Kapetalwa: A Cruiser’s Journey Through the Blue Frontier
Come to our canoe house, and we’ll have kapetalwa.
We’re being invited, but in Micronesia, kapetalwa can also be an expectation. It describes the ritual practiced by traditional voyagers upon landfall: to bring news of their voyages and gifts for goodwill to the island chief.
Gifts in hand, my husband, Jamie, and I wiggle our toes in the sand in the shade of a palm-thatched, open-air canoe house. We reflect on the journey that brought us here.
Micronesia was distantly on our radar as the kind of region we’d like to explore. What little we knew seemed appealing: tropical islands, turquoise water, vibrant marine life, interesting culture and minimal tourism. Like most sailors traversing the Pacific, our first crossing was a route from the Americas to French Polynesia, and then west through the islands. Landfalls are entirely in the Southern Hemisphere. Micronesia, north of the equator, is a detour. But that detour had the rewards we’d dreamed about, even if getting there would involve intricate routing, weather complexity and resource scarcity.
Our path to Micronesia started in Mexico, where Jamie and I lingered for several years after completing a circumnavigation. A trifecta of the pandemic, eldercare and the launching of our boat-raised kids postponed offshore voyaging for a while. Sailing away from Baja in 2024 was the beginning of a new chapter. Our Stevens 47, Totem, felt nearly new after our refit. The makeup of our crew was new—just a couple of empty-nest cruisers instead of a family of five. Might as well carve a new path too.
And Micronesia offered an additional appeal: We’d never been there before. As a family aboard, we had prioritized the company of other boats with kids. This time, we’re keen for more off-the-track cruising grounds.
One reason fewer cruisers reach the region could be that it’s hard to place geographically. Until Jamie and I developed concrete plans to sail there, Micronesia was a fuzzy shape on our mental map. It looks like a limp kidney bean in the western North Pacific, yet it includes the Commonwealth of the Northern Marianas, the Federated States of Micronesia, Guam, Kiribati, Nauru, Palau and the Republic of the Marshall Islands. This region has an east-west span of nearly 2,500 nautical miles, with millions of square miles of ocean to cruise.
There are two main reasons that cruisers route through Micronesia: to escape cyclone season in the South Pacific and to find a route back to North America via Japan. The region is dominated by easterly trade winds, favorable for sailing a mostly north-south route from Fiji to the Marshall Islands and back, or north and then west toward Japan.
For cyclone-season escapees, that means arriving in Micronesia near the end of the calendar year. For boats heading to North America, a good time to arrive in Japan and track north to the Aleutians is around March. Both scenarios let cruisers pass through Micronesia during the Northern Hemisphere’s winter, a period of moderate volatility as the Intertropical Convergence Zone creates squally conditions during its seasonal migration north. Although it’s not cyclone season, it also is not, in fact, the better time of year to be there.
Traditional navigators that we connected with in Micronesia said they recognize two primary seasons, each starting at an equinox. The favorable sailing season aligns with spring through fall in North America, encompassing hurricane season. It begins when they see the star Altair rise above the horizon near dawn. Systems do percolate here, but comparably few storms track through the islands. It is a time of generally gentler winds and seas, a much kinder time for outrigger canoes. And, unfortunately, it is the opposite timing for cruisers on those typical itineraries described.
Our route was neither of those two typical scenarios, coming west across the Pacific entirely in the Northern Hemisphere. Determined to take a different path through the Pacific than we had 15 years ago, Jamie and I arrived in Majuro, Marshall Islands, after spending the summer in Hawaii. Arriving at the eastern end of Micronesia sounded like a great way to ride easterly trade winds west through the islands. What we hadn’t counted on was how much of our time would be influenced by the Intertropical Convergence Zone.
Our late-September arrival meant that weather windows for moving between atolls were limited by volatility as the ITCZ rose and lingered. No wonder sailors heading north from Fiji during cyclone season tend to stay put in the archipelagoes. Cruising is possible, but squally conditions add risk and discomfort. In addition to volatile conditions, the currents that funnel near atolls can create steep, rough seas. The combination of these features, especially if wind and current are in opposition, can create dangerous conditions. Instead of ample opportunities to move about the archipelago, we found ourselves waiting weeks for weather to clear.
