Navire's blog

A Couple of Characters David

Great Barrier Island is known for its characters, past and present. There'€™s a novel and at least three other publications devoted to Barrier characters and their stories. While on the island we were regaled with stories of others yet to make it into print. Life on the island often turns ordinary people into characters.

Not all are made on the island, however. Some arrive fully formed. Here are a couple we encountered.

George and Yevgeny

Our food arrived at the same time as Yevgeny, large and sweaty, clutching his scrawny toddler, trying to introduce him to Jonesy. Under the pressure Jonesy withdrew but then had a change of mind and advanced with the friendly confidence for which Golden Retrievers are so well known.

'I met one of your local characters yesterday,'€™ said Yevgeny, crouching for the boy and dog to eye one another. '€˜I was spear-fishing in the bay just around from the ferry wharf. Really shallow. You could stand up. I had a Red Moki on the spear, looked up and saw a 250 pound Bronze Whaler coming right at me, his mouth wide open. I jabbed at him with the spear and he turned away but came straight back, mouth like a cave with teeth, so I jabbed him again. The third time panic finally registered on me. My heart pounded, sweating to bust, even under water. I hurled the spear at the fish along with my catch bag and splashed and scrabbled my way out of the water. Over my shoulder I saw the shark rear up in a cauldron of foam, tearing my bag to shreds.

"What'€™s with that shark?"€ I spluttered at a man pulling his dinghy to the water. '"œIt tried to take a piece out of me."

'€œAh, that'€™ll be George. He lives here. We feed him. Don'€™t recommend swimmin'," '€ €˜

By now Yevgeny'€™s wife, petite, black hair and anxiously stern, had settled at our table, regarding Jonesy suspiciously.

When he heard we were sailing for Fiji Yevgeny launched into his own recent dramas with a sail boat. '€˜I bought this beautiful fifty six foot, all wood yacht that I got cheap because it was part of a complicated legal dispute. Used to be owned by that guy from Perth who won the America'€™s Cup. Famous boat called Valenta but I renamed her Sofia after my daughter. I set out for Auckland from Picton but too many things broke and we had to be towed into Wellington by the Police Launch.'

'€˜We know all about being towed into Wellington on a maiden voyage.'€™ Janet and I said in unison.

'€˜I'm an off-shore tax minimisation consultant,'€™ Yevgeny continued. '€˜I'm relocating my business to Vanuatu. Soon as I find a boat builder to repair her I'€™ll sail up to Vila with a hired skipper. I'm not a sailor.' He shrugged.

A few days later, over a beer, we asked Peter, Tryphena's Harbour Warden, about George.

'€˜Aw that'€™s just bullshit. There'™s no shark attacks anybody in this bay.'€™ Peter took another swig of his beer. '€˜There's locals talk about one, might be called George, but there'€™s nothing in it.'

€™The Dutchman

We are moored at Smokehouse Bay where we'll stay for another week or so. I have a large boat painting project to complete. Great place for it. Very sheltered and breathtakingly beautiful. Ruined somewhat this morning by very loud electronica issuing from a launch anchored nearby. The owner, an ageing barrel of a Dutchman, in shorts and singlet and very drunk, vacillated between boorish argument and reluctant compliance when I rowed over to ask that his stereo be turned down.

Remarkably the stereo stayed down all day but the drinking continued. He had three young men aboard -“ a son and his friends perhaps. These three took the dinghy ashore around midday. Not long after there was a prolonged series of horn blasts from the launch. A few minutes later our Dutchman was standing at the stern of his boat bellowing to the anchorage. '€˜Fuck you.
Fuck you and your family. Fuck you and your country.'™ He said this maybe a half dozen times, addressing invisible audiences on both sides of his boat.

A neighbouring boatie rowed over. '€˜Keep this up mate and I'€™ll call the police.'€™

'€˜Call the police then. Call the fucking police.'€™ He was holding a white cloth to his arm, blood oozing around it. '€˜I just sent a fucking SOS and no one'€™s fucking answered. No one'€™s coming to help me.'

One of the young men left the beach in the launch'€™s dinghy. He stopped to talk to the retreating boatie and then carried on to where the Dutchman was still letting the anchorage know what they could do with their families and country. He quietened as the young man approached. The two conversed apparently amicably although the young man kept his dinghy at a distance.

When I next looked across the Dutchman was teetering on the boarding platform, clutching the stern rail and attempting to get into the inflatable which the young man was holding for him. This is a drowning waiting to happen, I thought. The Dutchman dropped one leg into the dinghy and, in one fluid motion, his body, pivoting on that leg, rolled across the dinghy into the sea and disappeared. The young man looked on, helpless.

