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Tauranga Janet “How many?” David spluttered into his wine glass.
“Sixty” I said proudly.
This is how many people are following us on our blog.
“Ooh, now I feel self-conscious about writing,” David lamented.
It was day one in Tauranga and we’d got our first blog post up, sending an email to friends and family inviting them to follow us. We were absolutely delighted with the response.
The Tauranga stop was to provision for a ten-day sojourn around Coromandel, and to farewell our friend Barkie, He’d crewed with us up the East Coast. Having him along allowed us to get six precious hours off between watches instead of the barely three we have when its just the two of us. Many thanks for coming along for the ride Barkie, and for the chopping board that fits beautifully into the top of the sink, and for making our electric bilge pump go much better.
Arriving in our berth at 10am, exhausted, we fell into our bunks, grateful to be tied up to a jetty, no more course to keep or sails to set, for a couple of days. However being in port is usually a busy time. It means domestics for me - laundry, shopping, and cleaning. And for David it means tracking down materials and parts, and fixing things. Life on a yacht is very pink and blue at times.
But being in port also means seeing a new place, internet access, and making new friends. Firstly we met the boat next door, Westerly from Nelson, and her crew Al and Kelcey, and Ralph the six month-old Jack Russel, who we immediately wanted to adopt.
“Hi, where are you from?” “Nelson, and you?” “Wellington. What kind of hull is that?” I kid you not, this is virtually always the first thing a male yachtie asks after saying hello, and sometimes they even dispense with that.
But I always like this next bit: “Come for a drink.” It was duly arranged for 5pm.
We’ve had the most amazing hospitality on this trip. Maybe it’s about not having a car. Suddenly people are willing to spend extraordinary amounts of time driving us around.
Today a man we’d met once briefly in Wellington, drove us everywhere we needed to go, for a whole day. He is Kim Price, the best mate of our dear friend Piet. We called Kim just to say hello when we arrived, and we’ve had the full service ever since. He is a fellow yachtie and understands the challenges of being in a foreign port and not knowing your way around. He drove us to all the shops we needed, including a South African cheese and sausage shop. I was in heaven, ordering one of each of all the sausages. Our freezer is now a veritable delicatessen.
However the Gisborne people weren’t even yachties, not even blood relations, being David’s ex-wife’s family. But no, we were family, and we got driven around, laundry done, and were loved and fed. Many thanks to you a With clean bodies, clean laundry, more food and fuel, we departed Tauranga on Wednesday into a stiff breeze that soon died out on us. The iron sail was commissioned. We’ve done an awful lot of motoring on this trip. But, whatever it takes to get to our next destination.
PS we are now at Great Mercury Island. Will catch posts up soon.

Gisborne to Tauranga We keep looking at each other in wonder and saying, “We are doing it!”.
We’ve had this dream for so long, and now it is actually happening. Most of you know that our trip was delayed a year, for me a long uncomfortable year of being largely unemployed despite endless, and somewhat soul-destroying, job hunting.
But now after only one week away I’m totally immersed in this journey of ours, and the last 12 months of angst has fallen away. After months, nay years, of trip planning, the very nature of sailing is forcing me into being present. When I am at sea that’s all there is. My natural compulsion to plan (OCD some may call it)– What’s next? Where are we going? What do we need to do – largely evaporates. Our new life is starting to emerge.
Two nights previously we’d left Gisborne, after more wonderful hospitality and delicious BBQ food, this time from Doug, a former VUW colleague of David’s. We cast off at the crack of dawn with the prospect of a fairly windy day. As almost always the weather dictates our movements. If we’d left leaving till the next day, a calmer one, we would have encountered headwinds all the way across the Bay of Plenty on day two. We tacked up the East Coast, the boisterous wind making the sea lumpy and uncomfortable. Tiredness, wetness, and my nemesis, sea-sickness, set in by the end of the day.
On David’s watch he turned the corner taking us around East Cape and into Bay of Plenty. To my delight I woke for my watch at 3am feeling normal. After having lost the will to live on my last watch, I felt revitalised. The full moon lit up the sea, casting its shimmering path northward. I remembered again the joys of night watch under the stars, the solitude, the connection with my environment, the privilege of getting to experience this rare moment, and the adventure of it all.
As the moon set a golden dawn filled the sky behind us and a gentle northerly breeze came up. I set the sails and turned off the engine which had pushed us through the night after the wind died out. I love a night watch when I’m feeling well, none else is up, no other boats around, nothing to do except keep lookout and keep on course.
On the way across the Bay of Plenty we were treated to the spectacular site of White Island in full flow, billowing out tons of steam.
