Done Dirt Cheap
January 4, 2006Ruby Bay, New Zealand
7:23pm
So, this morning, at 3:08am, I found myself walking the brown and white corridors of the Rutherford Hotel in Nelson City in just a pair of navy blue jogging shorts. Isn’t that weird? Because I don’t jog at all.
But, seriously folks, I was sleepwalking, half lit up, after Tony’s last night was spent in the city, bar hopping a little, but basically just reminding ourselves what good drinking partners we are, and how each of us missed the camaraderie that can accompany many pints, greasy food, and sadly, a couple of cigarettes.
In September of this year I will have known Tony for 25 years. He is the first person that approached me in the playground at Glenview that fall in 1981, me with so much curly hair, wearing an ACDC concert t-shirt and a black corduroy jacket. Luckily, he liked ACDC as well, and a chord was struck that still rings true no matter the gap in distance or time between us. I am lucky to have him, and others like him, as friends. I am also glad he is gone. My liver is bloated and my lungs a gentle colour black. Tomorrow the walking and water cleansing begins.
It wasn’t all just beer drinking during Tony’s visit, but it was close. With New Year’s Eve adding additional incentive, we managed to plow through many an icy can of Speights (The pride of the south!), including a lovely 15 each to welcome in 2006.
You would think that would be enough for the two of us to be slurring and cursing, but the beer is light and we started quite early, so all the three of us could do was say “happy new year”, followed immediately by “good night”. We are aged flatulence.
New Year’s Day was spent at Rabbit Island, (which is neither an island, nor has rabbits; discuss) where the weather was hardly agreeable but sure beat the words wind and chill. Hud and I swam and then we all walked up the coast seeking nubile bodies through the corners of our sunglasses. Hud ran most of the time, weaving in and out of cricket players and their mock games with plastic wickets. After the beach we came home and ate homemade pizzas. That night we watched the remake of The Longest Yard, which was both racist and stupid, completely matching my expectations.
The next day, woo hoo, Tony and I were out of the house by 7am to drive the 90 minutes to Murchison where we scheduled to attack the Buller River in a inflatable raft. It was pissing and windy and we were unsure if they would actually run the trip, but when we checked in, the dread locked guide did not even bat an eye at the howling wind and torrential rain as he slid our credit cards through the machine. Next up was the dreading shoe horning of my body into a wet suit. It went better then the sausage incident up in Byron Bay, but it still was somewhat heavy on my lungs. There were 14 of us on the morning adventure, in three boats. All of us piled into two vans and drove down the highway ten minutes where we were led down the bank of the Buller to be taught how to run whitewater in about 10 minutes. The people were split into three groups, Tony and I with Leon and Neve, Leon visiting traveling Neve from Ireland for the holidays. Neve was traveling for a year. The relationship dynamic was not unlike Tony’s and mine, the difference being Neve’s vagina and her lack of partner and child and of course Leon was taller then Tony. But then again, who isn’t?
Adam was our team leader, a pony tailed outdoorsy type, friendly and good at whitewater expeditions, but pretty much dumb as a throw pillow. We were raft two, behind the United Nations raft, and ahead of the Scottish family raft. We began paddling down the river. Somewhere, dueling banjos were playing.
We were actually a pretty strong group so we were soon in the lead, listening to Adam’s instructions and paddling in unison down light and fluffy rapids. The first big set of rapids we hit hard, the raft spinning right around soaking us all, but it was raining so we could care at all. In fact, whitewater rafting may have been the perfect thing to do on such a rainy day. We were totally decked out in a wet suit, including little wet suit booties for our feet. I was actually quite warm. Adam instructed us to paddle back up the side of the rapids to try and surf the swell once again. Well, talk about tempting fate, we hit the rapids and the raft spun and spat me out like watermelon seed. I was in the raging river, floating far away from the raft.
There was only truly about one full second of panic, an actual thought of “I am underwater being shoved downstream” before I popped up like a buoy and heard the white Rastafarian (he was the group leader) yell at me to turn around and look at him. I got into the whitewater dump position, on my back, toes pointed in the air, and turned to look. He yelled at me to swim to the right where a pool of calm water awaited. With three or four good strokes I was there, now wading, and waiting for my raft to come and get me. Adam pulled me back in and I sat up and whipped my long wet hair around my head. Uh. No. I shook my helmeted head and caught my breath. Woo hoo I screamed out loud. That was totally wicked. It was. I felt great.
The next couple of rapids were as exciting, me almost dumping again, before lodging my giant feet underneath the raft bench, almost breaking my legs, but staying in the raft. We also were allowed to jump out at calmer points and just float down the river, laying back, watching the rain fall on our faces. They thought the water was cold. It was about 17 degrees. I thought it was downright balmy.
The last, and biggest rapid was a grade 5 drop, which is about a seven foot waterfall. We actually disembarked to look at it and plan our entry point. I felt pretty cool. We were nominated to go first and all of us were eager to tame this bad bitch into submission. Adam told us to paddle lightly to get into position and then with a booming voice told us to forward hard! We hit the tongue and jumped into the raft into a full on crash position. The raft basically disappeared into the rage and swirl of the furious water and then popped out again. We jumped back into position and paddled safely near the rocks and moored, Adam having to play lifeguard for the remaining two rafts.
What a rush. All four of us were in awe of the water, and of each other as Adam said we did it perfectly. The other two rafts also managed not to dump anyone, but did not look as cool as we did, that being the most important. Of course.
The last half hour was spent lazily drifting downstream, stopping to cliff jump (about 25 ft) and then haul the rafts up the bank to return to base camp. We all took hot showers and crammed into a hot tub, me closer to a barely clothed Tony then I would of liked. Although his nipples were quite captivating. They served us baguettes and cold cuts for lunch and then showed us the pictures Sabine was taking from the bank at various points down the river. Of course this would be the point I would insert a picture if only Sabine knew how to work the camera, blaming the lack of photos on a technical malfunction.
So all Tony and I have is the memory, no tangible proof that we actual spent half a day battling the Upper Buller River. It was enough for me, and I think it was enough for him.
I could go on about last night in Nelson, going to three different bars, the most fun being the time we spent at the first bar, drinking pints, finally figuring out cricket and just being the same old friends we have been for the last 25 years.
The only thing missing was the ACDC t-shirt.
Love to all,
J.
posted by Jason @ 11:16 PM
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