Stewart Island | Circumnavigation

Pull up a chair. The fire's warm, and you're in good company.

Some adventures are planned months in advance.

Others arrive with barely enough time to pack a toothbrush.

This was one of those.

The phone rang less than twelve hours before departure.

"Would you like to come to Stewart Island?"

I glanced at my diary. Meetings. Client appointments. The sensible answer was no. Instead, I began making phone calls.

"I've just been invited to Stewart Island..."

I expected to spend the next hour apologising and rearranging my week. Instead, every client gave me exactly the same answer.

"You've got to go."

"We'll catch up when you get back."

"Don't be silly. Enjoy yourself."

My wife was invited as well but declined as the children needed her. She knew I wanted to go so before I had to fill out my annual leave form that I would send to myself and then get her to sign then permission slip, she suggested I go. That was surprisingly easy but I can assure you they don't all go that way!

It was one of those moments that quietly restores your faith in people. Nobody complained. Nobody made life difficult. They understood that opportunities like this don't come around every day.

---

Within an hour I was throwing warm clothes into a duffel bag, charging camera batteries and wondering what I'd forgotten. Stewart Island in early April is already well on its way to winter. Friends who'd been before offered the same advice.

"Take another jacket."

They weren't wrong.

After the mayhem came a calm spell so I pulled out a map, an item I bought years ago, and brushed off the dust. My imagination went wild. I had been told little of the itinerary. We were going to circumnavigate the island. I knew little else and, as I was only required to attend, I had few responsibilities, except of course to the be a rugged gentleman - which comes naturally to me.

I love studying maps. The excitement was palpable and at times it is hard to disagree that the planning is as good as the adventure itself. Of course it isn't but if you are that invested the two become one.

---

The Adventure map:

Before dawn the next morning I drove over the Whangamoas to Nelson Airport, still grinning at my good fortune.

Our small group consisted of three couples and me. Jenny had commitments she couldn't escape, leaving me as the only bachelor amongst a thoroughly entertaining crowd. It made no difference. Good adventures have very little to do with numbers and everything to do with the people you share them with.

A privately owned Beechcraft sat waiting on the apron, its twin propellers glinting in the early morning light.

There is something undeniably romantic about light aircraft.

No queues.

No departure lounges.

No conveyor belts.

Just a quick handshake, a pre-flight check and the smell of aviation fuel hanging in the cool Nelson air.

Soon both engines settled into their familiar drone and we climbed south over Tasman Bay.

Flying the length of the South Island in a light aircraft gives you a perspective most people never experience. The vineyards around Blenheim disappeared behind us, replaced by the braided rivers of Canterbury, the snow-dusted spine of the Southern Alps and eventually the broad green plains of Southland stretching to the horizon.

---

A couple of hours later we touched down in Invercargill.

Waiting for us was a vehicle already organised as part of the trip. Within half an hour we were rolling into Bluff, where another chapter of the adventure waited.

Our boat.

Bluff has always felt like the edge of New Zealand.

Beyond the harbour lies Foveaux Strait.

Beyond Foveaux Strait lies Stewart Island.

Beyond Stewart Island...

Nothing but the Southern Ocean stretching thousands of kilometres towards Antarctica.

The yacht sat quietly alongside the wharf, looking every bit the capable expedition vessel. She wasn't flashy. She didn't need to be. Everything about her suggested she was built to spend serious time at sea rather than impress people tied up in marinas.

Bags disappeared below decks.

Mooring lines were slipped.

The diesel engines settled into their steady rhythm.

Slowly Bluff shrank behind us.

The crossing of Foveaux Strait is something of a rite of passage. On a bad day it has a fearsome reputation, producing short, steep seas that have humbled far larger ships than ours. We had been fortunate. The weather was kind, although the cold wind pouring off the Southern Ocean reminded us exactly how far south we were heading.

Even under a blue sky, the temperature never really climbed.

By the time Stewart Island rose from the sea ahead of us, everyone had another layer on.

Stewart Island doesn't reveal itself dramatically.

The southern blue horizon takes on a green hue before the smudge of land emerges from the depths. Then it simply grows.