Wearily after two days at sea we encountered the narrow channel at the entrance to Tauranga Harbour that has a tidal flow of four knots. Given our wee vessel only does about six knots, that didn't give us much manoeuvrability. So our second night at sea saw us hoved-to outside the harbour entrance (reefed mainsail and tiller set in opposite directions, the boat drifting at 1.5 knots). We had to do this because the marina, just inside the harbour, due to the speed of the tide in there, only allows boats to enter at slack tide, an hour at either high or low tide, and that also has to coincide with their office hours. They send out a man in a red inflatable dinghy to guide you to your berth At 6am on arrival day, having barely slept, I rolled out of bed for my watch. I stared bleary-eyed at the chart and calculated how much we had drifted throughout the night while hoved-to. Bugger, more miles than I’d calculated, and I hadn’t allowed any contingency time. Engine on, untie the tiller, sails up, get her on course and up to speed, engine off and let the sails pull us into Tauranga in order to get into our berth at slack tide. The man in the red dinghy was there.
“Welcome to Tauranga” he called and motored on ahead to our berth.

We nearly didn’t get away that day a week ago. Our umbilical chords were firmly fixed to our home pier. Firstly I couldn’t even unplug the mains power chord, the gales of the last two weeks having thoroughly encrusted the connections with salt. Next we attempted to detach our mooring lines from the jetty and mooring post, to take away with us. After four years in situ the knots were as unmoving as gnarly old arthritic hands. I borrowed a neighbour’s kayak and attacked them with our largest screwdriver. Several yachtie friends amassed and hung onto our lines as we attempted to maneuver out of the berth in frequent 30-knot gusts. Ten out of ten to David for getting us clear intact.
We motored onto the choppy harbour and rigged a double-reefed main, and there the reefs stayed till we dispensed with the main altogether out in stormy Hawke Bay. We screamed down the harbour at seven to eight knots and around Baring Head with nearly 30 knots of Northerly on our tail. Four dolphins saw us out of town.
The seasickness drugs worked for me right across Palliser Bay, even when I had to go down and rig up my Mac for electronic charts, our new notebook not yet playing the game.
Alas the mal de mer set in around Cape Palliser and I spent much of the next 12 hours below, emerging only to do my watch and to regularly regurgitate the morsels I’d persuaded myself to eat.
“I’ll cope with a couple of cold southerly days just to get out of here.” I’d bravely postulated at yet another round of farewell drinks a couple of weeks ago. That week being yet another of Wellington’s howling best, threatening to see us still in town for Christmas. On our first night at sea I remembered those rash words.
It was cold. It was wet at times. The sea joined the party, dumping into the cockpit from time to time. I was coping with all this while trying to stay awake. I’d been brutally ripped from my sleeping bag an hour before my watch time to help put up a storm sail.
We watched for ships, seeing one or two each watch, and for the beacons of lighthouses coming through the gloom, reassuring us our electronic charts were indeed correct. All such a lot to think about when we hadn’t done any coastal sailing for nigh on four years. The next morning dawned grey and cold. We sailed up past Cape Turnagain and Cape Kidnappers, the sun occasionally shining through.
A note about the Wairarapa Coast; It’s one of the most inhospitable coasts around the North Island. There is nowhere to go for 36 hours, no stops between Wellington and Napier, and the weather is often adverse. And of course we have the Coastwatch experience in these waters etched into our psyches.
But now we are tied up in sunny Gisborne, being completely looked after by family members. Half a dozen of them descended upon us last night for the first drinks of the trip. One of them came first thing this morning and whisked us away for a tour of Gisborne and its surrounds, venturing as far north as Tolaga Bay, where we walked out to the end of the newly restored wharf. I saw my first brilliant red East Coast Pohutukawa of the season. I took it as a good omen.
Tonight we are to be collected and treated to family BBQ. We are underway and its all good.

Ring of Fire (David) Dec1 2014 On the strict understanding that sailors cannot be relied upon to be where they say they’ll be, I’ll tell you a little of our plans.
We have it in mind to sail, in May next year, to Fiji with a brief stop at Minerva Reef, a couple of coral enclosures two to three km across, each with a gap allowing access to the calm of the enclosure. At high tide there is nothing visible. It’s a must-stop since GPS and a must-avoid before. We have about five months to explore the Fiji archipelago before the cyclone season pushes us north and west.
I think it’s a reasonable bet we’ll make it to Fiji. Our planning chart shows a solid line between New Zealand and this island group. After that the lines become dotted and radiate out in a variety of directions. Perhaps we will have had our fill and choose to return to New Zealand. Maybe South East Asia or Australia will take out attention. But if we follow our current ideas we will head for Japan either via Tuvalu, Kiribati and the Marshall Islands or through Vanuatu, the Solomon Islands and Papua New Guinea, the latter route currently gaining favour. At the end of this entry is a story, ‘Call And Response’, that accounts, in part, for our Japanese inclinations.
Our sojourn in this interesting region might be a matter of months or, knowing that we’d be unlikely to pass that way again, we may stay longer.
