How to plan a route across the South Pacific

A final Pacific crossing passage from French Polynesia to New Zealand takes the Swan 37 Elixir halfway around the world, writes Max Campbell

We leave Tahiti with strong trades. Easterlies funnel along the side of the volcanic island, and Elixir tears downwind toward Mo’orea. It’s humpback season. Occasionally, behind foaming crests, we glimpse their immense bodies – the sun reflecting off their polished backs.

The islands’ saw-toothed ridges of dark rock catch the fluffy tradewind clouds. Deep, verdant valleys add to the ethereal scene. There’s something magical about the South Pacific. It’s the people and the places, tales of ancient voyagers and abstract deities. A sense of fierce beauty in every glance of swaying palms and textured lagoons.

We’re halfway through our Pacific crossing. Over the last four months we’ve covered 3,500 miles from the arid shorelines of Mexico, through the secluded communities of the Marquesas and Tuamotus and into the pristine lagoons of the Society Islands. Ahead, there’s another 2,500 miles – the ‘dangerous middle’ through Samoa and Tonga and onward to New Zealand.

The Societies

The Societies blend the striking volcanic formations of the Marquesas with the circular atolls of the Tuamotus. They consist of a volcanic island, engulfed by a barrier reef. Tahiti is the largest, and a succession of smaller islands extend a few hundred miles west, towards the next island nation, The Cook Islands.

After Tahiti and Mo’orea, we make quick stops at Raiatea, Maupiti and Maupiha’a. The islands become progressively less populated and a clear trend emerges: the smaller the population, the friendlier the locals.

There’s a steep price on groceries in French Polynesia. Fortunately, we discover the trading economy. Our worn lines, fish hooks, torn sails, and old clothes gain a newfound value. A modest bag is readily swapped for a few weeks’ worth of fresh provisions.

The South Seas island of Mo’orea, part of the Society Islands of French Polynesia. Photo: Max Campbell

On Maupiha’a, among the smallest and westernmost islands in French Polynesia, we meet Marcello and his family. The island is a vast atoll. Humpbacks play in the shelving water beyond the lagoon, while sharks patrol the shallows within. A permanent cloud of terns circle the winding strip of land. Several subtle signs; a small motorboat and a few discrete structures, hint at the presence of humans.

A supply ship visits Maupiha’a once every two years, and Marcello’s family are completely self-sufficient. Curious, we make our way ashore with a bag of assorted items: clothes, rope and a few luxuries. We return with two freshly steamed coconut crabs, and enough tern eggs to last us to Samoa.

We fly out of the atoll, propelled by a four-knot current. Maupiha’a, with its eight resourceful souls, is a unique stop on our South Pacific journey.

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Squalls to Suwarrow

The South Pacific Convergence Zone (SPCZ) governs the passage between French Polynesia and Tonga. Like the Intertropical Convergence Zone (ITCZ), dividing the north-east and south-east trades, the SPCZ separates an equatorial belt of easterlies from the south-east tradewinds.

After a few days of smooth tradewind sailing, the SPCZ makes its presence known and surprises us with a 35-knot squall. The rain is so heavy that even breathing feels like a struggle. The following days are marked by frequent sail changes, and rain squalls that persist for hours.

Because of the nature of the SPCZ line squalls are common, and often we’d peer out of the companionway to see a foreboding wall of darkness. The gloomy formation creeps up behind us, swirling textures of rain and cloud. We hurry to take in sail before sliding in the washboards and wishing luck to whoever was on watch.

We make a stop at the almost square-shaped atoll of Suwarrow. Everything about it feels wild. It’s a national park, where a husband and wife pair of rangers live for six months of the year. The couple live beneath the shade of the palms, on the largest motu, which protects a tight anchorage from the prevailing easterlies.

Swimming with humpback whales. Photo: Max Campbell

Suwarrow is a beauty, yet not fully sheltered. After a couple of days we hoist the anchor, sail through the pass, and bear away for Western Samoa. In the South Pacific, where islands are often hundreds of miles apart, multi-day passages become the norm. You grow accustomed to the ceaseless rush of the waterline, the rhythmic nudge of tradewind swells and the constant communication between the sails, windvane, and rudder.

Western Samoa

The elongated island of Upolu has a ridge that makes up the backbone of the island. Unlike the sharp edges of French Polynesia, the forested hills ease into the shoreline. The capital Apia, on the north coast, follows the curve of a large, protected bay. Containers neatly stack on a spacious concrete wharf. Tucked in the corner, a small marina offers affordable moorings for the few cruising yachts that opt for the northern detour.

