales blogs about the South Pacific are:

Breaking Bread with the Locals

The Pacific Puddle Jump 10-Year Reunion

Cruiser Camaraderie: Revisiting our World Circumnavigation

Reconnecting with Crew

Pacific Bliss Goes Snorkeling

The Largest Clams in the World

Visiting Levuka, Fiji’s Ancient Capital, during our World Circumnavigation

About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased on Amazon.

 

 

Celebrating an American Thanksgiving in Foreign Land

Thanksgiving in 2020. This year, our uniquely American Thanksgiving will be like none other. No one will be sorry to bid 2020 farewell, with its devastating wildfires, hurricanes, floods, global pandemic, and turbulent presidential election. Travel plans have been abandoned; communal gatherings with friends and family cancelled; and we mourn those who are no longer with us. 

Gratitude. Yet we must continue to be grateful for what we do have because being thankful is a state of mind more nourishing than any feast. Gratitude soothes our souls. Little did I know in March of 2019 what would lie ahead. This is what I wrote then: “I’m also grateful for the opportunity to travel by land and sea. I would not trade our eight years spent circumnavigating the world for any object money can buy. Travel has taught me to invest in money, not stuff. It has taught me to collect memories, and to press them—like flowers between pages of a book—within the folds of my heart. I’ve taken thousands of pictures, and when I look at them, I realize that I’ve collected the sights, sounds and smells of nature—and the laughter, joy, and sorrow of people around the world.” During this pandemic, collecting memories have become even more important.

Twice during our world circumnavigation, we celebrated Thanksgiving abroad. The first time was at sea during our Maiden Voyage. We had experienced heavy seas during our Gibraltar-to-Canaries passage, and I used our pressure cooker to make a meal from a frozen chicken and what was left of our tired vegetables. I wrote a blog about that experience called Thanksgiving Then and Now. During the sixth of our eight years onboard our catamaran, Pacific Bliss was berthed at Yacht Haven Marina in Thailand where we prepared to cross the Indian Ocean. I yearned for a traditional American Thanksgiving. We finally found one at the Phuket Marriott Hotel. Here’s an excerpt from The Long Way Back:

An American Thanksgiving in Phuket
November 24, 2006

     “Pacific Bliss is a vessel of splendor and tranquility…with a beautiful navigator steering us to exotic ports,” Günter says poetically, pecking my cheek. “I like it here.” 

     I love it when he says such things, but I have cabin fever. I’ve been supervising the teak varnishing and oiling project for a week now, never even leaving the marina, and I’m dying to get off this boat. Besides—it’s Thanksgiving! We don’t know if Phuket restaurants offer a celebratory Thanksgiving dinner, but Günter thinks the Marriott, an American-owned hotel chain, is our best chance for getting one. So, towards evening, I change into a special sundress, and I even curl and spray my hair. But as we walk down the long “A” Dock to our rental car, it begins to rain. And by the time we’re a few miles away from the marina, trying to find the Marriott Hotel, the storm hits with a fury—thunder, lightning and a driving, sideways deluge.

     “I can’t see a thing through the windshield. I’d rather be back on the boat,” Günter complains. 

     I’m so disappointed I could cry. “Let’s just pull over and wait it out,” I plead.

     “Could take an hour,” Günter grumbles, but he complies. 

     Fortunately, before long, the rain eases. Then we drive through pooling waters on a long, narrow, unlit road that skirts the airport. A sign reads: “Temporarily No Access,” but we slosh through anyway. When we finally exit, we discover we’ve gone in a circle, and we’re back near the entrance to Yacht Haven!

     “Let’s try this direction,” Günter says, turning onto the main road and heading back toward the marina. Then, a mere seven minutes after passing the marina, we come to the Marriott Hotel, and the rain stops magically, as quickly as it had begun. I can’t believe it. There it is before me—Civilization! A wide, imposing entrance beckons, with valet parking, an infinity pool that stretches all the way to the Andaman Sea, intricate wood statues and carvings, and rich, Thai décor. I can’t wait to get inside and, once there, we stroll past bubbling fountains with overlays of gold and into one of the hotel’s three restaurants. 

