In Kiwi, travelling on April 18, 2010 at 7:51 pm

It’s windy up on the sun deck, one of the few bits of the ferry where you can get outside. It’s windy but not really cold. Wellingtonians talk about the weather and the wind alot, when you can see it change as often and vicariously as they do, it would be weird if they didnt talk about it.

Ben, a friend of Gussy Gus’ explains there are two types of wind in Wellington, northerlies, winds coming from the north which are strong, and southerlies, winds coming from the south which are strong and cold as they come straight up from the Antarctic.

But sitting right up here on the very top of the ferry, you can tell it’s a northerlie, strong gusting but I don’t feel cold.

Grey clouds scud low overhead, moving faster than I’ve ever seen a cloud move apart from in timelapse. Zooming overhead, covering the blue sky that appears infrequently in the gaps. Rugged green coastline, promitories and coves move slowly past, a panorama of hillocks, the tips of which are covered and uncovered by the fast moving clouds.

The quiet thrum, and the soothing grumble of the engines is disturbed every so often by the screech and squeal of groups of schoolkids who are shown the exterior for a few minutes, the fresh air stirring their blood as they cavort and gambol up on deck.

And as we head out over open water across the cook strait I sleep.

I grumble to consciousness as we enter the Tory channel, steep slopes of green jutting out of the water. The wind dropping to nothing before bullrushing you as the ferry picks it’s way through the waterway. Hear the snap, whistle and rustle of clothing as they billow and bellow.

The vertiginous hills either side, rippled and ridged, beautiful? (find another word) secluded coves revealing then concealing themselves as you pass by. The clouds splitting occassionally to let a moving searchlight of sun through to  illuminate a hill. The countryside so rugged and seemingly inhospitable is home to a smattering of houses sitting on the edge of the water, lonely box structures stuck into the base of the hills.

Move slowly towards our destination, not sure how fast we are going, speed and distance are so hard to judge onboard. The sky darkens and lightens, threatening to rain, then spitting showers envelop you, the path we’ve just forged now shrouded in mist the earth that thrust so vigorously out of the water now almost disappeared.

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