Still, a time will come when we will want to move on. In our sights is Vancouver. It’s a romantic notion to sail my own boat to my home country even though home is the other side of the continent. It’s also a very long passage, some 40 or 50 days with nowhere to stop. We have this idea, of which we may be cured before the time comes, of being at sea long enough to learn to live there. All our passages so far have been entirely destination focused – a routine of watch keeping, sleep and eating, our attention never far from the GPS, ticking off the miles. We imagine that a passage of North Pacific duration would encourage and make room for being at sea, for living. We won’t, of course, lose sight of the destination but perhaps be less singularly driven, more able to pursue other projects. That’s the idea anyway, and the appeal of a long voyage.
From Vancouver we will follow the coast south, slowly, until we reach Central America where another decision awaits. Might we be seduced through the Panama Canal? Or will we begin the long journey home? That’s too far in the future. Either way, we will have circumnavigated much of the Pacific, the Ring of Fire.
In the mean-time, we have a few months of cruising north from Wellington.
We are ready to go and need only a suitable weather window to make a dash for Gisborne, our first stop, just a couple of days away. It could be a long wait. November and December are not known for light winds.
Call and Response This was over two years in the planning – none of us thought we could pull it off. Yet here we were, sailing across Hiroshima Bay, the thunder of our Taiko drum echoing through the mist-cloaked hills.
****** It had begun at my first Taiko class, in a warehouse directly under the northern end of the Wellington Airport runway. Everything had to stop when a plane came in to land. It was a large, windowless room, lined with every percussion instrument imaginable.
Murray’s craggy face leaned into our conversation. ‘Did you say sail to Japan?’ ‘Not exactly. Just contemplating the possibility.’ I rested an elbow on one of the big drums. ‘Why?’ He patted the hide-covered instrument lovingly. ‘I’m building another one of these to present to my Taiko teacher on Miyajima.” Murray’s grey eyes sparkled. “Imagine delivering it by yacht.’ He saw the doubt on my face. ‘It would be a mighty ceremony. There’d be call and response drumming all across the bay. You can hear these things for miles over water. At the shrine there’ll be a ceremonial presentation, a lot more drumming and a truck-load of saké.’ Immediately this struck me as a most impractical yet irresistibly romantic idea.
Japan was well off our planned route, through waters known to be ripped apart by typhoons at any time of the year. Committing ourselves to a date nearly two years and over five thousand miles away had trouble written all over it. Sailors are notoriously unreliable for being where they say they’ll be. Things go wrong, plans change and the weather, of course, has a hand in everything.
Yachts have left New Zealand for, say, Fiji and arrived in Tonga or Vanuatu instead, because that’s what the winds dictated. How could we promise to be tucked up in Hiroshima in twenty two months, ready for Murray to climb aboard with an enormous drum? And this was just our end of his plan. Murray had still to find the hides and stretch them. There was a sizable round of tree trunk to locate, season and hollow out. He’d need a wood carver, sponsorship, maybe a camera crew.
He’d need to persuade Air New Zealand to fly him and his drum to Hiroshima.
All he had was a dream, yet here he was trying to pin down transport for the last six miles of the enterprise. All because serendipity had put before him one small part that matched the vision – a New Zealand built yacht that could get to Japan on its own bottom and then carry his drum to Miyajima Island and the people who nurtured his passion for Taiko music.
Even so, the idea would not leave me alone. New lines, Asia bound, began appearing on our passage-planning chart.
****** “Hear that?” Murray cocked his ear to the wind. “Hōno Daiko.” The thunderous rhythm and haunting conch pulled at us, calling us in. “Come on, let’s show them how we do it in Wellington.” We moved forward to the majestic instrument lashed on the foredeck like a figurehead. Together we beat out the ancient rhythm until sweat dripped from our bodies. We were gratified by a raucous cheer from the island.
The Great Torii Gate towered over us as we slowly approached the wharf where our hosts were gathered in their blue and white hanten and headbands. Many hands took our lines amid a frenzy of drumming and chorus of okaerinasai and Murray-san. Our drum-maker was near tears at this reception. It was more than twenty years since he had been among these people.
The ornately carved drum was untied, gently lifted off the boat and placed opposite the taiko of our hosts. The drumming stopped. The group fell silent.
Murray stepped forward to his teacher and bowed deeply. “It’s been too long. Tadeima.’ He said, ‘I’m home.” He paused, searching the faces for old friends. “We’ve brought a small gift. A thank you. Much of what I treasure most was given here by you. Arigatou gozaimashita.” “Let me tell you something of this taiko. The drum shell is solid kauri, inlaid with paua, awabi. The skins are thick bull-hide. They will resonate for centuries.’ The taiko players gathered close around.
‘The drum shell is encircled by three sea dragons, three ryῡ. Here are the taniwha of my city, the fierce Ngake and his brother, Whataitai. They carved out Wellington harbor. The third you all know,’ he said, running a finger along its spine. “The princess, Toyotama-hime, sea goddess of this island, Miyajima.” There were shouts of approval.
“I give you this drum as a symbol of our friendship and our joy of Taiko.” Murray’s teacher came forward and bowed, then stood. A broad smile creased his venerable face. “Okaerinasai, Murray-san. Welcome home.”