The gorgeous tropical grounds at Marriott on Andaman Sea.

     Günter spots a “Thanksgiving Buffet” sign. He’s drawn by an enticing aroma wafting from a huge wok where a slim Thai woman sautés a scintillating, butter-and-cinnamon mixture.

     “I’m suddenly very hungry,” Günter says.

     “Me, too.” 

      “Do you have reservations?” asks a beautifully gowned Thai hostess with a concerned smile.

     “No,” I answer, with a concerned frown.

     “We are all booked, but I will try to find you something.” 

     My heart sinks. 

     She hands us over to a waitress with shoulder-length ebony hair, who flashes a huge Thai smile and leads us directly to a poolside table for two, which overlooks those fabulous fountains of gold. The table has a RESERVED sign with the name of the guests neatly printed in black. “These people didn’t come,” she explains, whisking away the folded cardboard. 

Gold fountains grace the Hotel Marriott.

     A bus boy promptly places a crisp, white napkin on my lap. “Would you like the wine buffet, or should I send over the wine steward?” he asks in perfect English.

     “Send the steward.” This service is more like it. We have arrived!

     The buffet is exotic: a mix of American, International and Eastern dishes; twenty different salads; a fresh oyster bar; mussels, clams, and sushi; butternut squash soup made with maple syrup; corn bread; twice-baked potatoes; au gratin potatoes; beans with almonds; okra with tomatoes—and two, huge, carved turkeys. As for the desserts—well, they’re to die for: pecan pie; sweet potato pie; “American” apple pie; mousse; hot brownies with fudge sauce; and an ice cream bar where one can order a real banana split and pass out from pleasure! After eating my fill, I settle for one scoop of vanilla ice cream on top of two small wedges of apple and sweet potato pie and, somehow, manage to find a place for them in my distended stomach.

The Thanksgiving buffet includes a fresh seafood bar.

     We sit at that intimate table for two hours and then return blissfully full to Pacific Bliss. Tomorrow, we’ll fast!  We’ll live off our memories of a unique and extremely satisfying Thanksgiving and add this to our ever-growing treasury of sailing experiences in foreign lands.

Lois and Gunter in Phuket, Thailand.

Yacht Haven Marina, Phuket.

About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased for the holidays on Amazon.

 

Memories of Wisconsin Tornadoes

It’s been a year since the tornadoes touched down on July 19, 2019. I still shiver when I think of that day when everything changed at Northern Bliss. From that day until October 15^th, when we left our lake home for the winter, I heard the grating buzz of chainsaws from sun-up until sundown. See my blogs about that terrible tornado and recovery efforts at https://sailorstales.wordpress.com/2019/08/16/tornado-disaster-at-northern-bliss/ and https://sailorstales.wordpress.com/2019/09/28/recovery-from-natural-disasters/.

One year later, a pontoon ride around White Ash Lake shows that residents have done an awesome job of clean-up but still more work remains. So many have planted new trees that will never reach maturity during their lifetimes. Indeed, “to plant a tree is to believe in tomorrow.”

Last night, the National Weather Service issued warning for many counties in Wisconsin, including Polk. “This time, we will be spared,” I muttered, “for the simple reason that one should not have to endure a tornado for the third time.” I remembered the tornado of 1955, all of us on our knees praying in the kitchen of our farm home in Eureka township. (The house didn’t have a basement to run to for shelter.) I’d never written a story about that experience, but my brother Dave did. Here is his story:

From the Memoirs of Dave Glassel:

The Polk County Wisconsin Tornadoes of 1953

I was watching the weather channel the other morning and it brought to mind the tornadoes of 1953 in the St. Croix Falls, Polk County, Wisconsin area. I was about eight years old and it was my job to go get the cows at milking time. My sister Lois, three years older than I, used to go get them, but as she grew older, that became my chore. She was relegated to house chores by then.