Amazingly the Dutchman bobbed to the surface and dog paddled to the back of the boat. More remarkably, after some time, he hauled himself onto the boarding platform.

His second attempt was more successful. Perhaps the dunking had sobered him a little. He could be heard joking with his companion, beer in hand, as they motored to the beach. No more was seen or heard until late in the afternoon when the two men returned to the launch, hoisted anchor and left the bay.

The anchorage breathed a collective sigh of relief, not least I suspect, because we had been spared all the inconvenience of a drowning inquest.

12 Kawau Island January 1 Janet One of the things I love about cruising is the low level ecstasy, to cite Bill Bryson, that we experience about the basics of life. High on the list is water. We get excited about filling our water-tanks, capacity 240 litres, occasional long showers at marinas, and solar showers in the cockpit. These are a less than frequent occurrence when supplies are low, rendering us not entirely fragrant. Even clean undies are up there on this list. Laundry days are limited to infrequent visits to marinas. Our water limitations ration hand-washing to smalls only. So we gently descend into a mild squalor at times. Bill Bryson (listening to A Walk in The Woods at moment) describes it thus; The first day you feel mildly self-conscious of being grubby, the second day disgustingly so, by the third you are beyond caring, and by the fourth you have forgotten what it is like to not be like this.
Much treasured also is fresh crunchy stuff. I have limited fridge space so after about 10 days we are usually down to half a wilted cabbage and a few limp carrots. The excitement mounts when we are in range of crisp lettuce, a juicy cucumber, and succulent red peppers. A full night's sleep is always a treat. Frequently I wake and wander out to the cockpit, hoping the scenery hasn't changed on us. Also having the use of a car is a novelty and intensely appreciated. Even having access to shops, although that novelty wears thin very quickly.
North Cove, Kawau Island Last day of the year. This was certainly a year that improved very late in the piece. I struggled with the trip being delayed, with trying to find employment, and keeping motivated about preparing for this trip that always seemed to be so far off. People kept me going. Our writers group, my cooking club, the Mad Women group, friends on the marina, those fabulous women in my life who accept and love me with all my faults and frailties.
But now we are on our way, the ever distant dream a reality.
We had no New Years celebration planned but our friend serendipity had it all in hand. For many years when we were land-bound in our house, or tied firmly to a marina berth, we'd read the work of Lin and Larry Pardy, an American couple who'd crossed the oceans all their lives in beautiful old boats with no engines. Larry wrote of dealing with storms, and Lin wrote a book on provisioning for a 49 day passage across the North Pacific Ocean. She gave a menu for each day of the trip and wove tips on keeping food fresh into her narrative. It's on my shelf.
This couple, sailing royalty in our eyes, had fetched up at Kawau. We called them up. Love to see you, they said. Wow. We treated ourselves to a shower in preparation.
We sailed into their bay, hooked up the mooring they'd arranged, and rowed on in. Their bach occupies a prime spot in the bay, no neighbours, a huge jetty, a guest-house, and verandahs out over the water. Lin greeted us. She exuded energy and vitality. She had a mane of long black hair, her blue eyes sparkled, her enthusiasm for life bubbling out. She signed my book! I got my first taste of the joy of an author signing just this last November when our writers group published a book of short stories called "Sweet As". David and I each got a story in print and I was utterly thrilled when people asked me to sign it. Larry has Parkinsons and was present but struggling I think.
Lin gave us a tour of their last yacht, Taleisin, just sold and waiting to be collected. She was all wood, varnish gleaming, and brass polished. David said he'd like to have Navire looking like that but there are so many other jobs on the list vying for urgent attention, that this will have to wait. The yacht had no technology, no chart table ringed with screens and banks of switches. And no engine, now that's true sailing. Back on the deck I met neighbours gathered for a New Year's BBQ. I find it extraordinary how you quickly identify who you have connections with. I met Judith, a former sailor, and a foodie. With great delight we immediately talked recipes and ingredients. Within half an hour this complete stranger had offered to pick me up from the marina in Auckland next time we go in, and drive me to all the specialist food places and Asian markets in the city, then take me to the Food Truck Café for lunch. I am a fan of Michael Van de Elzen so this is indeed a treat. I only have two hard copy cookbooks on the boat, and his Molten Cookbook is one of them. How's that for good fortune.
We were to stay for dinner. Yes please. We retired early and greeted the new year at a civilized hour the next day, dropping the mooring and sailing to Mahurangi for our next adventure.