For boats returning south to Fiji at the end of the season, it’s an upwind battle to check out of the Marshall Islands from Majuro. We were glad to be continuing west instead, with clearance possible at the western atoll of Kwajalein. The ITCZ raised up its dragon breath again; we still waited several weeks for weather to continue west.
Visas offered in Micronesian countries are generous by most standards. For US nationals, there’s a distinct advantage: All countries but Kiribati are independent republics in special relationships with the United States, or are overseas territories of the United States. US nationals can stay indefinitely without visa requirements. Suddenly, the seasonal timing constraints are simplified for many cruisers: It’s easy to stay longer and enjoy stunning cruising grounds when conditions are best.
Inside individual countries or territories, formalities can be more complicated. Much of the draw for Kiribati, the Marshall Islands and the Federated States of Micronesia is in visiting the outer atolls. Some are entirely uninhabited. Others have a settlement on just one or two islands, and then a string of islands that host birds and palms around the fringing reef.
In these remote atolls, beaches offer uninterrupted miles to explore, pristine coral reefs, thriving traditional island cultures—all of which you must obtain permission from the capital to visit. In the Marshall Islands, this is a formal process where the elected official and the hereditary chief must sign off on your application. A fee is levied, sometimes paid in Majuro and at other times paid upon arrival in the atolls. In the Federated States of Micronesia, the application to visit outer atolls is made at the capital for the state you’re in (there are four: Kosrae, Pohnpei, Chuuk and Yap) and are relatively informal. In some cases, there’s no form at all, just finding the right person to ask.
Navigating these atolls can complicate routing. In the Marshall Islands especially, sailors might need to beat into trade winds to reach a port where clearing out of the country is possible. There are nuances between countries and island groups. For some cruisers, this is a real deterrent.
We waited six weeks in Majuro while officials processed our applications, regularly visiting the ministry office, and we still did not have sign-offs for all the atolls we’d hoped to visit. We trimmed our plans based on permissions that we were able to acquire.
Minimal tourism is a hallmark for many of our favorite places. Visit Micronesia, and you’ll be in some of the least-visited countries in the world. Want to have a beach all to yourself? Take your pick.
Raw natural beauty aside, destinations with less tourism foster opportunities for connecting one-on-one with people. Encounters ashore are based on mutual interest instead of the transactional relationship that characterizes popular destinations. People are more likely to be curious here. Conversations have depth: about war history, about depopulation as islanders migrate in search of opportunities, or about the impacts of climate change for future generations. The world has plenty of beautiful places, but few come as unpretentiously as Micronesia or leave as lasting a mark on the memory.
The connection sneaks up on you, because the cultural differences, at first, are stark. Hereditary kings are considered to be gods. These king-chiefs are male, but the heredity lines are matrilineal. Society has a caste system, with chiefs, nobles and workers. It can be easy to miss, then hard to forget, once the slices of humanity become apparent.
The remote nature of the atoll also presents some practical challenges for basic needs. In Majuro, the capital of the Marshall Islands, we wanted to refill an empty propane tank. But upon visiting the depot (there’s only one), we learned that they were out of propane. A fresh supply was not expected for at least a couple of weeks. One cruiser in our company switched to butane canisters and purchased a cooktop to use them because the first island group in the next country apparently would not have propane either.
Provisioning was also trickier than anticipated. Food is flown in to the capitals, and then sent to outer atolls in a supply ship. The selection of shelf-stable goods, from rice to soy sauce, was better than expected, but the availability of fresh produce was extremely limited. One low point: staring at a bag of romaine lettuce, already rotting inside its plastic wrap, and contemplating paying $10 for the privilege of purchasing slimy greens.
Medical care is basic too. Even in most of the capitals, patients with complex cases are usually flown to Hawaii for care. Life expectancy here is in the mid-60s, with 75 percent of Marshallese older than 50 suffering from diet-induced Type 2 diabetes, and no access to insulin unless they live in a capital.