After six months at anchor, stepping onto a dock is novel. We’re aware that South Pacific islanders are friendly, but in Samoa, the smiles are everywhere.

“Welcome to Samoa,” beams a friendly taxi driver.

He steers us along the main street, beside a lineup of hotels, restaurants, and churches, sharing how the Samoans are open, friendly, and deeply religious.

In Apia hire cars are cheap and available, so we seize the chance to venture inland. Like the locals, Samoan architecture is both colourful and open. Houses, called fales, are without walls and with a roof made of thatched coconut palms. Amidst the island’s volcanic terrain, cascading waterfalls beckon. Below, gaping pockmarks in the coastline reveal pristine swimming pools.

Elixir crew heading for shore in Mo’orea, French Polynesia. Photo: Max Campbell

French Polynesia consists of 121 distinct islands and atolls spread out over an area roughly the size of Europe. The Kingdom of Tonga represents 171 islands in an area that would fit nicely inside the UK. Tonga has three main groups, Tongatapu, Ha’apai and Vava’u. There is also the Nuias, the northernmost cluster of islands, which lie only 170 miles south-west of Samoa.

After 4,500 miles of Pacific sailing, sailing to the Nuias feels like a brief passage. We plough through the steely sea at sunrise as a dark blanket of cloud fills the horizon to windward. It’s hard work, switching between first and second reef as a sequence of squalls move through. The Monitor windvane traces a straight line through the peaks and troughs of the tradewind swells.

We’re the only yacht in the protected anchorage at the island of Niuatoputapu. When Captain Cook first visited Tonga in the 18th century, he dubbed the islands ‘The friendly islands’, due to his warm welcome. The name still fits today. We walk back from our first trip ashore, arms loaded with gifts of plantain, breadfruit and papaya.

For 10 days it blows hard from the south-west and we stay put. We hike the island’s volcanic ridge and explore underwater coral canyons. In modest wooden houses, we eat dinner with local families. Taking turns, we drink kava from a coconut shell while our newfound friends sing melodic Tongan songs. The community resonates with song, dance, and a sense of sharing.

Anchored off Vava’u, part of the Tongan islands group. Photo: Max Campbell

Vava’u, Ha’apai, Tongatapu

The wind calms, shifts north and, seizing the chance, we sail south to Vava’u. Also on the island are three stranded French sailors, and we offer to take them too. We tack around the windward side of the island. One by one, our new French crewmates are struck down by seasickness. We tear south with a full main and a steady trade. In just over a day, the stout islands of Vava’u emerge on the horizon.

The Vava’u group is hailed as a favourite cruising ground on the South Pacific crossing. It’s a scattered swirl of land where a maze of deep channels separate elongated islands. On the chart, the group appears almost fjord-like. The protected harbour of Neifau spirals into the main island of Utu Vava’u. After 10 solitary days in Niuatoputapu, we were back in the South Pacific fleet.

The joy of Vava’u is an almost endless choice of anchorages within a 20-mile stretch. July to October is humpback season when the waters become a haven for these giants from Antarctica who engage in the timeless cycles of mating, breeding, and nurturing their calves.

We hop down through the scattering of archetypal island paradises in Ha’apai. From offshore, most islands appear as a cluster of coconut palms, standing over a thin strip of golden sand. It’s not until we come within a few miles that the profound scars of Tonga’s tumultuous history become clear.

Elixir at Vava’u. Photo: Max Campbell

In January 2022, the Hunga-Tonga volcano, which sits between Ha’api and Tongatapu, erupted violently – the largest explosion ever recorded by modern instruments, the boom heard as far away as New Zealand. As well as a suffocating cloud of ash, the volcano caused a 20m tsunami, which washed over the low lying islands, destroying houses and vegetation. Almost two years later the aftermath was still apparent with trees uprooted and scattered, and the people of Ha’apai engaged in the arduous task of rebuilding all that the sea had taken.

From the dispersed islands of Ha’apai, it’s a fast reach to the main island of Tongatapu and the Tongan capital of Nuku’alofa. In a deep bay on the north of the island, a small motu protects a group of cruisers. Usually empty, the anchorage fills out throughout October. A fleet of yachts, having crossed the South Pacific, gather in anticipation of a favourable weather window for their journey to New Zealand.

Tongatapu is the last town in the South Pacific crossing. We amble through the lively markets, picking up provisions for the 1,000-mile hop to New Zealand.

Minerva Reef

Two days of tradewind sailing bring us within a few miles of Minerva Reef. A faint hint of white water, and a few distant masts were the only indicators that we were close to the anchorage.