Our small dairy farm was at its best in 1953. Dad was milking about 18 cows and we were filling about 5 or 6 milk cans per milking. The milk house was quite a way from the barn and Dad built a two-wheel cart that would hold 2 cans. It had big wheels he’d taken off an old horse-driven hay rake. I would help Mom push on the cart uphill on the last leg of the journey to the pump house where we put the cans into the stock tank to cool the milk. We had two tanks. Mom and I were able to lift the cans into the low tank. It was not easy because when the can went into the water it settled to the bottom slowly because of the buoyancy, subsequently one needed to keep it upright all the way to the bottom. I guess that is why my knees and back are bad. Too many hay bales and milk cans wrestled with in my youth!

We had a hired man in those days. His name was Larry. He was from McKinley and from a family Dad had known for years. He was a genuine slacker and Dad never could get him to do any work to speak of. He was always out behind the horse barn smoking cigarettes and that made Dad furious. When it came time for milking he was never around. He and his friend Wayne would be off riding Wayne’s Indian Motorcycle instead. Dad despised Wayne as well. He finally told Larry’s Dad to come get him. It was the same day of the Big Storm. No one came and he finally hitch- hiked his way back to McKinley.

I went to get the cows about 6 p.m. They were way back in the southeast corner of the 80 acres on the border of the Rock Creek Farm and the Old Rehbien Farm. Dad had made a pasture on the back of the big hill that always washed out when he planted corn there. The grass was green and lush and had lots of cow pies to step in.

I am suggesting it was probably in June when the tornadoes were spawned. I had gone to get the cows and bring them home for milking. I always carried my walking stick that Grandpa Glassel had made for me. I also had the Lassie, the cow dog, with me. I don’t know which Lassie as we had numerous Collies, all by that name. The cows were all bunched up in the far corner of the pasture. Lassie barked at them and tried to get them to get into the cow path and head for the barn. The cows always walked single file and had a deep rut cut in the ground. But this was a new pasture and the cow path was not well-defined. I thought that was the reason they wouldn’t start going to the barn. Between Lassie and me, we finally got them heading north to the barn.

Then, without any warning the cows all started to walk really fast. Then they began to run! I was scared because when they ran, they would let down and all of the milk would start coming out of their udders. Dad used to scold Lois and me for letting the Collie dogs make them run by biting at their heels. But soon, I couldn’t keep up with the cows.

Meanwhile, Dad saw the cows rush toward the barnyard. They ran frantically through the gate and into the barn—all into the wrong stanchions. “That had never happened before,” Dad told me later.

He figured out something was wrong and when he didn’t see me, he climbed the hill to go looking for me. By then I had just reached the top of the hill.

Dad later told me that he heard about the tornadoes on WCCO radio in the barn and then saw the tornadoes on the horizon over the St. Croix River, heading in our direction. I was scared and was running as fast as I could go but I kept tripping. I calmed down a bit when I saw Dad coming for me. He grabbed my hand and pulled me down in a gully. The storm blew over as fast as it came. In a matter of seconds, its fury had passed us by. It skipped over our farm but we watched in awe as the huge barn at the Rehbien farm flew into the air and landed in a million pieces.

The next day Mom and Dad loaded us all up in the rusted, green 46 Ford and we went for a ride to view the devastation. There were 18 tornadoes spawned by the storm stretching from the Glassel farm to Grantsburg and East as far as Clam Falls. The majority of the damage was done west of Eureka and north of Cushing. We drove past areas where as many as six barns and a few houses were totally demolished. Dead cattle were strewn everywhere. Unfortunately, most all of the milk cows were in the barn for milking at that time of the day and the barns collapsed on them. We stopped to visit Donald Christensen, Leroy Christensen’s Dad and Mom. Their barn was blown down and there were dead Holsteins everywhere. Some were still alive but immobile. They didn’t shoot them because they wanted to keep them alive until they could be butchered. The slaughter houses in Luck and Milltown were all backed up, however, and unable to take more cattle. Mom cried like a baby for hours for all those poor, injured cows. She loved animals!

But she loved her babies more. After the storm I remember Mom hugging me and thanking Dad. Her nine children were all saved.

The next Sunday, we went with Aunt Gertie and Grandma and Grandpa Glassel to Clam Falls. The old Glassel house where Dad and his brothers and sisters grew up was leveled to the ground. The farm had been vacant for several years. I went back to find the place years later but there was nothing there. Nature had taken over.

