Monthly Archives: April 2017

With the windshield wipers slapping time I seemed to sluggishly break through the fog in my brain into a kind of hazy state of consciousness, suddenly aware that I was driving ok, but on the wrong side of the road. In times like this I find it important not to do anything hasty. Through the fog, rain, and spray I could barely make out the red tail lights I’d been following just ahead of us. No reason to panic so I just kept repeating my Down Under mantra, “Keep Left!” which I’m finding works pretty well for most everything in my life these days.

One wind-whipped blustery dinghy ride, a bus ride, a train ride, a 90-minute flight, a shuttle ride to a motel clear across Brisbane, a 4:am wake up call for another airport shuttle ride back across Brisbane, a 3-1/2 hour flight across the Tasman sea, and finally a two hour rain soaked drive in a little white Toyota Yaris, has had it’s way with me and it hasn’t been pretty. Improperly caffeinated, we pulled into something brand new called The Farmer Center just at the edge of town and found a minor miracle. In an austere, stark, almost Dansk-like, nearly empty interior a cute young Chinese cashier said yes they have coffee, how would you like it? At least I’m sure she thought she was speaking English and used some of those very same sounds. That’s when I saw it. A pot of brewed coffee. You see, Dear Escapees, the Kiwis have got it into their minds that the epitome of good taste and refinement is a thing called a long black, instead of an effing cup of coffee. It’s a fiddly expensive thing where you get a tiny cup of espresso with an accompanying glass of water and you mix in enough water to approximate a cup of coffee. It costs double and you have to do the work yourself. 

So as I say, after several halting fits and starts I resorted to pointing and pantomime, I was not to be denied and while trying to interpret her blank stares I came to the realization that the Kiwis can’t understand me just as much as I can’t understand them. Perfect.

Properly caffeinated now the stark reality of driving all day in the fog, rain, and spray — let’s agree to call it FRS — began to weigh upon me. Marce, my personal concierge, cheerfully pointed out the high points along the way like ‘that would be coastline filled with lovely ocean surf if it weren’t for this fog’ and ‘that over there is a field of wet sheep, all doomed, see the way their tails hang down?’

I haven’t mentioned that we Escapees have joined another shopping quest and this time M. has determined that I really should have a waterproof jacket, but at a price that reflects good value, as the Aussies say. Should have just brought my foulies.
Soon after a few hours of splashing about, we pulled into Oamaru, not today’s main event but kind of a quirky fun stop we’re prone to from time to time. It’s called “Steam Punk HQ” and from M’s disbelieving stare when I questioned what it was I’ve got to assume everyone knows about this phenomenon but me. It’s kind of found Victorian Industrial Futuristic art…with a twist.

After a long damp drive to Moeraki in worsening conditions we realized that the long list of criteria for a more substantial waterproof jacket for me would have to get more flexible and as luck would have it, you enter the Moeraki Boulders Beach through, wait for it, the gift shop. After a long search we found that water resistant would have to do. We suited up at the car. Boots, water proof pants, jackets, and hats. Some of the crew opted for gloves and scarves. It started to rain in earnest as we slip-slided down the steep water-logged moss-covered steps down the cliff toward the beach. I imagine they have a nice beach here but it’s FRS and high tide so there’s not much beach to see or walk on. 

We’re not good with tide tables even at the best of times but it’s not like we have a choice so it’s slog down the sodden beach, take the photo, tick the box, and head back to the car. A few more hours of FRS driving found us up on the third floor of the Dunedin Law Courts Hotel buried under every blanket they had, with both electric blanket controls turned up to 10.

Last year, defying dire written warnings against it, we overstayed our tourist visas because the marine weather didn’t cooperate when it came time to leave New Zealand and sail to Fiji. I’m generally a rule follower so I was a little concerned that it would be put on our permanent record and when we showed up at passport control this time alarms would go off, red lights would flash and we’d be deported on the next plane to wherever we came from. In the event I stuck my passport in the e-reader machine and before I even took my hand away I was informed that I’d been granted a tourist visa, the gate opened and I was in. Jack, on the other hand, was not so lucky. As soon as he inserted his passport a border agent came over and guided him to a manned gate where he was asked a lot of questions, some of which he couldn’t answer, since I’d made most of the travel arrangements. I stood by, offering subtle prompts a few times, especially when the almost incomprehensible Kiwi accent got the best of him. I felt like Nancy Reagan talking Ronnie through an unfamiliar communion ceremony except that I’m taller and my head’s not so big. Eventually the big stamp came down on Jack’s passport and he was in too. Whew!

We knew from looking out the window during landing that it was wet outside but as we walked past the optimistically sunny scenic murals in the terminal and outside to find the rental car we weren’t prepared for the bone chilling rising damp. Who, we wondered, is responsible for this dire weather during our vacation? Strongly worded letter to come.

We only planned an hour drive to end the day, enough to get us away from the traffic and construction delays of Christchurch and staged for the long drive the next day. Jack is completely converted to left side driving and we found our motel room in the quiet farming town of Ashburton with no problems. After another hilarious convo with the motel owner about our yachting lifestyle (“My husband has a yacht. I hate it!”) we got into our room, cranked the heat up and pulled more fleece out of the luggage.

