At any rate, on February 6 we sailed south, en route to Wellington. We left Auckland with a bit of a flourish, in a force 6 southwesterly, amid showers. For two days we bowled along, covering a record 280 miles in 48 hours, but then the winds fell off. In the next few days we experienced the wide variety of weather that can be expected in these latitudes, with winds ranging from calms to gales in rapid succession, and neglecting no point of the compass. First-rate fun, indeed!
Early on the morning of the eighth day we rounded the last headland and tackled notorious Cook Strait. It did not disappoint us—although we were more than willing to be disappointed. A northerly gale funneled down on us and after a few rough and profitless hours of beating through high seas we eased off and continued on across the southern approaches to the strait and ran for the lee of South Island. The Phoenix, which takes a bit of a breeze to get underway, was making an easy seven knots under storm jib and reefed mizzen alone and her motion evoked unwelcome memories of our North Pacific crossing.
By evening we were well down the coast and had about decided to pay a visit to Christchurch, as long as we were in the neighborhood, when the evening weather forecast announced a strong southerly in Cook Strait. That was what we had been waiting for, so we put about. The breeze swung to the south, at first tentatively polite and then rudely boisterous, and we tore back up the coast, staying well offshore.
When taking our sun shots the next morning we suddenly realized that our latitude was now outside the range of the H.O. 214 navigation tables we had on board. Ted, in no way disturbed by this discovery, extrapolated the data necessary to work out our position. That afternoon the entrance to beautiful Wellington harbor rose out of the mists, dead ahead. At 1800 we were met by the pilot boat and escorted to a comfortable, if somewhat public, berth at Queen’s Wharf, five minutes from the center of downtown Wellington.
Our first visitor was Bill McQueen, an enthusiastic young chap from the Royal Port Nicholson Yacht Club, who had spotted us through glasses as we entered the harbor. Anything he could do for us? Any shopping? Perhaps we’d like him to run up and bring us a few pies, since it’s well past teatime? (A pie, in New Zealandese, is a delicious and filling meat-and-vegetable concoction, a meal in itself.) We accepted the offer gratefully.
While he was away, our next visitors arrived: Commodore Tomkies and Vice-Commodore Catley, also of the yacht club. They, too, offered hot pies, and were a bit chagrined to learn that one of the youngsters had beaten them to it. However—would any of us care to come up to the house later for hot baths and supper? We would? First rate! Someone would be down to pick up the lot of us at eight o’clock.
The hot pies arrived, two apiece, fragrant and delicious. Handing over honorary guest cards to all of us, our new friends of the yacht club took their leave and we retired below to enjoy our pies. It was nice to be alone for a few moments, to sort out our impressions. Suddenly Jessica, curled up on the seat box by her desk, glanced out the starboard porthole and gave a gasp.
“There are hundreds of people up there on the dock—watching every bite I take!”
“It is rather public,” Ted agreed, “but you can always close your eyes.”
Our central location was both an advantage, for shopping, and a disadvantage. Each day, during the noon hour, some two or three hundred workers were decanted from nearby offices and all of them wandered down to look us over and comment on our activities while they stood about drinking beer and eating fish and chips. Frequently, I’m sure, they had no idea how their voices carried.