The atoll is a surreal experience. The reef provides a shelter from the Pacific swells, and only a few small stones extend above sea level, revealing its elusive existence. We remain at anchor in Minerva reef for almost a week, waiting for the window to leave for New Zealand. The water clarity surpassed anything I’d seen in the Pacific. Reef fish, unaccustomed to humans, met our gaze with curious eyes. At low tide, we walk along the reef, collecting crayfish from beneath the rocks.

Minerva Reef crayfish. Photo: Max Campbell

Minerva reef is right on the edge of the tradewinds, about 800 miles from New Zealand’s Bay of Islands. The final hop involves a careful threading between high and low pressure systems. Restlessness pervades the anchorage, a collective eagerness to embark on the final leg of the crossing. They called it ‘Minerva-ousness’ – that anxious anticipation at Minerva Reef, awaiting the opportune moment to sail to New Zealand.

Familiar welcome

Finally the wind shifts to the south-east, and we leave on a close reach. The swell is bigger than usual. Occasionally a breaker slaps Elixir on the beam, sending white water cascading over the cockpit. For the first three days we alternate between two and three reefs. The sky is a stern grey, with a few pleasant breaks in the cloud, and the occasional cluster of rain. No longer in the tropics, it seemed that each day we added an extra layer of clothing.

On the fourth day, it becomes clear we’re closing in on the centre of the high. The sky opens up, revealing a golden afternoon, and by sunset, we’re under full sail with flat seas.

The high pressure moves east, the wind backs to the north, and we enjoy some relaxing days of spinnaker sailing. Within 100 miles of New Zealand we lose the wind completely so spend the final day of the Pacific crossing with the engine on, skating over the glass.

Maupiti in the Society Islands. Photo: Max Campbell

We spot New Zealand at midday, and throughout the afternoon we watch the strange southern land grow from the horizon. Within 10 miles of land the wind picks up, and we fly into the bay on a broad reach. It’s late in the evening, and as the sun dips into the rolling Northland hills the surrounding landscape of grassland and forest are drenched in golden light. We pull up to the quarantine dock in Opua, where three friendly Kiwis take our lines.

‘Welcome to New Zealand’.

It feels like an abstract version of home. Without the accent, the trio before me could pass as Cornish, and the temperate scenery reminds me of the Helford River.

Summer in New Zealand

After savouring the luxuries of land, we leave Opua and venture out into the Bay of Islands where sinuous headlands resembling limbs offer anchorages for all weather. New Zealand is a cruising mecca where summer conveniently coincides with the South Pacific cyclone season. Yachts arrive in the Bay of Islands in October/November, spend summer in the town of Whangarei, then at the end of the cyclone season in April they cast off again for the islands of the South Pacific.

I’m blown away by the country that has it all. After sailing halfway round the world in the tropics, it feels like I’ve finally found paradise. Everything is new, yet strangely familiar, and with an enhanced beauty.

This is the halfway point of Elixir’s circumnavigation. Four years ago, amid the dust of a Cornish boatyard, I dreamed of long ocean passages and South Pacific anchorages. The dream sustained me through failures and setbacks until one surreal day when it became reality.

Hospitality, South Pacific style. Photo: Georgie Holman

I feel incredibly proud of Elixir, who has taken 16,000 miles in her stride, and grateful for my crewmates who have shared this voyage. The journey has changed me in a lot of ways, but one belief remains: there are few things more rewarding than the cruising lifestyle.

Next, I need to find a base in New Zealand, refit Elixir, and save up for the journey home. I’m not sure where that is yet, but excited for the next chapter, we tack out of the Bay of Islands and sail south.

The South Pacific Convergence Zone has been dubbed ‘The Dangerous Middle’ with its unsettled weather and frequent squalls

How to plan a route across the South Pacific

Papeete’s lagoon, crammed with yachts, seems on the brink of bursting. Some drift through, savouring the buzz of the bustling Tahitian city before heading west. Others linger by the fertile hills of the volcanic island, choosing to call it home. A sad proportion of them are abandoned. On the mile-long ride to the dinghy dock, we gaze at an assortment of once seaworthy vessels, which have made their way from all corners of the world.

Sailors without European passports or long stay visas must keep moving. When you set sail from North America to cross the Pacific, it’s a commitment beyond 3,000-4,000 miles to French Polynesia. That’s only the beginning. If you don’t want to spend a season dodging cyclones then New Zealand, Australia or Hawaii are the popular options.