Auckland to Kawau Boxing Day Janet (We are currently at Kawau, about to sail to Great Barrier Island) Hairy start to arrival in Auckland. I'd lost my port and starboard bearings (again) and set the lines and fenders up in the wrong side of the boat. We'd even been through it in detail, but my recalcitrant brain still thought we were coming in on our favoured port side. There was a little friction to say the least, not an unusual state in yachting couples berthing and anchoring.
Boxing Day lunch in Auckland had been long arranged. We were trying to figure out transport to Waiuku, south of Auckland, when boatie friends gave us their car for two days. This is not an uncommon practice amongst yachties, even with people we hardly know. An hour later we arrived at the beautiful lifestyle property of a very longstanding friend of David's, Bill Wilson, and his partner Fiona. Most of their families were assembled in the lounge amongst the detritus of the morning's Christmas present orgy. Once again we were made most welcome. Champagne poured and glasses clinked.
Lunch was a gourmet affair starting with my wonderful Donna Hay lime chicken coconut pancakes, then the main course a feast of baked salmon, and ham and salads straight from the land. Dessert included sweet squishy crunchy Eton Mess, which I have made several times since.
We sat outside in the garden and talked late into the balmy evening, drinking far too much and enjoying every minute of it. The next morning Bill escorted me around the property and I foraged and gathered. Bliss. The car was loaded up with green crunchy stuff, sweet strawberries and home killed pork. Thanks Bill.
Dec 28 We headed back to town in our borrowed car with our day's tasks carefully orchestrated around getting David to the optometrist. He's noticed his sight wasn't what it used to be.
As the checkout boy put my last item over the barcode reader my total tips over the $500 mark. That should do us for the next few weeks, not knowing where I will next encounter a shop. I quickly grew weary of the bustle and heat of the city, and longed to get to sea again.
Back at the boat we worked late into the evening doing laundry, filling up with fuel and water, and stowing groceries in every nook and cranny.
Dec 29 As we left the marina, Auckland harbour was sea of boats. Big ferries, little ferries scurrying to and fro. Dozens of yachts, launches and runabouts, most heading out into the gulf like us. We were alert, peering under the headsail frequently to make sure no vessels were bearing down on us. Which way is that ferry going, that yacht? There are road rules out here, but no clearly defined roadways.
As we passed Rangitoto Island we saw that every anchorage was packed with yachts. In the Marlborough Sounds, our usual stomping ground, if there were three yachts in a bay, it was busy. On one trip up here we counted seventy yachts in Islington Bay at Rangitoto.
We left town with a vague plan to meet friends sailing at Kawau Island, then to pick up Wellington friend Richard Moss for a couple of days, then sail out to Great Barrier Island. The end of the month will see us back in Auckland getting serious about preparing for our offshore passage to Fiji in May.
Perfect sailing. The sea is sparkling in the late afternoon sun, Auckland is disappearing behind us, although the Sky Tower still stands way above the horizon. We can see Kawau Island in the distance, the 15knot northerly eagerly filling our sails. Navire is whizzing along at six knots, leaping joyfully over the wavelets, the autohlem gently humming as it guides us north. We take turns in having afternoon naps on deck, the other on watch dodging the dozens of fishing runabaouts littering the sea.
"This is probably what people imagine we are doing all the time when we said we were off sailing," I said to David.
"I wish," he said, remembering the foul four metre swells off Coromandel.
Warm sweet scents of the land slip into the cockpit as we come up to the southern end of Kawau. With a few clicks on the autopilot we round the headland and ease into Coppermine Bay. The anchor rattles its way down, engine off, time for a beer.
i