I often think about that storm. At the last class reunion, I talked to Judy Jensen, a historical writer for Polk County who worked for the Polk County Museum in Balsam Lake. She told me that they had numerous photos of the devastation from those 18 tornadoes in ‘55. It was the most devastating storm to ever hit Wisconsin and has since been recorded in the records as such.

I don’t know if I can actually say I was “in” the tornado or not. I just remember being really scared and Dad being on top of me. There was an unbelievable wind and then a flood of rain. I remember seeing Dads lips moving but couldn’t hear anything because of the overwhelming noise. Perhaps he was praying. Dad claimed that what saved our farm was the fact that it was built in the ravine sheltered with hills on all sides. During later years, he recalled that he saw the funnel going overhead and it looked like as if it went right over the barn and house. We never even lost as much as a tree limb!

As for the cows, later I came to understand that their erratic behavior was related directly to their sensing the oncoming storm. That is why they were all grouped in the corner of the pasture. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that the animals can’t detect weather and storms. Dad used to say to Mom, I know it’s going to rain. I can hear Landahl’s horses whinnying. He was right every time.

I’ve forgotten many things about my St. Croix Falls childhood days. But there are many stories that I do remember—especially those events that took place on that 80-acre Dairy Farm during the fifties.

About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page.

 

What to do in and around Jackson Hole, Wyoming

Welcome to Jackson Hole

 

“The West of which I speak is but another name for the Wild; and…in Wildness is the preservation of the world.”                                                                       —Henry David Thoreau

My last blog stated that Jackson Hole is open to visitors this summer, even though the coronavirus is still lurking. That’s true, but visitors are now required to wear masks in public places. Even so, it’s convenient to use Jackson Hole as a base for touring the Tetons and enjoying the valley. You may want to consider the following attractions:

Grand Tetons. During our trip to Montana and Wyoming in September of 2019, the four of us (my sister Ret, brother-in-law John, Gunter and I) stayed at Canyon Lodge in Yellowstone and then drove to Colter Bay Village in the Tetons. We had planned to stay in basic cabins there for four nights; however, a cold front hit us the first night with rain turning to sleet. We checked out after breakfast and decided to drive on to Jackson Hole to “hole up” while the storm passed. It was a wise decision because the sleet turned to snow by the time we arrived at our two-bedroom condo at Jackson Hole Lodge, in the heart of town. We stocked up on food and hunkered down until the weather cleared. Keep in mind that Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons—separated by 31 miles via the John D. Rockefeller Parkway—encompass nearly 4,000 square miles. That’s a lot to tackle in one trip, so a few days rest was welcome.

Ret, John, Lois and Gunter on a cold morning in Colter Bay. We planned on taking a boat ride; that was not to be.

Colter Bay in September with snow on the way.

Well-rested, we took a day trip back to Colter Bay and the surrounding area. After stopping at Jackson Lake beneath towering Mount Moran, we continued our scenic drive through the park. We enjoyed expansive views of snow-capped peaks as we headed back to Jackson following Hwy 26, 81, and 191 along the Snake River, stopping at overlooks whenever we could.

Kayakers navigating Snake River.

Vistas near the Snake River Valley

We stopped for a raptor show along the way.

One option—for those of you who can—is taking a high-elevation morning hike. Drive to Jackson Hole Mountain Resort to hop on the aerial tram for a 4,000-foot vertical ride to the top of Rendezvous Mountain, peaking at 10,450 feet. Here, you can access an extensive network of trails that link to Grand Teton National Park. The 4.2-mile Rock Springs and Cody Bowl Loop trail is easily accessible from the tram and offers spectacular alpine scenery and sweeping panoramic views of distant peaks.