Dark green hills.

Sheltered bays.

Rocky headlands.

Native forest tumbling almost uninterrupted to the water's edge.

Long before we reached Oban I understood why people keep coming back.

It isn't a place you visit once and tick off a list.

It's a place that slowly gets under your skin.

---

From there the days settled into an easy rhythm that seemed entirely dictated by the tides, the weather and whatever looked interesting over the next headland.

That, I think, was the greatest privilege of travelling aboard a private boat.

There were no ferry timetables.

No tour buses.

No fixed itinerary.

If the skipper spotted an inviting anchorage, we stopped.

If someone suggested exploring a hidden inlet in the inflatable, we went.

If the fishing looked promising, the rods came out.

Stewart Island revealed itself one quiet bay at a time.

The first thing that struck me was just how cold it was.

April in Blenheim still carries hints of late summer.

April on Stewart Island feels much more like June.

Every morning began with visible breath and a reluctant climb from a warm bunk into crisp Southern Ocean air. Puffy jackets became part of the uniform, mugs of coffee stayed in our hands a little longer than usual, and nobody complained.

Somehow the cold simply felt right.

It belonged there.

One morning the sea became almost perfectly still.

The surrounding hills reflected so clearly that the yacht appeared to float between two worlds.

Nobody said much.

There are moments when conversation simply gets in the way.

Instead we stood quietly on deck, coffee in hand, watching the first sunlight work its way down through the forest.

It was one of those simple moments that somehow becomes one of the strongest memories.

Not because anything happened.

Because nothing did.

---

Fishing soon became another part of daily life.

Blue cod around Stewart Island are wonderfully obliging.

The hardest part wasn't catching them.

It was deciding which ones were coming home for dinner.

Behind the boat, mollymawks and giant wandering albatross gathered almost as soon as the first fish was cleaned. They knew the routine better than we did.

Then, without warning, they all disappeared.

The water beneath the transom darkened.

A shape emerged.

Broad.

Powerful.

Unmistakable.

A great white shark.

She wasn't interested in us.

She was interested in the fish frames drifting behind the boat.

Watching an apex predator feed only a few metres away changes something inside you. There was no fear. Just immense respect. On land we like to think we're in control. Out here we were simply visitors in someone else's world.

She stayed only a few minutes before vanishing beneath the boat and melting back into the green depths.

The silence that followed probably said more than any conversation ever could.

---

We explored ashore whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Ancient podocarp forest gave way to extraordinary granite outcrops unlike anything I'd seen elsewhere in New Zealand.

As someone with a geology background, I found myself constantly looking down as much as I looked out.

Those enormous rounded granite domes had been shaped over unimaginable periods of time. Pools stained amber by tannins reflected the sky while weathered arches and sculptured rock formations hinted at countless millions of years of wind, rain and salt.

Most people saw spectacular scenery.

I saw the patient work of geology.

Both viewpoints were equally rewarding.

Every evening ended much the same way.

The warmth of the wheelhouse.

Fresh fish.

Generous meals.

Plenty of laughter.

Stories that became better with each retelling.

Some adventures are remembered because they were difficult.

Others because they were shared with good people.

This one was definitely the latter.

As we crossed Foveaux Strait back towards Bluff a few days later, I found myself looking back over my shoulder more than looking ahead.

Stewart Island was slowly disappearing into the distance, exactly as it had first appeared.

Quietly.

Without fuss.

Without demanding to be noticed.

---

A short drive returned us to Invercargill Airport before the Beechcraft lifted us north once again, carrying us back towards ordinary life.

It struck me somewhere over the Canterbury Plains that the whole adventure had existed only because somebody had made a phone call less than twelve hours before departure.

How easy it would have been to say no.

Work could have waited.

The meetings could be rearranged.

Life carried on exactly as it always does.

But opportunities like Stewart Island don't.

Sometimes adventure doesn't arrive after months of planning.

Sometimes it simply asks one question.

"Do you want to come?"

I'm very glad I answered yes.

Wherever your next adventure takes you, remember there's always a place for you around our campfire. Until next time.