“I have a boat,” I explained, “and that mast over there. I’m trying to figure out how to get them together. Any ideas?”
He grinned. “Bring them on over.”
We did so, the crane lifted our new mast like a twig, poised it dramatically for a moment over the gaping hole amidships, and then lowered away. By nightfall we had our “homemade” mast completely wedged and shrouded, with a bright “thruppenny” bit—a gift from Jessica, which we were assured would bring luck—nestled beneath the base.
It was time to move on and I began to inquire about the possibility of sailing down the east coast as far as Wellington, through Cook Strait, and thus across the Tasman to Sydney.
“Wellington?” everyone demanded scornfully. “Why do you want to go to Wellington? There’s nothing there, really. And as for the trip down the coast—you’re likely to have very bad weather, you know—shocking! Wellington harbor’s not too good, either—exposed and windy. My word! Terrible! As for Cook Strait—worst stretch of water in the world—absolutely notorious. No yachts go that way to Sydney. You must go north first, then west and around the cape. It’s the only way.”
Still I hesitated. We’d come from Russell and it seemed a shame to go up that way again when there was so much farther south that we hadn’t seen. Surely there must be another side to the story.
At last I found it. One day I met a charming chap on the dock. He had just come in from his mooring. In the course of our chat I mentioned the possibility of our sailing to Wellington. He was delighted.
“Ah-h-h, yes-s-s! Wellington! Splendid place. You’ll like it. Very active yacht clubs there—real sailors, you know—nothing they won’t do for you. The trip down the coast? First-rate fun—easy course. Fine sailing. Wellington harbor? Couldn’t be better. Bit of a wind there, true—but it’s well protected. Wellington to Sydney? Through Cook Strait? Well, why not—why not? I remember distinctly another yacht made it that way—no trouble at all. Back in the thirties, I think it was. Not as sturdy a craft as yours, either.”
Here was the optimistic note I’d been seeking. I turned away, encouraged, but had a sudden thought. “By the way, where are you from?”
He smiled cheerfully. “Ah—Wellington, actually!”