I was
sort of hitching around the world, flying over the oceans and taking boats
across the seas. How bad could a fortnight on a tropical paradise be,
travelling from California en route to New Zealand? A better question would
have been ‘How powerful is our ability to fall for the hype?’
Tahiti
turned out to be an active outpost of the French Empire. Luxury resorts were
laden with super-rich tourists, while the locals squandered an existence out of
underpaid jobs and exorbitant prices, imposed upon them by far-distant Paris.
These
days taking a year off in your 20s to travel the world is almost ‘de
rigueur, dwarlink’ but back
then there was no market for it. Neither food nor fun we could afford; no place
to stay, except this room where we four weary travellers lay: excluded,
demoralised, fighting off mosquitos the size of tennis balls.
Tim, a
Kiwi lad with a deep voice and dry wit turned to me.
“I’m
out of here tomorrow.”
“Where
ya going?”
“Got
me a ticket on a boat to an island called Huahine.”
“You’re
kidding!”
On my
last day in San Francisco I’d wandered into a curious little shop in North
Beach and saw a tiny map of an island. The coves and curves, hills and lagoons
satisfied all of my childhood treasure map dreams. Reaching into Blue Bag, I
handed the map to Tim, who leant back on his damp rancid mattress.
Huahine
“Bloody eh. Looks like you’re coming too, mate.”
The
next evening I found myself lying on the deck of a small ship laden to the
gunwhales with cargo and people. Covering every inch of space, families were
stacked over each other.
Tim voiced concern about how there were only four
lifeboats.
“They get some pretty bad storms out here.”
Watching
the sun set across the South Pacific, my mind wandering back to the sterile
world of marketing I’d left behind, I was far from fear. Aping his Antipodean
cousins, I suggested:
“She’ll
be right, mate!”
My
love of boats goes back to my teens, when instead of going to university like a
sensible chap, I worked Winters in warehouses and hitched around Europe in the
Summers. The ferries I took to Calais, Dieppe and Cherbourg represented the
cutting of my leash. Standing astern, upright and excited, I’d watch England
disappearing into the distance.
Hours
and hours of my life have been spent staring over deck rails, as hulls cut
through water. To this day I cannot watch a bow wave surge, foam then fizzle
without a thrill running through my body, the repetitive rhythm of its
formation and destruction allowing meditative thoughts to wash away the bilge
of my everyday life.
My
love affair with boats was to take a new turn a few weeks later. By the time I
arrived in New Zealand I was travelling with a Californian lass called Cory.
Standing in the reception area of a hostel in Auckland, we were approached by a
silver-haired bespectacled man called Maurice, who asked us if we’d like to
spend a couple of weeks with him on his yacht, cruising around and beyond the
Hauraki Gulf.
Seemingly
he had spent years building the beautiful 38-foot Celeste, enjoying nothing
more in his retirement than taking a couple of young people out, teaching them
how to sail, fish and forage for food.
To my
shame, only Cory grabbed the opportunity to learn how to sail. Maurice was a
great teacher and I lapped up every morsel of his encyclopaedic knowledge of
the local flora and fauna. Yet while Cory took instruction in tying knots and
navigation behind me, I sat in a state of profound peace on deck, wondering at
my incredible luck and the beauty the universe reveals, when you’re willing to
take a chance on life.
In the
evening we’d sail towards the sea birds, throw lines, catch fish and take the
dinghy to the shore. After building a fire, we followed Maurice as he found
wild veg and salad plants nearby, then sat and ate food as fresh as the moment.
Those two weeks will stay with me forever, as will the love of sailing that Maurice instilled in me. He hated the invasive noise of a boat’s engine and by the time we sailed back into Aukland, locally known as ‘City of Sails’, I was in love with sail’s blend of wind and silence, wave and speed.
So
last weekend I was absolutely thrilled to find myself midway between the coasts
of counties Clare and Galway, surrounded by a fleet of Galway Hookers gathered
from all over the country and Connemara.
All
three classes of Hooker, the Bád Mór, Leath Bhád
and Gleoitiog, were represented In the largest traditional boat regatta ever to
take place in the city. I counted thirteen at one time, but might have missed a
couple, as I was somewhat distracted by the unique humour of Galway’s outgoing
Mayor.
Thanks
to the efforts of my friends at Bádoiri an
Chladaigh, alongside The Latin Quarter, Galway Hooker Association and Galway
Harbour Company, these fantastic boats are back on the bay, with young people
being taken off the dole to learn the traditional local skills of sailing,
boatbuilding and skippering.
My
thanks go to Bádoiri an Chladaigh Chairman Michael Coyne
who so ably skippered his boatload of landlubbers and Peter Connolly, Club
Secretary, for his invitation.
There
was no place for an amateur such as myself on a Hooker that day, as they raced
each other across Galway Bay as nature intended, but now that I’ve been so
close to these glorious vessels out on the water, I’m eager to experience one
from the inside!
©Charlie
Adley
01.06.14
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