Brian Rogers Marine Musings www.sunlive.co.nz

The yacht is loaded to the gunwhales with every conceivable gadget and gear known in the history of seafaring.
The dive tanks are jammed full of fresh Tauranga air and the craypot, which has never caught more than a startled pipi in 25 years of trying, is strapped to the back deck. The neighbours are feeding the cat and the dog has been farmed out to grandpa.

The forecast is good, the wine stocks replenished and the rum stores enough to tot up a moderate-sized navy. Even a cosy bolt-hole is available in Whitianga in case the weather gods turn vengeful. Stretching ahead, a couple of weeks of bliss, lazing under the shade sail, idly fishing or reading.
Nothing on the horizon can possibly affect our state of euphoric, enforced relaxation, right? Well, most likely wrong.
It all starts very formulaic and predictable, pointing Abakazam's voluptuous bows toward Bowentown and sailing casually up the harbour, through the shallows for a peaceful night at Tanners. Then on to Athenree for Larissa and Dan's wedding. Anchoring off the venue, in the shallows of the harbour flats, we leave the catamaran to dry out on the outgoing tide. Launching paddleboards, we slide ashore among the mangroves and changed into wedding attire without getting too much mudflat on our flash threads.
The wedding is spectacular. Many thanks to Graham and Christine and best wishes to the bride and groom. We stagger back to the cat before midnight, leaving the young revellers to party on. After a few hours kip, we float again, and make our way at 3am to deeper waters of Shelly Bay, ready for an early start out the heads and destinations northward.

Cat and dog games
We know a black cat running across your path is bad luck, but what do you make of a dead dog floating by the starboard bow?
As we up-anchor the next morning, focused on a brisk sail up the coast, a deceased canine bobs by. We try to hook its collar before both cat and dog are sucked into the swirling waters of the falling tide, but lose sight of the poor little sod as the harbour entrance turns gnarly. I'd hoped to grab its tag, so at least its owner could be informed of the pooch's demise.
But it isn't to be. Claire phones the council, in case there is a report of a missing dog and concern mounts that it may have fallen from a boat; or its owners are frantically searching somewhere.
However, the council never has any reports of a tan and white terrier missing, so the strange case of the dead dog remains a mystery.
Heading up the coast, expecting a quiet and lazy sail, the peace is constantly shattered by the screaming of reels as the entire tuna population seems determined to end their days as Abakazam sashimi lunch.
Albacore, plus the odd kingi or kahawai, make a great colourful display on the sashimi plate and fill our tiny fridge and the bait bucket in no time. Fresh tuna and kahawai, marinated and seared with a bit of soy, Grove lime avo oil and sesame seeds is good eating. Only take what you need, goes the saying, so we pull in the lines. That also restores some peace and order in the cockpit which needs much hosing and scrubbing to get civilised again.

Craypot plunderers
The Mercs beckon and we enjoy a classic late summer night in the cove with fish smoking on the Cobb barbecue on the duckboard.
The next few days are iconic Mercs holiday stuff, perfect weather and not too many boats. We raise the NZ flag and drop it to half-mast; observing the national two minutes silence for the Christchurch earthquake victims – the turmoil of our friends there never far from our minds.
Our ever-consistent craypot (never catches anything) is set along the way, a spot recommended by Alan Greenaway. A slight depth miscalculation sees it slide off the rock, into a crevice, and the buoy disappears several metres below the surface. It is very close to the rocky shore, so poses no hazard to passing vessels. We decide to make a dive on the next morning's low tide to locate it.
I've always suspected there's nothing wrong with the craypot – only it probably gets checked several times by devious and dishonest boaters - or octopus - before we get back to it. Never any proof of this, other than previous experience: seeing other people's pots being checked by a procession of different boats in the course of a day.
It crosses my mind that tonight, at least, no-one can poach my crays because they wouldn't know the pot was even there. The float is at least three metres down and very close to shore.
So you can imagine the thrill, on diving down the next morning to retrieve the short-roped pot, to find a lovely big cray in there. All my suspicions confirmed!
I can't help thinking it's not the first time our craypot has worked – this was merely the first time we'd gotten there first!
I'm interested to hear from others who suspect their pots are being plundered and any solutions you may have devised. We have some cunning answers… but they're top secret, in case those thieving rotters figure it.

Greenery on the aft deck
The weather is forecast to turn a bit trashy, so we enjoy a brisk sail into Whitianga for a few days shore leave, replenish fresh water, scuba fills and grab fruit and veges. Not that we need much; Claire's latest obsession, a ‘green smart' micro green system, (www.greensmartpots.com) has a small forest of fresh greens growing in its own little eco-system on the aft deck. This keeps us fully supplied with great tasting, fresh and nutritious salad greens for weeks.
After a few days ashore the weathergirl cheers up and the urge to get out there is burning, so we set sail again for the Mercs. With consistent northerlies we flag the original notion to head for Barrier. Besides, it's just so good at the Mercs it's hard to leave.
The scallops have survived the summer onslaught well and are in great condition. With a shellfish ban in the Bay of Plenty, we've done it hard down here. So it is a great pleasure to find the stocks in Home Bay plentiful. The size is down a bit on previous years, but no shortage of supply.

