Narrative: Relocating from Nelson to Picton

Sleeping on the steel cold floor of last night's midnight freight ship from Picton to Wellington, the adventure just had began to sink in. My eyes are sore, my lips feel like leather, can't get the black grease out from under my nails, and my shoulders ache from pulling up chain anchors. It feels real to be alive as if I’ve taken a vacation from my life. Rogue is now safe in Picton.

Starting the trip off, Gav and I left Nelson an hour before dawn. Since Rogue leaked with the sails up, we knew we had to diesel motor the entire way. Loosing sight of civilization after the first hour, the sound of the howling wind, the sight of barren roaming distant cliffs, and an occasional dolphin became our only company.

Along the journey to French Pass, threatening swells from the coming storm towered far overhead before washing over the deck and now harnessed in with life jackets on, we meticulously logged each hour exactly how much we had to bail from the leaking hull. It took us exactly seven hours to reach French Pass, the third most dangerous pass in the world. On the horizon Gavin pointed out the dark monster of a storm coming that we would soon have to wait out.

As we made the approach to French Pass, we could see the tides starting to push and pull. Only a few times a day do you have exactly 20 minutes to make it through at slack tide. Our window would begin at 2:50pm and the new realization we were still 20 minutes away at 2:40 was not good news. Ten minutes late. We decided to quickly find a sheltered mooring just before the pass hoping we could get through it in the morning before the storm hit. And it was at that point, when the engine died.

Gavin and I quickly exchanged looks. Looks not of panic. No, they were looks of determination against all odds. Running to throw the anchor over, we drifted swiftly towards the rocky shore and the anchor did not hold. Plan B was for Gavin to row ashore and find a farmer's phone with which to call the Coast Guard. Giving him the most valuable items, he began rowing for shore and I prepared myself to jump. Soon I understood, my beloved 112-year-old ship would be turned to match sticks on the upcoming rocks.

Keeping a sharp eye on the impending destruction, after what seemed like a lifetime and the rocks neared, I heard a strange sound in the distance. Turning around I saw a fishing boat rounding the corner and speeding to the rescue. Tying onto us just in time, they towed us to a mooring further out in the bay. They explained they were fishermen who got a call from the Coast Guard, that they couldn't take us through French Pass until the next morning's tide went slack, they'd be back to get us, and good luck.

That night, after I took apart and put back together part of the diesel engine with no success due to a cracked fuel injector pipe, we still had a surprise in store. As we were cooking dinner, the GPS alarm went off. This expensive navigation toy other people had made fun of me for buying declared "Proximity alert!!" This toy was telling me our anchor mooring had broken and we were headed once again quickly for the rocks. Gavin leapt into the rowboat and began against the tide for the second and last mooring as I tried to get the anchor to take hold on the sandy sea floor. We managed to tie up to the second mooring not long after and finally hooked the anchor on some unassuming rock. Gavin and I looked at each other, too exhausted to speak, deciding we were up the creek without a paddle so to say, and began the only thing you can do in these situations. Like any good pirate we went through six bottles of grog.

It was on this night when the eye of the storm came through, the clouds cleared, and for a few hours the bay redefined my understanding of tranquillity under the light of the full moon. Bioluminescent rings grew outward from the places where fish jumped, hot soup under a starry sky, and realization we were living life on the same boat Charles Bailey Junior had lived life aboard was overwhelming. It felt as if someone’s giant invisible hand had brought all of life into focus transcending the daily worries that in the grand scheme of it all don't matter one dusty iota.

Next morning, Craig and Tex the fishermen came back and towed us to the seven family village just on the other side of French Pass. Most of the morning was spent trying to fix the engine, followed by accepting we'd be stuck there for the next few days to sit out the storm. Gav decided to not bus back to Picton but instead stay with me to lend a hand as I'd need to stay on the boat through the storm to bail her out and in case the mooring broke again.

The brunt of that storm made itself known in the middle of that night. Out of nowhere a horrible sound like a cry ruptured through the air moments before 65 knot winds came knocking the entire yacht flat on her side, knocking me out of my berth and onto the other side of the cabin despite the good effort Gavin made to ensure I'd stay in my bed with his sail. After banging my head I vaguely remember hearing my friend quietly saying to himself "mmm, that was a good one.."

Looking up through the chaos of falling objects, I could see the feint light of the night mixed with driving rain and the sea covering the cabin top windows as we readied to possibly abandon ship when she came right. Weary of also coming loose on the mooring again, it was a restless rocky night but Rogue survived and proved though she was old, she's still strong.

The fishermen of the village came out the next morning to see if we were still alive. Apparently, we had unknowingly proved our metal to them. So we weren’t slickers from the Capital city after all. Not that they couldn't help enough before the night of the storm, now they couldn't do enough. One of them arranged a homestead nestled in the valley with huge fireplace and sense of eternal timelessness like a lost paradise under huge oaks for the night while another insisted we join him, his friends, and family at his place up the hill from where we could keep an eye on the boat and share in the village gin.

Trading stories with real people you knew when they smiled, they were really smiling. When one slammed his fist on the table, bellowed out a comment, or gently kissed his wife, it was real. All with a different story to tell they now had come together to live in this place with their children and beautiful wives. Craig, the D'Urville Island ring leader fisherman was a grand man and told a story of fishing up a dead friend's leg. His blue eyes flashed reminders of a cold arctic sea and when he spoke, the words came from his round bearded face like a gust of wind not unlike that of the night before. Tex with the short red hair was a kind of industrial cattle butcher and had built this house on the hill overlooking French Pass with his best friend of 30 years. The kids went to bed on the floor to be near the grown-ups as we poured glass after glass of gin on the other side of the room.

Refusing a glass of their generosity would have been an insult and offering a fresh face to talk to was welcomed. We talked story and laughed long into the night after which Craig rolled down to the shore, into his boat, and motored across the Pass in the dark back home. This was his backyard afterall Gavin pointed out. Wandering back to the homestead by the light of the moon we couldn't help but chuckle at what a wonderful and unexpected experience the task of relocating Rogue had become.

The next morning I found Gavin asleep on the floor in front of the fire. He had been a true friend through the thick of it, always willing to step up to the line and over the edge if necessary. He had never wavered in the face of adversity and was great company for the entire journey. The storm subsided exactly when I had predicted and the seas were calming themselves, but with no engine there was no way of getting to Picton. Moments later Craig pulled up to the wharf and bellowed out, "How bout I tow you the rest of the way?" Paying him for the fuel and time in thanks we set out for the seven-hour trip towing back to Picton. I felt altered, like a different person, coming back into civilization after such a short time away. Changed. The ferry had been cancelled and talking my way onto a freight ship I arrived home at 5:30 this morning, put on the suit and tie, and took my time going into work today.

How quickly I had forgotten how much I love the top of the South Island. Rogue is now on the hard in Waikawa near Picton with Franklin Boatbuilders and will begin undergoing restoration this week. I can't thank Craig and Tex enough for their generosity.

A few pictures from the trip can be found here: Click here.