Unkindest cut of all

Yesterday the Outward Bound cutter was mown down in Queen Charlotte Sound by a Dolphin Watch catamaran, destroying it and injuring most of those inside, some of them seriously. Bad news.

This is that cutter when I did my OB course in 2003: it was our first hands-on experience of our week there, as it probably was for the students yesterday. We'd all met at the ferry terminal, had the briefest of introductions and then changed into running gear to jog all the way round the bay, past amused tourists on Picton's waterfront, to a cove on the other side. There we were instructed to run right into the water and swim out to this cutter, scramble aboard, and row it to a small island in the Sound, where we manhandled the sails up the mast and by guess and by God navigated it to the little beach where we spent the night under the stars, taking turns at keeping watch over the boat. And where a possum ran over my stomach while I was asleep.

It was a typically full-on introduction to OB, and we found that they're not the least bit interested in teaching outdoor skills, but fully focused on pushing people out of their comfort zones, literally and figuratively, to discover what they're capable of. None of us was particularly experienced in any of this nautical stuff, but we muddled through ok and once we'd got over the shock, were quite proud of what we did, even though it had no style at all.

This is one of the group of 14, Norm Hewitt, who in a former life was an All Black, but on the cutter was most useful as a dead weight for controlling the jib. Possibly gib.

And this is a man whose name I forget, because when we arrived at Anakiwa the next day and were shown the high ropes course that we were to negotiate that evening under spotlights, he scarpered after dinner and was never seen again.

Shame. Other people were scared of things too, like swimming under the cutter, or abseiling down a cliff, but they did it and were proud of themselves. I bet he's still sorry he didn't go through with it. None of that stuff worried me - not because I'm brave, more that I have a lack of imagination for possible consequences; but I did learn some things about myself, good and bad. The bad was that I was too obedient: when we did our solo two nights in the bush, I took only what was allowed and spent most of the time dutifully alone in this Spartan shelter with only passing possums for company. Believe me, when viewed from flat on the ground, in moonlight, with nothing between the two of you but a thin nylon sleeping bag, a possum looks much bigger than you remember.

The others, meanwhile, had not only taken lots more equipment from the storeroom, but had been visiting each other's camps very sociably all day. On the second night they decided I must have had enough time to write up all the notes I'd said I needed to do, and invited me to Norm's pad, where he'd erected a huge tent and been cooking up tins of corned beef over a fire. It made a nice change from the regulation flapjacks and water, I must say.

And the good thing I learned is what brought me here, to do this travel-writing lark: that it's no good thinking "one day I might try that". You have to commit. And look how that's worked out!

Flying through the Dark

I was at a promotional event this morning put on by the Las Vegas tourism people - reps from Treasure Island, Planet Hollywood, Cirque du Soleil and so on - in Mollie's Hotel in St Mary's Bay just the other side of the Harbour Bridge. It's a beautiful little boutique hotel in an old wooden villa with high moulded ceilings and a narrow staircase - very charming, if self-consciously so (swags of Trelise Cooper fabrics over the windows, opera musak) and the morning tea, pretty little cakes on tiered stands and a variety of fine old china almost made me forget their error in calling it a High Tea. Anyway, it was in total contrast to what was on show from Vegas, where a 2500-room hotel is what they consider a boutique hotel there.

The main man was called Rafael, who gave a perfectly-timed speech fitting in with his accidental background music of Nessun Dorma, and who was particularly enthusiastic about the zipline activity there, which he was busily slimming down to be able to go on. Turns out it's a flying fox, but still and all, it sounds pretty exciting: a series of runs high over canyons through the mountains.

I love flying foxes: there was a great long one we found at a motel on the West Coast years ago, when the girls were too young to go alone, so we took them in front of us - handy for padding the bump at the end. Then there was the one at the end of the high ropes course on Outward Bound which was not only super-long, but we did it in the dark - that was pretty exciting, flying through the bush, night-sight shot by the spotlights we'd been under doing the course. But best of all was the one I did at Waitomo, in a cave deep underground that I'd had to abseil into, and then stood there all alone for a time in the dark until my guide joined me. Not the place to be thinking about balrogs and Shelob and such. We scrambled through tunnels and came to a place that blazed in our headlamps, crystals sparkling everywhere, and then I was hooked onto the flying fox and we turned out our lamps, and I whizzed through absolute dark, whistling past stalagmites and stalactites with total faith in my safety. It was a blast.