While we were in the Marshall Islands, I was diagnosed with hypertension. Overnight, I went from being smug about my excellent health to having a prescription to take for the rest of my life. The care provided was good, but my new prescription could be sourced in only two of the 29 atolls.
Scarcity shapes daily life in many ways. Although remote islanders are well-adapted to subsistence fishing and farming of coconut, bananas, seasonal breadfruit and taro, they rely on the supply ship for rice and meat—and the supply ship might come through only every few months.
Totem became a floating Santa’s sleigh for these people, arriving on December 23 laden with around 1,000 pounds of cargo. Our load was mainly frozen meat in a refrigerator case strapped to our aft deck, plus around 400 pounds of rice and another 200 pounds of flour, in bags stashed belowdecks. It was deeply gratifying to help meet local needs and then enjoy the meals with them during a community feast for Christmas.
For all the scarcity, there is wealth of another kind. In Micronesia, despite centuries of colonial influence from faraway countries, traditional practices and knowledge are proudly retained. It was from here that, in the 1970s, the Polynesian Voyaging Society in Hawaii found navigators skilled in the art that they had long since lost. Bringing them to Hawaii was key to the successful launch of the Hōkūle’a voyaging canoe and fueling a resurgence of native pride. We met islanders who had left small atolls for education and employment but then returned to choose the traditional existence. One islander related leaving his home country for training and working as a tour guide. It left him wanting, and he returned instead to swing a hammock on an atoll, forage from the island and sea, and cook on a coconut-husk fire.
Near our anchorage in Guam’s Apra harbor, there’s a canoe house that the outrigger carved, at Lamotrek. Bringing supplies for the canoe engendered a welcome with tones of a homecoming from our newfound family, our brothers of the sea. They invited us for kapetalwa, and I offer it here for you—the news from our voyage through Micronesia.
Know Before You Go
Currency: US dollar (with the exception of Nauru and Kiribati, which use the Australian dollar). Language: English is the official language, or one of two official languages. Guides: Pacific Crossing Guide, published by Adlard Coles, covers Micronesia. The website Noforeignland is increasingly populated with useful waypoints. There are WhatsApp groups for each country. Clearance fees: They’re inconsistent but nominal, each less than $100, with the exception of Palau. There are additional fees for outer atolls.
A Complicated History
Austronesian seafarers settled Micronesia beginning around the second millennia B.C.E. The modern history is more convoluted. Colonial interest began with Spain, including Ferdinand Magellan’s arrivals in 1521. Missionaries followed. In the 19th century, Germany expanded in the region, seeking copra exports. In the aftermath of World War I, Germany lost its authority. Japan stepped in, setting the stage for the Pacific theater in World War II. At the end of that war, all of what today is Micronesia, except Kiribati, shifted to be administered by the United States as a trust territory. Independence followed for Palau, the Federated States of Micronesia and the Marshall Islands. Guam and the Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands remain US holdings.
The legacy of World War II is plain to see. Many of the islands we visited had crumbling battlements, the rusty hulks of gun fortifications, broken remains of tanks and airplanes, and other detritus from the war. For some visitors, it’s a draw. The array of famous underwater wrecks is especially attractive for divers. There’s the USS Saratoga aircraft carrier in Bikini Atoll, as well as more than 60 ships at the bottom of Chuuk Lagoon.
One heartbreaking inheritance is the history of nuclear testing in the region. Beginning in the 1940s and extending into the 1950s, 67 nuclear tests were conducted here, to devastating effects. Atolls are uninhabited because the United States made them toxic, and populations were forcibly removed. Other islands are overcrowded to slum-level circumstances because they are crammed with the dispossessed.
One islander related to us how his home atoll was first carpeted with bombs during World War II, and then taken over by the US military to create a relaxation spot for American troops. Warships lined the harbor. Those who called it home were forced out.
These stories are told as simple facts. As a visitor, I felt like it was an opportunity to learn the painful parts of this history, to grow our empathy and understanding for people there today, and to remember why war is never the answer.
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