Weathering Christmas on the way to Waiheke

BY MARCUS STICKLEY

"Return ticket on the 11 o'clock sailing to Waiheke, please,'' I said, trying to sound bright and awake despite feeling about as grey as the brooding clouds over Hauraki Gulf that were waiting to rain.

I handed over $30 cash I got $1.50 back.

The square of paper I was giving in exchange was clipped as I stepped onto the gangway to the half-full Fullers ferry at the terminal in Auckland City.

Even with the wind up, and rain threatening, I was going to sit outside on the top deck. I needed plenty of fresh air and room to move should the need to heave over the side win the mind-over-matter battle raging in my body.

Sea sickness had never been a problem for me. Even in my worst Cook Strait crossing, where glasses were smashed at the bar and every other person had their colour-drained face in a bag, I hadn't been fazed. I even enjoyed it.

But the night before had gotten heavy. At a music industry Christmas party free drinks were flowing and there were old friends and friends I'd forgot I had to catch up with.

While I was feeling the after effects of all the cheer, I boarded with a group of corporate who were just warming up for a day I suspected they would indulging the Christmas spirit at the Island's wineries. On their excursion a spikey, silver-haired Santa was wearing a sports coat and jeans with his big red sack.

Sitting in an uncovered section of the top deck with me were a group of women made-up with bug-eyed sunglasses who moved for shelter from the blustery wind soon after we pulled away from dock.

I stayed on with a few other blokes and tucked my baseball cap into my backpack to avoid it being whipped away.

Also on the top deck was a cameraman who on our stop at Devonport was joined by a soundman carrying a mic and boom. On the way to the island they shot a passing ferry and some panoramic views.

By the time the boat past Rangitoto my head was starting to clear. The sky was not. It was unsettled, like my stomach. Those scrambled eggs I had for breakfast were in need of some reinforcement.

Two women and a male companion sat in the seats immediately around me, sauvignon blanc's in hand, having just been down to the little onboard cafe/bar. One said she's spilled her glass three times already and struggled to light a cigarette as she crouching for cover behind a row of seats.

Just as get up to find out if there is a steak pie at the cafe counter the ferry's engines drop a gear – we were at the island only 35 minutes later.

Even on a bad day the sailing seemed smooth, spilled wine and self-inflicted pain aside.


Marcus Stickley moved from Auckland three years ago and sometimes misses it, especially the rock'n'roll. He now lives in the South Island.



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