The blue deck chair: everything explained in a 6-hour journey!

In an unashamed take from Graham Norton, I intend to write a few stories called ‘the blue deck chair.’ You are free to pull the lever and flip my chair. So please send feedback, flip, or let me walk…

To kick off the first blue deck chair story of 2025, let’s start with poetry!

Sea-Fever, by John Masefield

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

Home for me is Bucklands Beach, and the sea for me is the Tamaki straights between Waiheke and Auckland and the estuary called the Tamaki River between Bucklands Beach and Glendowie. The latter is an unpredictable piece of water, with high tidal flow currents, strong winds, bloody car ferries, and gin palace pleasure boats driven by crazies.

My choice of boat is an 8-foot-six plywood dinghy with a three-horsepower outboard on the back.

So with this shiny new outboard, I one day asked the wife and kids—that makes five in all—if they fancied a ride to Browns Island, which you can only get to by private boat (and for reasons I’d soon understand, only very small boats), to explore the volcanic cone we spot from a distance most days.

It was sunny, with no wind and calm seas; it was an ideal day to try the new outboard and explore somewhere new. This was long before satellite-positioning smartphones (I didn’t even own a phone anyway) and before semi-reliable forecasts. I sort of pride myself on being able to read the clouds. And on this day, there were none!

The tide was right, so we could go out with the tide, explore the island, and come back in on the incoming tide. It should be a nice day for us all. The hope of an adventure, the joy of the journey out—hope springs eternal.

We embarked. The journey to the chosen destination was calm as a millpond; the dinghy cut its way through the water effortlessly, not a drop of water in the boat, safe as houses. I headed into the only white sand beach on the island, land, and discovered that the water was quite shallow and clear but covered in lava rocks that could hole the boat.  

Well, clearly, it’s only a high-tide landing spot. But no matter, we lower our speed, and I have the wife, who is in the front seat, rock-spot while I manoeuvred our way into the beach. We figured we might as well stay on the island a little longer and allow the tide to rise for the outward journey. We disembarked, pulled the boat up to the high-water mark, and dropped the anchor in the grass turf (it is almost a treeless island). Then we walked the circuit, the summit, and the crater. A light breeze out of the river cooled our skin, and the destination and exploration were all we hoped it would be.

Three hours later, we were back at the beach, the boat still there and thankfully not stolen; there was no one else on the island at all. It was like Robinson Crusoe in the middle of Auckland, but the breeze had come up and was rising.

The river was busy with car ferries and pleasure boats whisking in and out of the river in pursuit of escape to the Hauraki Gulf fishing grounds. I sniffed the air and reckoned the journey back might not be quite so smooth. There were white caps in the river mouth, and the Musick Point channel was frothing with a wind-against-tide rising chop.

So I said, “Kids, okay, it’s time to go home. Let’s get in the boat,” and off we went. The journey off the beach was faster than the journey in and not too bad until we hit the current and the open water of the estuary mouth. Then, the fun began.

The boat didn’t have much seaboard, so heading into the chop resulted in a fair few waves breaking into the boat. Sitting in the back, bailing like crazy, I decided it was time to change tactics, ride the troughs and mount the waves when the opportunity presented itself to avoid the white caps. It would be tough going and a long trip.

We ran a zig-zag pattern into the estuary. Then the car ferry wake came…

We took it over the side, bailing like crazy. No one panicked, but everyone was grim-faced, and so the battle with the wind, the tide, and the wakes continued.

We were now in the river, the current running hard against the wind, the white caps even higher; I turned the boat to follow the waves in and decided surfing into the beach would be the fastest way home. Everyone was wet and shivering. I had to get home, take the risk, and run with the sea with the outboard on full throttle. Enough of running the trough; it was time to ride the wave, dinghy surfing now, yee-ha, homeward bound. The whetted knives were under us now.

Of course, not all waves are the same. And I wasn’t watching them, I was focused on home and staying on the wave I was riding. Anyway, some waves ran faster and higher than others and even ran over the top of the wave in front of them.

If you catch one of those, the boat will broach, roll over, and sink.

I took the risk. We were just 200 metres from shore. We could swim to shore if we had to. I’m not sure a 3-year-old could, but she was in front of me. I could just grab her, and we would float in with the waves. Yes, we all had life jackets.

We nearly made it around 10 meters offshore when we took a fast wave over the boat, and it sank. The momentum of the wave and outboard kept the now-submarine going. Everyone stayed in the boat, and we arrived sunk in the surf breaking on the beach.

And as Fred Flintstone would say, I announced, “Honey, we’re home.” And as Queen Victoria would say, no one but me was amused.

They all stormed off across the road and headed home. I retrieved the boat, which I still had, tipped the water out, shoved it on the beach trailer, and headed home for a cup of tea and a shower.

We all have stories like this. In slower motion, this is the cycle of the economy, business, and life.

Enjoying the journey and surviving the crisis is what it’s all about, and there is always risk.

Try to stay one step ahead, have a contingency plan, adapt quickly to the environment, and stay calm.

It perhaps helped that I have had that dinghy since I was sixteen and ran a commercial fish business from it, so I had some experience with coastal waters. More likely, though, our survival was just luck, so I have never taken more than one other person out in that dinghy with me since!