There was much rejoicing as the line fizzed off the reel, for we had trolled the breadth of the Tasman without yet landing a fish. Scotty was taking his custom of an afternoon sleep in the cockpit, which was actually a cover to be close to the reel at all times, and had tried every combination of lure since Sydney. The Archer family had donated a fine selection of lures as a farewell gift, including one so big and iridescent that we suspected there was chocolate inside (there wasn't). In the end, it was the most humble of the selection that hooked a 3kg tuna just an hour out of destination Opua.
A flurry of nervous energy filled the cockpit. The skipper barked vital instructions that were promptly ignored, crew urgently moved around the cockpit table in opposite directions, and a mighty gaff hook was roused-out from the bowels of a locker and waved menacingly toward the fish. Scurrilous comments surfaced that perhaps it was actually a shoe on the line. It skipped along the top of the water like a shoe. Had we put on the shoe-attracting lure today by mistake?
We hove-to to reduce boat speed, and Hawkeye gaffed the fine tuna. He deftly cut off the makings of dinner. We hosed down the mess from the transom, and from Hawkeye, and the pervasive and triumphant odour of skipjack tuna filled the boat as we got underway.
We sat back and took satisfied photos of the beautiful approaches to the Bay of Islands, then gazed in our own worlds and thoughts as we sailed in at the end of the passage. Quickstar plied the flat water of the bay with what felt like an effortless grace. Sails where donned, engine started, and we motored up the river to Opua.
Customs gave unambiguous radio instruction to not go ashore to the pub, but rather remain onboard at the quarantine wharf until morning, whilst continuing to fly the yellow Q flag. We tied Quickstar up, shut down her engine, and she lay still for the first time since Sydney. I patted her side and said a quiet thanks. A passing yacht hailed and asked where we had come from, and shouted congratulations. Broad smiles all round. Scotty celebrated by spontaneously jumping into the brown waters of the river. I looked around at my new home in Opua for the next few weeks, before the family was to fly in from Australia.
Nobody could remember the Customs limits for bringing alcohol into NZ, so the crew made a pre emptive assault on the ship’s stores, matched by a dinner of fresh tuna two ways (sashimi, soy, wasabi, and pan fried, pepper-crumbed). Hawkeye settled into his home country as host DJ, and ran through an eclectic mix of Kiwi music that we were shocked to find out was not actually Australian. Crowded House? What?
For the first time nobody was on watch, and we sat down in the stable cabin to relax, eat and celebrate. Tasman crossing, tick.