Orca Update 21

Hello from Tauranga!

As we left you last time, we were just pulling into the Marina here in the Bay of Plenty. Time and again, we've been warmly recieved in ports frequented by blue-water sailors. Tauranga was no exception: A day after arriving, a stranger had aranged a free ride to Auckland for us with a friend-of-a-friend.

So just like that, we doubled up docklines and said goodby to Orca. A ride with yet another quirky boatie brought us to Uncle Dave's house, where we were welcomed. Cousin Daniel, who builds houses for a living, encouraged us to leave behind our ocean lifestyle for a weekend and follow him on "a little adventure." Sure, sounds like fun. On Thursday, Dan left instructions for us to pick up "a bit of gear" from a friend. We drove over, and the heap of gear waiting for us was our first hint that we were in for a bit more than we barganined for. Mountain bikes, harnesses, miles of rope, carabeaners, miner's helmets, life jackets, wetsuits, a kayak, sleeping bags, crash helmets, and overalls.

At this point, another unsuspecting victim joined the expedition. Marc arrived from Monterey for a visit. He had a pile of surfboards and a keen hankering for jucy left pointbreak, but Dan told him, in no uncertain terms, that there was going to be a just slight detour on our way to the beach. Leaving surfboards behind, we loaded up and sped off into the night. Around 10, we pulled over and drifted off to sleep in the van.

We were abruptly awoken at 6 a.m. as the van careened from paved onto dirt road. Dan, who doesen't seem to need any sleep, had been up before light checking the caving gear. Just before dawn, he decided it was high time to get the show on the road and snuck into the driver's seat. We pulled over at an innocious-looking pasture in the middle of nowhere. Dan, illuminated by a magnanimous glow of generosity in the morning light, told us he was taking it easy on us since it was day one. We even had time to wolf a quick bite of breakfast. Tomorrow, we won't be geting such a late start, he promised.

Outfitted with long underwear, fleece, woolen caps, overalls, and miners helmets, we lept the barbed fence. We stopped in a depression, near a blackberry bush. We were here! But what was here? We expected to walk around in a cave for a few minutes, ooh and ahh some stalagtites, and jump back in the van. But then what was all this gear for? Dan whipped out a laminated sketch, handed us another copy. It was important, he reminded us, that we all had maps—incase he didn't make it. The sketch was a tangled and confusing network of dotted and solid lines. There was some text too, names like "The Birth Canal," and "The Long Squeeze." Dan gestured toward the blackbery bush, and told us to climb in. At the base of the bush was a dark muddy crack leading 12 feet straight down, about 10" wide. I looked at Marc,a big strapping young buck of 6'3 with broad strong shoulders and size 14 sneakers. I wished him luck, and we slithered in. You won't find any tourists down here, Dan promised.

After an hour of twisting and turning down into the cave, Marc was thinking that this was the worst surf-trip he'd never even dreamed of. At least 100 feet underground, he was deep in "The Long Squeeze," about 20 feet into the tube with a twisting 15' remaining before it opened up again. He was also stripped down to his underwear. Dan figured undressing would help to minimise his size and give maximum freedom of movement. Marc was covered in mud, eye wide with his constricted breath misting before him as Dan coached him through the contortions necessary to pass "just a bit of a kink." Helpful phrases like "bend your spine over backwards!" and "try not to breath!" echoed down the tunnels.

After that, things opened up and we joined an underground river. The rock formations were fantastic: white collumns, brown spires, flowstone, waterfalls, cliffs and beaches, all underground. When we emerged hours later, exhausted, bruised and sore, we were deep in a forest and it was pouring rain. A short hike brought us back to the van, where Dan appraised our sorry state and decided that about 3 hours of rock climbing was just what we needed.

The rest of that day was a blur, but our brains once again began recording memory around 6 a.m the next morning, as Dan guided the van towards the mighty Tongariro River. It'd been raining all night, so he figured this was a good time for "a quick river float," which he thought should wake us up effectively. Dan doesn't believe in coffee. We piled in rafts and were swept off down the muddy, swolen river. 2 hours and 60 rapids later, we were fully awake as we loaded the raft for the drive back to the van. Since we were already quite wet, there was a nearby underground river network Dan thought we should explore. We squeezed and splashed through a new cave, keeping the glow worms company. Our guide noticed we were exhausted to the point of being delusional, so, having no map of this cave, he took the opportunity to pretend we were lost, dropping comments like "is it just me or does the water look higher to you, mate?"

The following morning when Dan rousted us, it was pitch black. He told us we were going for a 20 km tramp over some volcanoes, so dress warm. Steam filtered out of the black and broken ground as we moved across the summit and down the backside of the volcanic ridge. Well down the backside, Dan turned around to "pop back over," grab the van, and pick us up on the other side. When we finally stumbled into the parking lot, Dan was bouncing with impatience for the next adventure. Since we were hot, sweaty, and stinky, we drove back to the Tongariro River, grabbed a coil of line and we jumped back in for a bit of canyoning. The short definition of canyoning is traveling down a section of river, on foot and in the water, that has too many waterfalls for a raft or kayak to run. I only hazily remember two things from that afternoon. The first is Dan telling us to jump in the river, float through this next set of rapids, but be careful to stop at the end as there is a 60 foot waterfall just around the corner. The second is when we jumped off a cliff which was high enough that when Marc didn't clench his lips on impact, the water in his mouth split his upper lip away from his gums. Back at the van, Dan peered inside his mouth, decided that the doctors probably wouldn't be able to stitch him up anyway, and off we went.

We've only touched on about half of the activities we did with Dan—but that's because we only remember half. Mostly we recall the mornings, before the daily exhaustion began to take its toll. Our firm belief is that the only reason we survived is because Dan had to go back to work on Monday. To recuperate, we left Dan behind and drove to the beach. The culmination of our search for surf was at Shipwreck Bay. With the help of two wooden boards and an hour's careful driving and pushing, we got our sedan out through the tide pools to the surf. The double overhead waves were smoking around the point and they just kept on going. On the biggest day, we marked out on the beach how long our rides were. We used the car's odometer to measure the distances, and found that we were getting waves over a mile long. After our fourth session that day, we felt like we were back with Daniel—exhaustedly euphoric.

By the time the swell was spent, it was time for poor Marc to move on. Originally he'd planned to continue to Austrailia, Indonesia, and Fiji in his search for waves. He'd arrived in NZ in top physical condition, ready for anything, but now he was sporting two injured knees, a split lip, and a bad gash to his hand. He was exhausted and having a hard time with side effects from antibiotics he was taking for his wounds. Marc flew home to recuperate, with plans to pick up his trip in a few months when he's recovered.

Sorry this has dragged on so long, but even so we've had to skip over so much: another canyoning trip, going deep inside a cave network of WWII gun turrets. A crazy drive out in the boonies to a strange hospital for Marc's hand. Mountain biking, two days of perfect surf at the Whangamata Bar. A long drive and all night vigil on Orca for the Japanese Tsunami. Lots of hot springs, museums. Two nights with Cassandra, when we speared enough fish and gathered enough abalone for a feast for ten, later cooked by Mike, a chef at a five star resort.