Spring sprung?

It's been a long, cold winter this year, and an eventful one for many people around the country, with floods, landslides, tornadoes and even an earthquake - but this morning it looks as though the end is finally in sight. I took my usual Sunday morning brisk walk (too brisk for the dog, alas - she has to stay behind, giving me The Look from her Mary Pickford eyes) to the dairy to buy the paper and it was just glorious. Blue sky, sunshine on the grass and the flowers that are starting to appear, the air crisp and clear, and everyone I met looking cheerful.

This is a walk I use for fitness, as it includes several hills and a flight of 132 steps up from the beach. I've pushed myself around this route with some specific goals in my sights, like Outward Bound, the Inca Trail, and now the Milford Track - but this morning it was just pure pleasure to be out in the sun, with legs and lungs working as they should, and time to look around and enjoy.

And to remember: this is the path I rode my RDA pony up where we got stuck under a fallen tree that wasn't as high as I'd thought; this is the hill my daughter went down on her scooter far faster than either of us planned; here is where the daffodil fields used to be; that's the hall where I spent so many hours watching tap and ballet lessons, school plays and end of year assemblies; this is the zebra crossing that it was my idea to ask for.

And time too to dream: this is the house I have watched being built, section by section, over the years so that where once a little wooden home stood there is now a unique and distinctive house that takes full advantage of its view north and west over the tree-fringed upper harbour, the island, and all the moored boats, including the yellow one that sets the picture off so beautifully. This is the house where I will go, when I win the lottery, and ask what they want for it. They won't want to sell, because they've built it with love, but I will have won so much money that I will be able to add zeroes until they agree. And then we will live there in that interesting house, with those views, in that quiet street, and every sunset will be an event.

Of course, I'll have to start buying Lotto tickets first.

>>> I’m standing on the deck of a boat tied up to the jetty in Picton, elbow to elbow with a bunch of strangers, changing into running gear in full view of the passengers on the Interislander. A slim blonde called Genevieve waves vaguely at a bay across the other side of the harbour, says “Let’s go!” and runs lightly off towards the town, as we trail breathlessly behind her past bemused tourists and locals. We fetch up in a panting mass on a distant beach where, pointing to a cutter moored out in the bay, Geraldine urges us into the water, still in our clothes. We flail out to where a bearded bloke hauls us aboard and sits us alongside the oars. Grinning cheerfully, he hauls up the anchor and starts calling the strokes as we catch crabs, clash oars and finally settle into something approximating rowing. “Welcome to Outward Bound!” says Bob.

It’s a rugged introduction, but perfect in its way, because the next eight days continue in the same vein. The first chance to catch our breath and say hello comes that night in a little bay in Queen Charlotte Sound where we sit around a crackling fire under a star-filled sky, slurping hot mussels cooked in sea-water. We’re a mixed bunch of townies, late 20s and older, our only thing in common a readiness to have a go — although when I’m woken in the middle of the night by a possum galloping across my stomach, I wish I knew exactly what I have signed up for...

We climb a 25-metre rain-slicked cliff and abseil back down, which Patera finds so easy that he’s made to do it blindfold. We carry heavy packs up Mt Cullen, 1100 metres, and sleep rough at the top, rising in the dark to watch the sunrise. For two nights we camp solo with minimal shelter and food: possums scuttle around in the dark and though I know the others are within earshot, I’m on my honour not to leave my site, and eye them from deep in my sleeping bag.

On the last day the groups come together for a run through the bush, and some people astonish themselves by completing a half-marathon; but not me. I stumble and break a bone in my foot. I hobble the last 10 kilometres, determined not to give up. Back home, my doctor phones the X-ray people: “No urgency. She’s tough - she’s just done Outward Bound,” and I swell with pride. Now I know I can do anything: another OB success story.

[Pub. Women's Health June 09]