Tuhua Island to Slipper Island By the time you get this you will no doubt be recovering from the excesses of Christmas, the joys and maybe traumas of the day. I am a week or so behind with this blog posting - life is surprisingly busy at sea.
Tuhua Island – four hours sail north of Tauranga December 11-13 We woke to a dawn chorus, the boat gently swinging on her anchor, not hindered by bow and stern lines firmly attached to a marina. We too are less tied to the land. Yesterday we learned that Turners had sold our car. It felt liberating, no more WOF, insurance, registration, or expensive repairs (for the moment we’ll just overlook the fact we own a boat which eclipses all those factors).
Time to explore this new island. We lowered the dinghy into the water. I rowed as if I’d had one too many vodkas for breakfast. I hadn’t rowed for so long my coordination had evaporated, on some strokes my left oar missing the water altogether! This skill should be imprinted in my DNA. I grew up in Island Bay with a dinghy on the beach, the island my playground. I accepted David’s offer of rowing tuition.
The dinghy nosed up the beach. I leapt into the water to grab the bow and pull it to shore. I didn’t gasp, my toes didn’t immediately go numb. Yes!! “Right, let’s carry the dinghy up the beach,” suggested David, pointing at the high tide mark several metres up the sand. “Sure,” I took hold of my side of the dinghy. Nothing happened. I sent instructions to my arms and back again, nothing there. We struggled up the beach, my side of the dinghy mostly dragging in the sand. And this is without the outboard engine. Was it only four years ago I could carry my side of our much heavier dinghy in Tonga, engine and all? This evaporation of strength has not been an isolated experience. It is frightening how much muscle tone you lose when working in a sedentary academic job. Climbing the mast, I can barely haul myself up the first rungs, let alone hang on up there for more than a few minutes. Pulling in the sheets, I can barely winch the sail right in. But watch this space, I’ll have biceps to envy (for a middle-aged woman), before this trip is out. We meandered along paths through forests of ancient Pohutukawa taking one of the shorter walks to a lighthouse above the bay where we are moored. It was good to stretch our legs.
As we stood atop the outermost cliff on a promontory above the bay I spied Westerly sail in to the bay Great, we’d only met one other boat so far, and here they were. I start thinking about what I will serve with drinks.
Slipper Island Coromandel Janet December 13-16 We could have stayed at Tuhua for a week and explored the island’s crater and lakes, but the wind was forecast to shift and the bay would no longer be a sheltered haven. We headed north to Slipper Island on a grey oily calm sea, visited by two dozen dolphins who played with our bow, almost caressing it as they darted in and out. Four hours later we arrived and tied up to a mooring. The weather was not looking good.
“If the mooring breaks we start the engine. We can motor back into the bay and try to reanchor, otherwise we motor up and down the channel all night taking watches.” David outlines our emergency plan for the night.
We are on a mooring we don’t know at Slipper Island, part way up the Coromandel Peninsular, and its gusting 35 knots, gale force. It’s okay during the day but now night is falling and we are talking about doing an “anchor watch” where we take turns at staying up and keeping an eye on our position. We are trying to set the radar and GPS alarms that would alert us if we move too far. One good thing about his anchorage is that we ahv a long way to go before we hit rocks…If our mooring breaks, and we end up on the rocks, our trip would be over in a moment.
It’s raining, again. We’ve been stuck inside all day, lurching drunkenly around the boat, swaying in the Easterly swell, which wraps itself around the island. We light the diesel heater, wrote and played Rummy Tiles.
“Just like Wellington, only warmer,” I grumble to David, who looks up from his computer, nods then goes back to writing his blog.
To console myself I cook. Smells of cinnamon, lemon zest and star anise permeate the cabin as I make fig paste. Then I transform Christmas cake, laced with rum, into chocolate-coated truffles for a Boxing Day BBQ with friends in Auckland.