Moose and Elk. One day we drove along the Moose-Wilson Road, named for the associated towns but known for moose sightings. We didn’t see one, but we certainly put some bumpy miles on our rented SUV! On another day we drove north of Jackson to visit the National Elk Refuge, known for the thousands of elk that winter here. The area is also home to 47 different mammals and 175 species of birds. We were one of the few visitors to the Miller homestead that day, so we had plenty of time to converse with the caretakers who live there part-time. We learned that this 25,000-acre elk refuge was established in 1912 as a sanctuary for one of the largest elk herds on the earth. Home to an average of 7,500 elk each winter, the refuge is managed by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. Elk migrate from as far away as southern Yellowstone Park but like to winter on the sheltered grassy plains. During the spring, the herd follows the retreating snows to growing grasses of Yellowstone. The Boy Scouts of America have been collecting the thousands of elk antlers shed each year to sell them at auction. The arrangement requires them to return 75% of the proceeds to the refuge. About 10,000 pounds of antlers are auctioned each year! Some of them are purchased by the city to replenish the four elk antler arches at Jackson Square.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Mormon Row Historic District. We continued driving until we found the historic homestead complexes along the Jackson-Moran Road in the valley near the southeast corner of Grand Teton National Park. Six building clusters illustrate Mormon settlement in the area from 1908-to the 1950s with features such as drainage systems, corrals, barns, and fields. The site is a bonanza for photographers, framed with the majestic Teton Range rising in the background. I could have spent half a day there, but we were hungry so we headed for the small towns of Moose and Kelly searching for food. The restaurant choices were limited; we settled on a burgers-and-barbeque place.

Mormon Barn

Mormon Historic District

Museums. The National Museum of Wildlife Art looks like a fortress nestled into the hillside, but inside you’ll find 14 separate galleries showcasing an extensive permanent collection as w ell as touring exhibits. The museum reopened on June 2^nd with a retrospective of the work of Tucker Smith, featuring more than 75 original oil paintings. The exhibition, Celebration of Nature, presents the breadth of his subject matter from western wildlife to camp and cowboy scenes to intriguing landscapes. You can download the museum app to your iPhone, iPad or web device.

The Refuge by Tucker Smith, 1994.
Oil on canvas 36×120 inches. ©1994 courtesy of The Greenwich Workshop.

We visited the Buffalo Bill Center of the West in Cody, Wyoming on the way from Red Lodge, Montana to Yellowstone Park. Although quite commercialized, the man, the legend, and the legacy of Buffalo Bill do come together in a remarkable testament to the Wild West lifestyle. The first cowboy hero in show business and popular fiction, Buffalo Bill Cody was also a daring entrepreneur. He invested in hotels, an Arizona mine, stock breeding, ranching, coal and oil development, film making, town building, tourism, and publishing. In fact, he had his own newspaper, the Cody Enterprise, which still provides news to the town of Cody. He was an early advocate of women’s suffrage and the fair treatment of American Indians. An interesting book on this is William F. Cody’s Wyoming Empire: The Buffalo Bill Nobody Knows, by Robert Bonner. If you go, note that an exhibit honoring women who shaped the west is on display there until August 2, 2020.

Wild Bill Cody

Cody entertains the Queen of England.

Music. Each summer, Jackson Hole hosts the Grand Teton Music Festival. This year, it will not be able to proceed as planned; however; the program Music from the Mountains will be streamed online on August 21, 22, and 23 and will appear on TV in the fall. Watch for it. “Backstage” passes are available for watching the filming of the festival on ZOOM.

Shopping is a favorite tourist activity in Jackson Hole. You’ll find all kinds of wild art!

Art. Jackson Hole is home to over two dozen galleries in town, but that’s not all. Art is displayed in restaurants and businesses all over town. Ret and I enjoyed walking through home and furniture stores with local art displayed in every setting. In between sightseeing, we walked to galleries from our condo. Gunter and I purchased a large framed photo of the Tetons in the spring with purple and white lupines fronting a deep blue mountain lake. This photo now hangs in the formal entrance to our home, providing cherished memories of the Grand Tetons and the wonderful times we had there.

 

 

 

 

 

Note that this blog is a sequel to my previous blog about the Fall Arts Festival in Jackson Hole at https://sailorstales.wordpress.com/2020/06/20/the-fall-arts-festival-at-jackson-hole-wyoming-is-on/

Other blogs in this series are:

https://sailorstales.wordpress.com/2019/11/13/yellowstone-favorites-fountain-paint-pots/

https://sailorstales.wordpress.com/2019/10/14/destination-red-lodge/

About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page.