Waiheke Island, Hauraki Gulf Janet December 24 Serendipitous. Someone recently made this comment on our nautical gypsy life life.
Hanging out at Happy Jack Island, poised for reentry into city life, we decided not to go to Auckland for Christmas Day as planned.
"If it is going to be just the two of us we may as well be at anchor, and save on marina fees," suggested David.
"But we need water," I said, thinking we needed to go to Auckland to fill up our seriously depleted tanks.
"We'll do jerry cans." I grimaced In Tonga we'd constantly lugged jerry cans in and out of the yacht, in and out of the dinghy, and dragged them on our trolley along hot dusty streets in search of fresh water. However we did need water, and needed it now. We'd been three weeks since our last port, collected some rainwater, but not enough.
The next morning I didn't have the pleasure of waking up. I'd been up most of the night checking the boat position. The cove we were in was very small and the rocks very close. The wind was swirling and gusting making the boat lurch and swing.
We pulled the anchor in, raised the main and headed off on the four-hour sail to Waiheke. Tiredness is a definite harbinger of seasickness for me. I felt miserable and wasn't a very helpful first mate My brain deserted me and I didn't know my port from my starboard, I just wanted to go below and go to bed.
Once we'd entered the calmer waters of a channel at the east end of Waiheke, and I had recovered some will to live, I called up the Waiheke Sailing Club to get some local knowledge on Putiki Bay where were going to stay the next two nights. The man I spoke to gave us good anchoring advice.
"Is there a tap at the beach?" I asked, on my eternal quest for water.
"Even better", he said, and described a wharf at a remote eastern Waiheke bay that we would to sail past shortly. Good water, better than Auckland, he informed us.
An hour later we drew alongside the wharf, not quite touching the bottom, all the Hauraki Gulf is very shallow. Corralling two bystanders to haul on our lines, we gradually won the battle with the breeze and tied up. I managed to damage the anchor as we bashed into the wharf. A thirsty Navire almost swallowed the fire- hose that coiled down from the wharf.
Joy! We could now shower before imposing ourselves on the people of Waiheke, and I could wash the two days worth of dishes that I'd been stashing in plastic bags.
5pm Christmas Eve "I'm going to the supermarket to get food for Bill's BBQ on Boxing Day." I wander out, get in my car, drive a couple of miles, collect my goods and drive home again.
Not.
First we hoist the dinghy off the deck. Collect the oars, lifejacket on, and climb down in the rocking wee beast, there is a fair chop on the bay tossing her around on her leash. David releases the dinghy bow-line and I row like hell to ensure I end up at Waiheke and not Auckland where the wind wants to take me. We have anchored half a mile off-shore, outside all the moored boats.
At last I reach the beach and the tide is right out. I'd imagined myself hauling the dinghy up beyond the high tide mark, sliding it gently over soft golden sand, but arrived to find a stretch of several metres of exposed rocks and mud. I glance around the almost deserted beach, Waiheke's population probably all having Christmas drinks somewhere, and spy two men carrying a sailing dinghy.
I meet Rafael, who is young, fit and strong, and lifts the other side of my dinghy effortlessly, while telling me of his dream to buy a boat like ours and sail away.
I Google map the supermarket and walk 20 minutes through the hot eerily quiet island streets. The supermarket iss buzzing though, people's trolleys piled high with ham, strawberries and cream.
I buy as much fresh crunchy stuff as I can carry. It's been three weeks since the last shop, and we are down to half a wilted cabbage. I walk back to the beach, where the tide has come to my assistance, lapping just a meter away from the dinghy's stern. I launch the boat easily and row back to Navire, but the wind that I'd hoped would push me back, had dwindled.
While feeling seasick on the journey over I had rather unceremoniously thrown a chicken in the oven. Wasn't much love in that bit of cooking but while I was out foraging at the supermarket David resuscitated the bird, accompanied it with yummy crunchy roast potatoes, and we cooked our first fresh greens in days. We lit David's special Austrian Christmas candle, a tradition he's had since childhood in Austria, and toasted our good fortune.
Christmas Day 5.30am: I get out of bed and wander out to the cockpit. I love waking in a new place. It is dead calm, water glassy, orange and pink from the soon to rise sun, the horizon glistening with the lights of Auckland seashore suburbs. And quiet, just the distant song of the dawn chorus. No wind howling in the rigging like yesterday morning at Happy Jack. And I've slept well. Life is good.
Now the kids have grown I'm not much of a fan of Christmas and all its accompanying commerce, stress and expense. However I do love the gathering of loved ones and sharing of food. Last Christmas was an excellent one as we had all five kids in town. The event was held on Boxing Day to stay out of the juggle of trying to find a time that suited everyone, given the amount of families involved.
For the first time we dispensed with giving presents to everyone and just bought one gift each for Secret Santa. Huge fun, and I only spent $20. The meal was potluck and the kids created wonderful food. But today they are in Fiji, Africa, Mt Manganui, Wanaka, and just one is in Wellington.
"Come to lunch, don't bring anything." The previous night David had called a dear old friend of his who had gathered her family on Waiheke, most of whom David knew. Stay on the boat or go for a full glazed ham, roasted salmon, fillet steak lunch? Much as I enjoy David's company, it was a no-brainer.
We were not so much welcomed as enveloped into the family.
"Another bubbly," someone pressed upon me, the sun was shining, the company intelligent, and dessert was beckoning. To my delight the family who made dessert were gluten-free! Not for me gazing at a dark moist chocolate cake, my mouth watering, unable to partake. They appreciated our gift of gluten free Christmas cake truffles. Divine they were if I have to say so myself.
And so our life is indeed serendipitous.
PS Some of you might have noticed that we fitted in a quick trip to the north Pacific and wondering how we achieved this. I managed to get my souths and easts mixed up and entered the wrong coordinates into the blog post and put us near Japan, a year ahead of schedule. My nautical dyslexia showing its ugly head again.
Port, starboard, forward and aft, often elude me for moments at critical times.