I've wrestled for several weeks as to how to explain Jamie, which is why this post is being published nearly a month after the events which I am about to describe. We've met Jamie several times, the first of which was on the Thursday after we arrived. It was our second night in New Plymouth. Jenna and I, accompanied by Sophie, Jamie, and Sophie's roommates, Rosie and Hanna, went for 2-for-1 cocktails. Jamie proceeded to drink full-price Corona's two at a time faster than we could put back our cocktails. Needless to say he got quite intoxicated, and eventually left us to go mingle with others at the bar.
The next time we met Jamie he drank until he passed out and happened to ruin Sophie's couch after an unfortunate urination incident. This did not appear to be an unusual occurrence to anyone other than Jenna and myself.
Jamie is usually donning a well-worn cutoff with dirty board shorts, accompanied by a euro-style mullet. Shoes optional. He's extremely laid back, friendly, and has a slightly thicker than average New Zealand accent. I like the guy.
Back to the boat story. We stopped and grabbed a dozen beer and a six-pack of cider along the way to the port. We found Jamie on his boat, shoeless with beer in hand. He was chatting with people roughly the same age who were in a similar boat to his: a 15-foot aluminum-hull two-seater, decorated with several fishing rods, empty bottles, and Jerry cans. Jenna, Soph, and I jumped in and we departed. I asked if I needed a life jacket, and Sophie said "nah". I grabbed the only life jacket in sight and tucked it between my knees, just in case. There's a commercial on TV here showing a person getting shot, then his friend rushes over and tries to strap a bullet-proof vest on him, post-injury, the message being "put on your life jacket before you need it". Advertising clearly doesn't work on me.
We each cracked a beer as we headed out. Jamie yelled out one last joking jab at his mates and we slowly made our way out of the harbour. We made our way to the edge of the "slow zone" marked by large, orange buoys. Jamie was in the driver seat, and Sophie was beside him, sitting in the only other seat available. Jenna was behind Soph, leaning on the edge of the boat, and I was on the other, behind Jamie.
Once we passed the orange buoys all hell broke loose. Jamie slammed the throttle, apparently to race his friends in the other boat, and I scrambled to grab hold of anything nearby with my hand not occupied by a beer bottle. Jenna did the same. I should mention that it was a somewhat windy day, so the sea was a little rough. Nothing a 30 or 40 foot yacht couldn't handle... but quite the opposite for a 15-foot motorized aluminum can. Once we passed the break-water we started hitting the swells. The boat started bounding out of the water, only to come slamming down for a brief instant before launching off the next crest.
Jenna's beer began foaming over. Sophie started screaming for Jamie to stop. Soph, unfortunately, was taking a sip of beer when we were stuffed into the first wave and she chipped her tooth. The passengers were all hanging on for dear life as Jamie leaned on the throttle, beer in hand, and we continued to bound off the waves. I've seen less head-bashing at a Metallica concert. I'm certainly not nautically-experienced, so maybe it's just me, but the sound of an aluminum boat smashing full-speed into a wall of water is very unnerving. I started to seriously question the structural integrity of the boat.
There was a fishing rod against my arm with a two-inch rusty hook hanging off it. The hook began whipping around, occasionally catching into my shirt, my hair, or, lucky for me, my skin. Unfortunately right beside the rod was my only handle: the back of Jamie's seat. I yelled to Jamie "Uhh. So there's this hook..." He continued on. He possibly didn't hear me- It was rather loud, after all. Soph looked back and noticed. "Jamie! Mitch has a fish hook in his face! Can you do something about that, please?". Without slowing, Jamie reached back, yanked the rod out of it's holder (I'm sure there's a more technical term for this...), and shoved it into one a bit further away. We bounced onward.
Jamie eventually released the throttle and we came to a stop. Soph continued to curse at Jamie, and he continued to laugh it off. Jamie and Soph are best of friends, and are often teased about their relationship. They are strictly friends, and have known one another since they were born (Really: Sophie has a picture of them together as babies), but quite a few people, including Jamie's mother, continues to ask when they are getting married. Soph's anger, if you could call it that, quickly subsided. I believe she knew full well what was going to happen when we got on that boat, so any frustration was more out of jest than anything. Jamie cracked another beer.
At this point I was regretting my decision to get on this boat, and somewhat concerned for my well-being. I asked how far we were going, hoping that we were turning back soon. Jamie pointed out to an offshore oil rig, which is 14 miles from shore. At this point in time it was nothing but a shadowy speck on the horizon. I was horrified- surely this boat couldn't handle such a journey. I scanned for paddles on board and didn't find any. Tucked into the sides of the boat, where I assume the paddles should be, were empty beer bottles and several different types of tackle. I looked around for nearby boats, but there were none. The swells were big enough to hide any smaller vessels, such as 15-foot aluminum cans, that were further than a few hundred meters away. I looked back to shore: there was no way I could swim that far. My knees clenched tightly onto my life-jacket. "This might be my only hope."
Jamie pulled out a special marlin hook, which apparently costs upwards of $200. As he secured it to the end of a rod line the hook swung and caught into his skin. He continued to fasten the hook, completely uninterested in the fact that he was just skewered. He cast out two marlin hooks and one for tuna. Apparently tuna are the "chickens of the sea", but catching a marlin will make you a town hero. In fact, someone caught a marlin last week. The only reason I know that is because I overheard a couple talking about it on the boardwalk. It's a pretty big deal.
The rest of the journey wasn't actually all that bad. The swells caused for a rough ride, but in order to catch a marlin you need to slowly troll through deep water. We spent the next 4-5 hours trolling our way out to the oil rig. The boat held up well enough- and by that I mean it didn't sink. We ran out of beer.
The KanTan IV, with Mt. Taranaki in the distance. Can you see New Plymouth? Me neither.
Along the way we managed to hook five tuna. Sophie reeled them all in herself- what a champ! We eventually gave up on the majectic Marlin and hauled in our lines. I drove back, much to the relief of Sophie (and, to a lesser extent, Jenna). The throttle was quite tricky, and I wasn't the best at navigating the swells. I took a few head-on, and we all got a bit wet. Regardless, we weren't smashing our teeth on beer bottles or holding on for our lives. I feel like I can notch that up as a victory.
I vowed never to get on another boat with Jamie again.
I vowed never to get on another boat with Jamie again.
Two weeks later we were on a boat with Jamie again. 7 of us climbed in a 10-foot metal dinghy that is probably rated to seat 4. When we hit a wave the water would rush over the front of the boat. We took on over 8 inches of water and nearly sank it, but we were only 30 or so feet from shore, as opposed to a few miles. It was a little more comfortable, if you can call it that. I might have enjoyed it.
Sophie and her catch!
Sophie and her catch!