 

 

The Ceremony of Uzbekistan Sallabandon

Those with wanderlust in our bones are dreaming of traveling again. When I provide recommendations for international travel, I always include Uzbekistan in my short list. (See my February blog: International Destinations: Where to Travel in 2020.) Here are some other links to my blogs about Uzbekistan:

• Sightseeing in Tashkent the Capital of Uzbekistan
• Samarkand Crossroads of the Silk Road
• Bukhara Uzbekistan: A World Heritage Site and One of the Most Incredible Ancient Cities in the World
• Never Ride a Camel: Uzbekistan Blog Series
• Walking a Village: India, Myanmar and Now Uzbekistan

Oh, to go back to that pre-COVID era of innocence!

But If and When You Go:

Contact Zulya Rajabova, founder and president of Silk Road Treasure Tours, Office: 888-745-7670, Cell: 908-347-4280. Her company manages independent and luxury travel tours throughout the Silk Road Countries of Central Asia, as well as to Mongolia and Georgia.

Below is Zulya’s latest blog, which she has graciously consented to share with us here:

The Ceremony of Uzbekistan Sallabandon

Zulya’s Blog

Zulya Rajabova

Tuesday, 02 June 2020

The traditions and customs of the Uzbek people have been shaped by their unique position at the crossroads of the Great Silk Road. The treasures that flowed were not only the ones that can be held in one’s hand, but also those that touch the heart and soul. Art, philosophy, science, and religious ideals were exchanged, enriching the cultures of both the travelers and their hosts.

Uzbek culture reflects a beautiful synthesis of these influences, while maintaining its own unique traditions. From the harmony of its architecture to the masterful detail of its applied arts, from the busy, noisy bazaars to the peaceful, laid-back chaikhana, a journey through Uzbekistan is unique and unforgettable.

It will be helpful for travelers to be aware of some of the conventions of Uzbek society. Let’s share with you our Sallabandon celebration.

Ritual and tradition connect us all. The people of Bukhara, an ancient oasis city in south-western Uzbekistan, celebrate Sallabandon – literally “tying the turban”. This particular ceremony marks the transition of a woman to motherhood.

The regions of Central Asia have a history almost 3,000 years old and the ceremony of Sallabandon has roots in pre-Islamic Sogdian culture. Sogdiana was an empire of city-states in prominence from the 6th to the 11th centuries throughout what is now Uzbekistan and Tajikistan, in the heart of the Silk Road. Archaeologists at Sogdian sites have found terracotta figurines of a female fertility deity holding a pomegranate and a baby in her hands. Interestingly, they feature a turban-like headdress in the form of a tied scarf.

Sallabandon often takes place with other celebrations. It may, for example, occur together with gavorabandon – the occasion of putting a newborn into a cradle for the first time. Russian and European travelers to Bukhara in the early 20^th century described the beauty of the local dress and the richness of the jewelry. Women’s clothing in Central Asia retains its traditional sophistication and aesthetic appeal.

On the day of Sallabandon, the young mother wears a splendid kuylak, the traditional tunic-style dress, its front decorated with peshkurta, a gold and silk embroidered band. She uses a kultapushak or gold embroidered headdress with a hair cover, a peshonaband (forehead cover), a large white shawl and a lachak; a white veil. The dressing takes place in the presence of relatives and invited guests. This ritual is performed by a respected senior female family member with many children and grandchildren, usually the grandmother of the young mother. Accompanied by traditional singing, the headdress is placed on the head of the young mother and a length of white fabric is wrapped under her chin and tied on top. The peshonaband is covered by the white shawl symbolizing purity. The young mother then bows to all her guests and relatives and receives their gifts. Her mother and mother in law usually present her with a gold ring, earrings and bracelet, the circle representing the magic of protection from evil. Ceremonial headdresses and costumes are gifts from the mother to her daughter, connecting generations, and bestowing the desire for fertility and protection.

Family values, the importance of children, and the role of mothers as guardians of the house and family, all are brought together in the wonderful Bukharan ritual of sallabandon. We look forward to taking you to our people’s homes to participate in such amazing traditional Uzbek celebrations during your travel in Uzbekistan. You may also enjoy to participatate in the Silk and Spice festivals or Navruz festival.

About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page.

