Surf 'n Sky, Pt. II

I had a bittersweet realization today. The average life expectancy for a guy in Canada is about 81 years. I'm 2 months shy of 24, but let's count the 2 years I lived in St. John's with Ian, Craig, and Ditto as 2.5 years apiece (and that's a conservative estimate – homebrew kits were cheap and we still spent a literal mint). Assuming the robots don't take over in the meantime, I've statistically got some 54 years left (you know what, I didn't expect that number to look so small – I take back tacking on those years, and if I start jogging again today, let's call it 60 years).

Anyway. In all that time, I will never, ever, look this cool again.

So I went surfing today, at Okiwi Bay, north of Kaikoura. I don't know whose life this is that I've unwittingly stumbled into, but it's a pretty fun one.

The instructor from BoardSilly, who uses words like “radical,” “killer,” and “sweet as” without a hint of irony, picked myself and a family of four up at the i-SITE, the official tourist information spot that pops up in just about every town in New Zealand (there are over 80 nationwide). The spot we were headed was a semi-sheltered, sandy little bay about half an hour north of Kaikoura, just off the highway. Squirming into a wetsuit that clings to your skin and feels like one of the most unnatural things you can do, we unloaded half a dozen nine foot soft top boards and hit the beach.

So, here's how it goes: you start a little ways off shore, flat down on the board, face forward. There are constantly waves breaking, but you need to wait for the right one to start paddling your arms back toward the shore (read: the instructor who's holding your board in place tells you when to go). Then, when you've hooked into the frothy leading edge, you bring your palms down near your waist and hoist yourself to your feet (popping up), slowly rising and riding the wave. Ideally, anyway.

We practised the movement a bit on the beach, and it seemed easy enough. But, when you're out in the Pacific, waves constantly bombarding your body (not since I was two years old on the Piccadilly Sands did I drink that much saltwater), it's another story. For me, a total newbie, there are a lot of things to simultaneously remember: hands in the right place, face forward, rising at the right moment, feet perpendicular to the board. It was easy on the beach, but out amongst the waves, that moment of standing on a plastic board floating on the water felt even more unnatural than tugging a wetsuit up your body. People aren't supposed to stand on water, it's weird and disorienting.

Not surprising, I took my share of nosedives, drinking more of that Pacific water. The board was attached to our feet by a cord, otherwise mine might have ended up in Christchurch before the afternoon was out. I, who had looked so cool on the little bluff by the beach, was looking like quite the goof on the water, especially since this family from Hamilton, Ontario were just out for a day surfing, not learning it from scratch. We went out in deeper water, which had the added challenge of having to get back out there after each attempt. After an hour, I was good and exhausted.

But then, as we just about finished up, something clicked. That motion wasn't so hard after all, and I'm pretty much awesome now. Ok, not really – but I did manage to get onto my feet and stay there to ride some waves – plural!

I will definitely never, ever look cooler than that. And I've come to terms with that.

This morning, my alarm went off at 6:25, just as the sky was stained red. I thought about going back to sleep, but ended up slipping into my flip-flops and stumbling up the trail to the field overlooked the town and the ocean. Perched on top of a pile of rocks, I watched the sun rise over Kaikoura, seeing the quiet, sleepy world burst to life again and wondering what was in store for the day.

First off was a return to bed, where I thought about reading for all of five minutes until I was snugly slumbering again. I'm never going to finish Wuthering Heights at this rate.

When I did get up for real, there was a steady bank of cloud moving in from the ocean. Which sucked, because I was planning on hiking to the summit of Mt. Fyffe, a 1602 m climb at the foremost edge of the Seaward Kaikouras. I checked the forecast (sunny with some clouds) and decided that the summer heat would easily burn through the fluffy ceiling by mid-afternoon – so, I packed some water, dehydrated apple chunks, and set off on the bike.

I assumed, since Dave's farm is at the foot of the mountain, that the hike would start around here. An hour later, I was still pedaling down a dirt road, wondering where in the hell this tramp started. I couldn't even look up into the heights, the clouds had moved in that much. There was another time that I started a hike where I couldn't see the top – that one ended up alright, but just barely. I was really hoping that sun would persevere, and soon.

 

 Pictured: Idiots

When I made it to the car park and stashed the bike in the trees, I started down a gravel path that soon ended up not being a path and just a river bed. Turns out I made the only wrong turn I could have, getting 20 minutes into the 2-3 day Kowhai-Hapuku circuit before I thought, “This ain't right.” I backtracked and started the real Mt. Fyffe trail by noon.

The ascent was much steeper than I had anticipated, and as I started to climb, the fog started rolling in. At little open nooks that looked out to the town (or, at least where the town should have been), you could see the wispy tendrils sneaking in. Soon, I was just in the thick of it, sweating because of the climb and cooled by the fog.

And then, all at once, the sun reappeared in a blue sky. Not because the clouds had disappeared – I had just gotten up above them. 

Maybe it would have been a spectacular view, to see the town and the ocean all along a climbing panorama. But looking out and seeing a blanket of cloud, interrupted every so often by a jagged mountain peak? That's not something a guy from a small town in Newfoundland sees every day. And once you turned your back to Kaikoura, you saw rows and rows of mountain peaks, going on into the distance.

For mountains is what they were. Two things I did not know when I started my morning climb are that mountains are, by definition, 1000 m or higher, and that Gros Morne Mountain, my go-to longish hike, is 806 m high. As the world started opening up before my eyes, I rose up over 2 Gros Mornes stacked on top of each other, up in the 100% pure mountains.

When I reached the Mt. Fyffe DOC hut, I figured I was nearly done. Not so fast – the summit was still an hour and a half away, and it's up, up, up the whole way. Let's do this.

I happened to run into Chris and Rani, a couple from British Columbia, around here – although, wouldn't you know it, Chris is originally from Halifax. On the one hand, being in the thick of these mountains makes you appreciate the scope of the world; in another instance, you very quickly appreciate how small it can be. “You're from western Newfoundland? Nice, out by Corner Brook?”

When they're not climbing mountains, this couple is travelling throughout the Pacific on a sailboat, coming from Mexico to check off a bunch of Polynesian islands. What a cool adventure – they're keeping a blog too, which you can check out here.

Having only seen two other people all day, it was nice to have some travelling mates for the last leg of the trip. The dirt road wound about itself a bunch of times, before coming out into the open air. And what a friggin' sight: clouds, clouds, everywhere on one side, and then a massive gorge with tiers of mountain peaks as the background. Every side-path was a lookout. Every corner presented something new, until you stood on the summit and looked out over a wild, untamed, real world.

 

The sublime was one of the cornerstones of Romanticism, right?

By 5:30, it was time to make our way back to the car park, far below our feet (and still hidden by clouds). It's a winding gravel path, and you need to watch yourself – still, it's a whole lot quicker on the return journey. My feet were good and sore by the time I pulled my bike out of the thicket, meeting Dave halfway along the Postman's Road, where the scene was grey and dismal – hard to believe the world that was up there, just above the clouds.

After all that popping up on a surfboard and scrambling up the rocky pathways of a mountain, I daresay I'll be out as soon as I hit the pillow tonight. Which is for the best, since I've got another early morning tomorrow – I pull out of the cabin just past 8:00, and start working at Kaikoura Farm Park, where they have some 160 animals, including llamas, alpacas, pigs, ponies, and sheep. Hold on tight, because this ride is just getting started.

Cheers,

rb