A Couple of Characters
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. "It tried to take a piece out of me."
"Ah, that'll be George. He lives here. We feed him. Donâ't recommend swimminâ'." '
By now Yevgenyâ'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 tottering 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.
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