Show us your credentials
While I dive and Claire absorbs maximum Vitamin D on the front deck, the Navy arrives. Not just a few sailors, but a whole ship. Virtually our entire navy. Whether they've spotted the beautiful features adorning our bow, or heard about our rum stocks, it's hard to say. But I guess there's a lot of ship's telescopes trained on our foredeck.
Claire doesn't notice any of this, the arrival of a warship, the launching of the ship's RIBs and approach of the fully kitted, helmeted boarding party.
I just popped up from a dive to find ourselves thrust into a real life episode of ‘Sea Patrol'. Luckily I watch every show, so I know what always happens.
Normally a couple of members of the Hammersley's crew are taken hostage but later miraculously escape and then apprehend the baddies. I'm just trying to figure out how a portly, middle-aged yachtie in a leotard-like wetsuit and a bad haircut is effectively going to overpower the four fit young navy personnel; tie a couple of them up, at least until the commercial break. Then I think, hang on, this is the NZ Navy, those dramas only happen to the Aussie Navy.
Any further illusions about the reality of Sea Patrol are shattered when instead of the blonde, beautiful, slim XO sashaying alongside; we get the NZ version – a short, rotund frumpy woman from Stratford with freckles and glasses. There goes that fanciful ideal.
They are nice people, though; very professional and polite, in pursuit of customs violators. Lieutenant Frumps asks what port we are registered. I don't know, we were supposed to be registered? If only we'd managed to get that dog collar – at least the dead mutt was registered. We could flash our dog tag. Doesn't matter, because Tauranga is a good enough answer.
No, we haven't seen any overseas vessels in the area.
Luckily, the navy leaves before they hear the muffled sounds from below deck of our six Somalian refugee families, hidden amongst the sacks of cocaine and opium poppy seeds; or whatever is fashionable to smuggle these days. And, our rum stash remains intact.

Knot tied on
Another day, after slacking around the islands, we head back to the cove and spot a dinghy on the outside reef. It seems stationary, so we resist the urge to pick it up and tow in. Divers tend to get a bit irate when you pinch their boat while they're underwater.
We tut tut about the silly diver not flying a dive flag.
As we head into the cove, a launch steams out, and asks if we've seen their dinghy. Ah, so it is a runaway, after all!
Some days you just can't win. It is recovered without incident, but the couple on the launch must think we are complete chooks, until we explain how it looked. The dinghy must have been trapped in the perfect convergence of currents and wind, giving the impression of being anchored.

Dolphin escort
A Thursday of perfect sailing weather means we take a sightseeing sail around the coast, toward Kuaotunu and north past Rings, Matarangi and New Chums.
A crazy pod of big dolphins decides Abakazam is the most fun thing they've seen all year and celebrate with a show of the most amazing synchronised swimming. Flips and cartwheels, even a game of ‘see how many large mammals can jam between two catamaran hulls' keep them amused for half an hour.
Check out the video on www.sunlive.co.nz in my boat blog if you are into footage of large fish making big splashes.
We find ourselves in the beautiful and seemingly deserted Kennedy Bay, a contrast to the cove that sometimes seems more like the Mount camping ground. We enjoy a pleasant night alone tucked into the north side of the entrance and take a paddle up the river in the kayaks.
The next day we return to the cove and settle for the night when the news filters through about the Japan quake and the tsunami warning.
to the north side of the entrance and take a paddle up the river in the kayaks.
The next day we return to the cove and settle for the night when the news filters through about the Japan quake and the tsunami warning.
We really feel for those thousands helpless and lost; and try not to cynically think that the Japanese whaling fleet might be wrecked.
Then the focus turns to the shockwave heading to our shores.
The information flow from Civil Defence to Coastguard is woefully inadequate and slow.
The Coastguard is telling boaties ‘not to worry, it's happening in the morning – we'll deal with it then'.
Not a lot of help to the thousands of boaties anchored in secluded bays around the northern coast, with little or no cell phone coverage and patchy internet.
Not the Coastguard's fault I suspect, but a lack of communication from CD and poor understanding of the realities at sea.
Saving the day is the fire chief from Matarangi, who by chance, is out in his boat and anchored in the cove. He takes the initiative to phone Thames CD and extract some vital information; that we could experience tidal surges and that the cove is a very bad place to be at 7am on Saturday morning.
So much for the ‘let's worry about it tomorrow' attitude! Mr Fire Chief motors around all the few dozen boats in the cove, warning of the potential hazard and suggesting the Bay be cleared at sun up.
By 7am there are about 30 boats anchored or milling around the deeper water of Home Bay, awaiting the expected half metre tidal surge.
It is barely noticeable in deeper water, but in enclosed inlets, narrow passages and between islands, the effect is dramatic. Many of you out there have your own stories and photos of the event.
From listening to the VHF, Whitianga is knocked around, with the tidal surge changing direction in a matter of minutes, 12 knots recorded in the entrance at one stage and a boat dragged its mooring. The police close the wharf boat ramp due to the hazards and many trees and debris become floating missiles. (NIWA later confirms the Chathams and Whitianga are the most affected by the surge, reaching a height of 1.6m at Whitianga.)
Deep water is definitely the place to be. We were due to head south anyway, so went wide, past the Aldermens (where strange currents and surges were also reported) and onto Mayor.
A peaceful couple of days hanging around the sou'western regions, snorkelling a cray and spearing a 90cm kingie, who teaches me how to water ski under the surface, topped off an interesting and strangely eventful voyage.
As we beach the cat to unload at Te Puna, the high tide noticeably flowing out, we reflect on the events of the past fortnight and thought, ‘you never know what awaits out there'.
Just as we do so, the tide does an about-turn, flows the opposite way for half an hour, re-floats the cat, then flows out and she settles again. After-effects of the tidal surges continue for five days after the main event.
Best thing is the friendly welcome home from a wet Labrador, the first live dog we've seen in a couple of weeks.
It's a strange world.