April 4, 2010 - Part 3
Part 3 of 3:
Driving out from Hawke’s Bay the afternoon sun drenched the rolling hills and the mountains in the distance. Adam Carolla and Bill Simmons Podcasts gave a welcomed reminder of home. My funk was clearing with each passing mile. I had no fixed destination but I knew I would be eating canned tuna and ritz crackers for dinner and sleeping in the van. Somehow, this made me feel better. I drove for an hour before pulling over and consulting my trusty NZ Surfing Guide book for a destination. Nothing was noted for another 100km of motorway so I turned off at the next road that, according to the road map, made it all the way to the ocean. This part of NZ is sparsely populated (surprise!). Strings of farm towns dot the motorway at random intervals, some offering little more than 3 buildings clustered at the crossroads. Unlike the US Interstate Systems, the motorway doesn’t bypass towns or skirt the edges to maintain traffic speeds. Rather it splits them like a civil engineer was playing connect the dots. While the Bay of Plenty and Hawke’s Bay hilly farmland melted softly to the ocean, the East Coast of the North Island offered no such geographical reprieve. The mountains and hills rarely top 1000 feet of altitude this side of the Ruahine and Tararua Mountain Ranges but they drop abruptly into the ocean in shear cliffs. Along the coast there are no roads running north and south, only east and west like ribs from the motorway backbone. The roads themselves vary greatly from paved, two-lane roads with sporadic passing lanes to narrow gravel paths showing almost no trace of human use. Street signs are almost comically scarce. On the map the road will take the name of one of the towns or rivers it traverses but in real life there is just a 6” tall and 2’ long yellow marker pointing obliquely in the general direction of the destination. Waione, Waimiro and Waihoki Valley look very similar on a sign at 60 mph. Don’t get me started on Mangatoro versus Mangatuna. This unanticipated measure of unpredictability adds an extra sense of adventure to the journey.
On my road map Herbertville was on the water and roughly facing south—the direction of the current swell. It seemed as good as any destination. When the paved road turned to dusty gravel I drove for 30 more minutes until it ended in a tiny encampment not even shown on my map. Whakatiki had about 10 baches (vacation houses) and 30 “No Camping” signs. The sun was getting low so I turned around and worked back up the gravel road to the paved road and took the next fork pointing south-ish. This road took me past the comically named Taumatawhakatangihangakoauauotamateaturipukakapikimaungahoronukupkaiwhenuakitanatahu. This “peak” was so non-descript that even through there was a sign in front of it I still don’t know if I was looking at the correct ridge. Attached is a photo so you can judge for yourselves. An hour later the sun was set and the eastern horizon was quickly turning blue to purple and I was camping on the outskirts of Herbertville.
In the morning, I awoke to howling offshore winds rocking the van and ripping through the unimpressive surf. It held no allure so I made my way back to the motorway, resumed southbound and then back out to the coast at Castlepoint. It was Good Friday and the whole Easter weekend is a national 4 day holiday so the vacation town was bustling. Plus, the surf was head high and pumping. Stiff offshore winds were tearing the lips off of the breaking waves in long feathers of spray giving the wrapping sandy beach a very tropical feel. The main cove was protected from the sea at the southern end by a tall rocky outcropping with a picturesque white lighthouse. I followed my surf guide past the end of town to a really crowded sandy beach. Because the tide was only an hour from peak low tide the beach and far cove were accessible by car. I followed the dozens and dozens of cars out to the waters edge at a surf spot called The Gap. The Gap is just that—a narrow gap in the rocky outcropping that extended from the headlands parallel to the beach to the lighthouse. Approaching waves ricocheted between the rocks in all manners of reflected chaos until recombining in a ski-jump ramp of a wave. The tight and wedgey takeoffs were never in the same spot even in sets. The lineup was crowded with weekend warrior kooks who would bail their boards at the sight of a set regardless of who would be in the path of their tethered projectile. After an hour or so in the water I was sitting way outside and dropped in deep on a set. The section started to close out and as I pushed around the foamy edge some asshat dropped in on me. I only saw the black of his wetsuit against the whitewater before I felt his board hit mine between my feet. Somehow he rode through it with my board stuck under his and his momentum ripped my leash off while I was underwater. I popped up expected to see someone bobbing near me but all I could see was the back of his head as he continued his ride to shore. Everyone else in the lineup was giving me blank looks as I shouted obscenities while swimming in. Then, in a really surprising twist, I watched the jackass check his board, check mine and walk up the beach without ever turning to look for me. I was furious and when I got to my board it only got worse as there was a 4” gash in the deck that broke through to the foam. This was a ding that had to be repaired before I could surf again.
Fuming, I walked back to the van and changed. It was 4pm and if I hurried to town any surf shops might be open for another hour. As I got back onto the paved road I came up to a beachfront house with three dudes in wetsuits holding boards. I stopped and asked them about the nearest surf shop. They laughed and told me there might be one in Masterton, a 2 hour drive away but it would definitely be closed for the holiday weekend. They asked what I needed and then generously offered to help me repair my board. Ben, the fourth guy—not wetsuited—and I took a few minutes to clean and patch the dings. We got to chatting and he offered for me to stay for dinner. The house was a company bach and rentable by employees for $100 a night. Staying for the long weekend were Ben, Phil, Jamie, Dan, Joy and Julz (Jules in kiwispeak). After a hearty pasta and rice dinner I hung out with the late 20-somethings and chatted about all manners of life and travel. It was really nice to accompany a group of friends and they treated me as one of their own. The sun was long gone and they offered me the spare bunk bed. We drank wine and played board games until midnight.
In the morning, the wind was blasting side shore at roughly 30 knots making the surf a mess. We lounged around until lunch before the wind finally eased up to a less ridiculous 20 knots and offshore. Ben, Phil and I ventured to the north end of the cove to a break called Slipperies. The car park in front of the break was full but only 2 guys were in the water. The sun was out and the water was sapphire blue. The small creek in front of the break pushed a steady sand plume into the lineup creating long sandbars. Perfect barrels peeled both left and right on each wave. We surfed for 3 hours, taking turns catching 3 and 4 second long crouch down barrels. Because there was no crowd, our motion was perpetual. Paddle for the wave in blinding spray. Feel for the drop in the wave. Stand. Bottom turn and crouch. Kick out and paddle back to the lineup. 3 glorious hours. My arms and shoulders ached for hours. I exchanged phone numbers with the gang before leaving. They all live in the Wellington suburbs so hopefully they’ll make another cameo in the blog.