It was at this point that I discovered my precious Trader Joe’s Moisturizing Face Lotion (Broad Spectrum SPF15), which is irreplaceable on this side of the globe, had opened up during flight and moisturized the inside of my LLBean travel tote and one pair of Bose Quiet Comfort 2 Noise Canceling Headphones. Why do they insist on packaging with those press-flip caps instead of a positive locking top? Strongly worded letter to follow. Right after I clean up the mess. 

We suited up again and drove to a grocery store for breakfast supplies, then to Robbie’s Bar & Bistro for a nightcap and a nosh. Well, a nosh for Jack. It was lucky I wasn’t hungry because there wasn’t one thing without meat on the menu, and I’m reminded that we are again in New Zealand and surrounded by doomed farm animals. Jack had the beef schnitzel, listed on the menu under Light Meals. I’ve grown used to Australia where vegetarians are accommodated and even catered to, rather than seen as an aberration. I love New Zealand but being vego here is a challenge, and I suspect will be even more so in the farmy South Island. Strongly worded letter — ahhh nuts. 

Last year we spent more than six months in New Zealand and in all that time we never made it to the South Island. Boat work, budget woes, the easy living in Whangarei all conspired to keep us from answering the call to explore the world of Peter Jackson. 
This year we’ve decided to spend an extra year in Australia and despite some expensive boat maintenance and the wallet-draining high life of Sydney we said what the hell and booked a flight back to the Land of the Long White Cloud. We originally thought we’d hire a self-contained campervan which would allow us to park nearly anywhere and appreciate the big scenery away from holiday crowds, but when we passed the equinox and autumn moved in we agreed that chilly nights in an aluminum can, even a heated one, didn’t sound as inviting as a toasty motel room. We ran the numbers too, and the differential between a car+lodging vs. campervan+higher fuel costs led us to the conclusion that the campervan is a false economy. In warmer weather we might have done it. But this time it’ll be Albert Finney and Audrey Hepburn in Two for the Road, minus the Givenchy and the MG-TD, much to Jack’s disappointment. We packed fleece and booked a Yaris. 

The day before we left Jack was keen to watch the Chinese Grand Prix and worked it out with a local sports bar to commandeer one of the big screens for the race. Our friends Sherm and Mia and Bruce and Di joined us for drinks and pizza and we had a fun send off. 

Di offered to dinghy us and our luggage ashore in the morning, but after one of the most perfect sunny days we’ve had in weeks, departure day dawned windy and choppy. We loaded up the dinghy with our luggage and our trash and got so wet slamming across the channel to pick up Di that we waved her off and told her we’d lock the dinghy at the dock and she could pick it up later when it calmed down. I’m pretty sure she looked relieved but it was hard to tell through the salt spray. We were soaked by the time we got ashore and so was our luggage. Then came an hour-long bus ride to town and a half-hour train ride to the airport. What a way to start a vacation!

We booked our flights with frequent traveler miles we’d been saving for years and that were about to expire, and our journey to Christchurch involved an overnight layover in Brisbane. Airlines have strange ways. I booked it at a time when we’d have an afternoon and evening to dip our toes in a new Aussie city and we were really looking forward to it but by the time we arrived at our hotel we were both spent. When we checked in we shared with the clerk, as we always do, that we live on a boat. He looked up from his monitor with raised eyebrows. “Really?” he said. “That’s so cool!” 

“We sailed here from New York.” 

“Are you kidding!?” We had his attention. 

“It took five years.” 

That was the coup de gras. 

“Oh my god!” He clutched his chest. “You must have eaten a lot of fish!”

We love the reactions we get from non-sailors when we share what we’re doing. This young man was so affected that while he was checking us in he’d pause in mid-sentence, clutch his chest again and breathe, “Oh my god!” over and over. We kept adding details, like we have a full kitchen with a freezer, and that we once were at sea for 42 days straight. Each new piece made him more and more verklempt and he never fully regained his composure. It took a long time to complete the check in but he gave us a room on the top floor with a fantastic river view. 

Our check-in was completed with stuttering directions to two areas where we could find options for dinner and a reminder to use the key card to operate the elevator and also to activate the electricity in the room. We definitely needed the refresher course in modern travel conveniences. Nevertheless we managed to navigate to the top floor and unlock our room without major mishap, kicked off our shoes and sunk into a pillow-topped king size bed with a big sigh. After a few minutes I suggested that since we had to get up at 5am to catch our flight to Christchurch, I’d almost prefer to find takeout food nearby and come back to this comfy room and watch TV, which we never get to do. 

“I like the way you think,” Jack said and we walked around the corner for a kebab and a spinach and feta pie and spent the next three hours watching Househunters International and Island Hunters. Yes, we are pathetic. 

We both slept fitfully for some reason, but all hope of a restful night went out the window when at 3am something unidentifiable  started beeping. First it was the iPad, then before I could figure out what was happening the cell phone rang. It was our bank, calling to finalize a wire transfer to pay the rigger. The cool thing is for the first time I’d set up call forwarding from our Skype number to our local cell phone so the banker thought she was calling Annapolis but it transferred to our cell phone in Brisbane and it only cost us 4¢ a minute. Why didn’t I think to do this before?! 

Five am had us up and packing and by 6 we were out on the street waiting for the van back to the airport. South Island, hide the silver. The Escapees are on the way. 

 
Maybanke Cove, Pittwater Bay Australia, Saturday races.