 

Serendipity: An Unplanned Stop in Sri Lanka

From time to time, my blog will include an excerpt from one of my books. This story is an example of Serendipity—one of my favorite words.

Excerpted from The Long Way Back, pages 228-29:

An Unplanned Stop in Sri Lanka

06º01’N, 80º13’E
Galle, Sri Lanka
February 9

Despite the miseries that we’ve endured this past week, part of the joy of traveling is encountering the unexpected. We did not plan to stop at this island nation, southeast of India. Our plan was to sail straight to the Maldives. But after our miserable crossing of the Bay of Bengal, we welcome any refuge from the lumpy seas.

Serendipity brought us to Sri Lanka. And I’m fascinated that the country’s original name was Serendip, an Arab traders’ word applied to the land long before the Portuguese came on the scene. It reflected the lucky circumstance of their discovery and contact. Today, in its native Sinhala tongue, Sri Lanka means Land of the Blessed. For us, being here is indeed blessed and serendipitous.

Günter and I intend to understand its people and culture better—and, yes, even its’ continuing civil war. This war caused us to strike Sri Lanka from our original circumnavigation plan. Now, though, we cannot avoid its ongoing cruelty. We arrive at dawn’s light, crossing the shipping channels at 90 degrees and deviating course twice to sail behind giant freighters.

“You never want to cross in front of a freighter,” Günter tells our crew, Chris, “because it can take one of those monsters up to four miles to stop.”

Chris, our crew, with the Maldives flag. Gunter with Sri Lankan flag.

As instructed via VHF, we prepare the ship for anchoring outside the harbor. It doesn’t take long to see the guns. We’ve never experienced an entrance like this! Two small runabouts, with mounted machine guns, race toward our boat while men wave and point to where they want us to drop the hook. Next, we spot a huge navy vessel—tons of sleek steel glinting in the morning sun—coming around the breakwater. Three Immigration Officers from the navy vessel board Pacific Bliss, while the two speedboats keep circling us.

Stilt Fisherman near Galle, Sri Lanka.

The officers conduct a thorough inspection of Pacific Bliss and give us forms to fill out.  These are immigration forms, and each asks the same questions over and over. The process lasts half an hour. Then, after stamping the paperwork, one officer asks for “smokes.” Wisely, we had purchased a few cartons just for this purpose. Chris distributes a pack to each officer.

We’ll have a two-hour wait before being shown inside the harbor, but we don’t mind; we’re happy to have our first onboard breakfast in a week in calm water. After breakfast, via VHF, we hire a local agent, G.A.C. Shipping, to handle the rest of the voluminous paperwork that will allow Pacific Bliss to berth here.

Later, a navy officer boards our ship to direct Günter to a berth inside the harbor. As we enter, we note that it’s entirely roped off, except for one small lane for fishing boats and yachts. The officer presents us with three choices: to tie up to a black buoy in the center, where we’d have to use our dinghy to get to shore; to Med-moor to a floating dock, consisting of wobbly plastic sections with no handholds; or to raft to one of the monohulls along the sea wall. We choose the third option and raft to a small monohull flying an Italian flag. Now we can walk across the monohull and from there, onto dry land.

“Well, we’re finally safe,” Günter declares with a sigh. “But we’re not going to do any serious touring until we graduate to a berth directly on the sea wall. Tomorrow, we’ll just walk around Galle and mingle with the locals.”

That first night, cradled by Pacific Bliss and swaying with the current, I fall asleep feeling like we are still at sea. KA-BOOM! I jerk awake. I hear and feel the thunderous boom right through the water and the hull. Oh my God! What have we gotten ourselves into?

Günter pulls me over to him and hugs me tight. “It’s the depth charges, remember? They told us this would happen.”

Talk about encountering the unexpected!

“It feels like we’re in a war zone!”

“We are. It’s the price we pay for taking refuge from the storm.”

An elephant bathing near Kandy, Sri Lanka, came right up to us watching on shore.

Boys hanging on the train, Sri Lankan Highlands.

Eighty-something Indian Guide, Adams Peak, Sri Lanka.

How has serendipity worked in your life? When you travel, do you make allowances for expecting the unexpected? Please add your own comments.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page.