It’s sad to see the swathes of forgotten yachts. Every time the wind picks up, another boat ends up on the rocks. But the problem seems clear. Skippers are daunted by the rest of the crossing. At least 2,500 more bluewater miles, maybe even the notorious passage to New Zealand. Repairs, health or weather prevent them from leaving, a visa expires, and the result is a myriad of vessels in various states of repair, a blight in Tahiti’s once pristine lagoon.

There’s always a danger of sudden squalls. Photo: Max Campbell

The Dangerous Middle

We left Tahiti in mid-August, aiming to arrive in New Zealand in the first week of November. We were fortunate to be cruising alongside two sailing legends. Jean Socrates is the oldest woman to circumnavigate solo, and Trevor Robinson wintered alone and unassisted in both the Arctic and Antarctic. For us, South Pacific route planning involved sitting in Nereida and Iron Bark III’s cockpits, tea in hand – soaking in the wisdom of two of the most inspiring people I’ve ever encountered.

From the Society Islands, there is a choice of either a northern or southern route. The southern route takes you through Rarotonga or Aitutaki in the Cook Islands and the unique nation of Niue. The northern route usually goes by the atoll of Suwarrow and American or Western Samoa.

Sailors have coined the area between French Polynesia and Tonga in the South Pacific as ‘The Dangerous Middle’. The technical term for this area is the South Pacific Convergence Zone (SPCZ). The SPCZ is a dangling limb of the Intertropical Convergence Zone which begins around the Solomon Islands and extends south-eastwards. Equatorial easterly winds meet the south-east trade winds, causing unsettled weather and frequent squalls of wind and rain, accompanied by cloud cover and occasional lightning.

The Cook Islands are also spread out across this middle section. Often cruisers make a stop at at least one island, to break up the 1,300 miles between French Polynesia and Samoa or Tonga.

The main danger is squalls. We seemed to be always taking in sail, then shaking it out again. I blew out my favourite spinnaker. After a 10-day crossing, with a brief stop at the wild atoll of Suwarrow, we spotted the green hills of western Samoa.

A peaceful anchorage for Elixir in the Bay of Islands. Photo: Max Campbell

Minerva Reef

Sailing south through Samoa and Tonga is relatively straightforward. The tradewinds are generally on the beam, and all the passages are less than 200 miles. In late October, we arrived in Tongatapu and nestled ourselves within the rest of the cruising fleet.

The final and most complicated part of our Pacific crossing was the 1,200-mile hop from Tonga to New Zealand. Early to mid-November is a popular time for the crossing. The Southern Hemisphere is shifting to summer, and the cyclone season yet to get going. Because this passage is mostly outside of the tradewinds, it stirs up some anxiety within the cruising community, including us.

While waiting for a window, we observed a cyclone form around the Solomon Islands, and spin its way south through Vanuatu and New Caledonia. The system became Cyclone Lola, the first severe tropical cyclone of the season. After devastating Vanuatu, its remnants combined with a separate low-pressure system moving north through the Tasman Sea. Days before we planned to leave for New Zealand, we watched this particularly scary combination of systems crash into the north of New Zealand.

Like most other yachts making the passage, we decided to make a stop at Minerva Reef. This unique anchorage sits on the edge of the tradewind belt, about 800 miles north-northeast from the Bay of Islands. Despite the complete lack of land, the anchorage is surprisingly calm. We spent almost a week inside the reef, waiting for the next high-pressure system to move closer.

New Zealand’s Bay of Islands is a cruising paradise of idyllic sandy beach anchorages. Photo: Max Campbell

The key to the passage to New Zealand is timing. A never ending succession of weather systems journey from the Southern Ocean, highs following lows following highs, through the Tasman Sea and around the north of New Zealand. The idea is to skirt the edge of a high-pressure system and make landfall in the Bay of Islands before the next front moves through. The anticyclonic flow moves anticlockwise in the Southern Hemisphere. As the high pressure moves west, we can expect the wind to back from the south-east to the north-west. But the approaching high seems to stall, and the wind lingers in the south for days.

Sailing to New Zealand

There was a lot of hype and anticipation surrounding the passage to New Zealand. In reality, it was nothing too dissimilar from any of the sailing we’d done before. The reputation stems from a few stories, likely a result of bad timing or poor passage planning. Sailing outside of the tradewinds we experienced various conditions. Within a day, we went from close reaching with three reefs in the main to cruising downwind with the kite up. We had some of the best days of sailing from the entire Pacific crossing.

Crossing the Pacific is demanding – constant maintenance, weeks underway, and always at the mercy of the weather. The final passage to New Zealand feels like the climax of this long and life-changing journey. For sailors who make the leap and follow through to the end, the reward is the warm welcome and spectacular anchorages.

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