It’s Groundhog Day. We’ve just crossed the international dateline on Monday 16th April, with an on-board party at ten-o’clock at night. Tomorrow it’s still going to be Monday the 16th. Talk about deja-vu all over again, and we’re still not sure if it’s Thursday or breakfast-time!
That was two days out from Auckland, our last port of call, where the weather was cool, cloudy and rainy. And back to the day before that, we eventually made it, James Bond-style, to the long-awaited rendezvous with our long-lost friends in Russell, Bay of Islands.
Whilst we were waiting on board for the tender that would take us to shore, hours ticked by as tender tickets were called. We held number 31. When it got to eleven-thirty a.m and number 7 was tannoyed, it called for drastic action. We’d arranged to meet at noon, and the tenders were taking us to the wrong side of the bay – if were to be lucky enough to go ashore at all. Peter phoned and sent text messages, to no avail. We were telling our friends to eat without us, because sadly, we didn’t think we’d make it. Eight years, ten friends, and all that lay between us all meeting up was a piece of paper with a number 31 on it.
We considered offering money for a lower number from anyone who was not in so much of a hurry, and even thought about contracting a ship-to-shore helicopter, when I stood up in a huff, muttering unmentionables, and stormed across the deck to the Guest Relations desk. Taken off-guard by a nice smooth-talking young officer, I explained our plight. He asked where my husband was and told us to hurry, now, and follow him. He by-passed the number queue, by-passed the waiting crowds, by-passed everything in our path, and hurried to personally escort us on to a tender that was just about to leave. Thank you was not enough.
After landing, we had to run – well, I did my best with my walking-stick – to catch a ferry that would take us across the bay to Russell. By now it was one-o’clock. Peter then rang the hotel where our friends were all assembled, asked to speak to Jennifer who had organised it all, and explained that we were on our way at last. It was only when buying the ferry tickets that we realised that Peter’s iPhone credit-card wallet was not available there, and we had no other means of payment save for the fifteen NZ dollars cash I’d dug out of our personal bureau-de-change at home. The ferry fare was sixteen! We tried to explain – we USED to be locals, you know, and we’re seniors as well, and…she took what we had and gave us the tickets, smiling. Phew!
We arrived, triumphant, at the Duke of Marlborough – hugs and kisses and memories. People we’d not heard from for years were there, and we still had time to reminisce. The old folks were older, but looked just the same, but most of them now lived inland at Kerikeri – in a nice new retiree’s enclave, and by all accounts, are having great lives and times. The hour-or-so went by so quickly, and we said goodbye to most of them who had to get home. But we were taken round to Tapeka Point where we once had our holiday home, by a couple who also used to live there, and we thought about our homes now sold on, and the parties and picnics on the beach we all had, remembered the shipwreck and the landslip when the village was cut off for three days, and of course, we remembered with sadness those who are no longer with us. We looked at the sea grass we all planted to stop erosion on the beach, and I scrutinised the village sign that I used to paint on a regular basis – it still reads ‘Welcome to Tapeka – Feel the Magic’.
Still in a whirl, our friends took us back to the tender pier at historic Waitangi via road, and we said our goodbyes promising to come back soon. It will be deja-vu all over again.