 

A Christmas Story by my Great-aunt Rose Kruger

Sometimes a family heritage search uncovers the most amazing stories!

My cousin, Debbie Miske, has been working on our family history since she retired. She’s recovering long-lost information every week and passing on her findings—an exciting treasure trove of family secrets. Recently, Debbie passed on the genealogical history of my great-aunt Rose—along with a wonderful Christmas story.

Rose Kruger was born in 1894 in Mendota, Dakota County, Minnesota. She passed in 1978. I remember her visits to our Wisconsin farm when I was a child. Although short in stature, she conveyed a powerful presence of authority. I cringed and shrunk behind my mother’s skirts; I kept my mouth shut, fearing I’d blurt out the wrong words. Rose was working in St. Paul by age 19. The story was probably written in that 1909-1912 time period.

This Christmas story was passed on to cousin Debbie along with my aunt Gertrude’s belongings after she passed. It was in booklet form with the painting on the cover and the nicely typed story inside. Debbie thinks the painting was of the original log building housing the St. Johannes Kirch in Eagan, Minnesota.

For writers, especially, it’s always a blessing to discover another storyteller among our ancestors. Has your family unearthed any treasures like this one?

Christmas Memories by Rose Kruger

Our Christmases shone in our drab existence like diamonds set in rusty iron. For days and days the house was in a turmoil of joyous bustle. Mother baked stacks of coffee cake, delicious coffee cake, such as only she could make thickly dotted with raisins, and an abundant coating of cinnamon flavored sugar. Bertha baked crocks of spicy cookies, and the day before Christmas she scrubbed the soft board floor of the kitchen to an unbelievable state of whiteness. Then, too, all the litter of utensils which were used for feeding the stock and which seemed indispensable in the ordinary routine of everyday living were cleared away, giving us room for our tree.

On Christmas Eve there was always a program at church in which we participated. Emma, who was already working in St. Paul, always came home to spend Christmas with us, and usually she came on Christmas Eve, laden with magic gifts and goodies. What wonderful evenings those Christmas Eves were! The very woods and fields seemed hushed in holy contemplation. Upon the white plush lining of the world the winter moonlight tossed a million glittering gems, and from afar we could see the lighted windows of the church, shedding a soft rosy glow upon the pure snow, which seemed a benediction from out of the holiest of holy places.

At church a giant tree, magnificently trimmed, filled up a corner. The children sang the age old carols with joyous abandon. Sometimes I paused to listen to the joy and hope in the other childrens voices. Almost like the heavenly host which sang, “Peace on Earth”, I thought them. Toward the end of the program the candles on the tree were lit, revealing its loops of tinsel and popcorn, its multi colored baubles and blond angels. The sparkle a little dimmed by the many seasons of use, the angels a little frayed by handling in awkward toil worn hands, but more beautiful than any crown jewels. Then bags of cheap candy, nuts an apple an orange were passed among the children. It was somewhat sticky, but our holiday would not have been complete without it.

The program over our father called us to him; not with words but with twinkly eyes and crinkly smile, either to tell us that the Christ Child had visited our home or that Emma was there. But one very blizzardy Christmas Eve it was to tell us, that even though the Christ Child had made his customary call, Emma had not managed to fight through the blizzard. But our joy was multiplied when upon our arrival at home we found that she had come and brought Cousin Louise!

Father and Mother often peered out into the mad swirling white world that Christmas Eve. “Such weather!” they exclaimed. That was the only time in my childhood when they by any word or action betrayed that they were not completely lost with us in the Christmas wonder land, and that the adult world of work and care stood waiting just outside the magic circle of the two glorious days.

Christmas morning we again went to church. It seems to me that Christmas days were always ideal winter days—clear, cold, sparkly. I can still feel the thrill the reading of the gospel gave me. The voice of the minister made music out of the world’s most treasured poem. In particular he read the part about the shepherds thrillingly.

We came home to a Christmas dinner—I have forgotten of what. For the Christmas dinners were not important factors in our lives. The religion which gave color and meaning to our celebration, the love and generosity which bound the family together and the deep feeling of joy, security and peace—those were the things which made my early Christmases memorable.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page.