At the edge of our world is another full of discovery. Photo: The hospitable wave had us right in, with a nice current to lead us right to the door. Photo: Warrick Mitchell
When you hear stories of bachelor parties, they’re usually filled with booze-fueled weekends, with wrecked hotel rooms and tight-lipped men not willing to divulge the debauchery, all in the name of one last chance of “freedom.” Growing up in the bright lights of the Gold Coast, all this seemed like a regular weekend out with the boys. So when it finally came my turn to tie the knot, I thought to try something different — having carte blanche for a trip away raised the usual suspects: Bali, Fiji, Samoa, or maybe even New Caledonia; it being winter tipped the scales towards a tropical getaway. But being my last chance (for a while) to tick off somewhere new, I went on a Google Earth adventure to see if I could find hidden treasure close to home.
My attention was drawn to red and purple patches marching along the bottom of Australia on the WW3 models, crashing head-on into the southern tip of New Zealand. My younger brother Jack, having spent the latter parts of university in the Dunedin area and venturing over to the wild west coast on occasion, told me of a secluded hut in a remote bay of Fiordland that he and his friends had visited for a surfing and fishing trip. The few photos he had of the trip, along with the information we rustled together from the internet and word of mouth, made it look like the perfect place. After sharing the idea, the list of invitees started to dwindle, and as the date approached we were left with seven of my closest mates.
A less stressful airport eventually awaited us. Photo: Warrick Mitchell
Having packed the thickest wetsuits we could find — in addition to spearfishing, hunting, and hiking equipment — as well as wet weather gear and our thermals, we were off. We arrived at the Queenstown airport smack in the middle of ski season with surfboard bags in tow, garnering a few interesting looks, but Warrick Mitchell, our hired lead from Awarua Guides, was there to meet us and we quickly pulled everything together and got the trip underway, escaping the mountain-bound masses.
From Warrick’s family farmhouse on the outskirts of town, we checked the swell charts, seeing a massive storm system sitting off the southwest coast, hurling 14-meter swells into the same bay we had planned to fly into. It was quite evident that it would be some time before any type of aircraft would be able to fly anywhere near the Fiordland coast, let alone have a beach to land on, so we thought it best to hire a van and explore the coastline around the bottom of the South Island to try and find a nook that was protected from the winds, with Jack saying he knew a few secret places around the Catlins.
The seven of us hit the road looking for accommodation; however, being the middle of winter, these coastal towns that rely on tourist dollars were good and closed. Luckily, Warrick came to the rescue through the kiwifruit wireless and said he had a mate-of-a-mate promise to leave the keys out for us at a beachfront batch.
In the middle of an expanse of sheer beauty, surfing almost became a backdrop throughout the trip. Photo: Warrick Mitchell
We took cover from the cold, stoking the fire, and cracked some duty-free whiskey; it was a bux party after all. From the shelter we could see the start of the swell wrapping into our bay against a 40-knot offshore as the sun began to set. Half-cut from Scotland’s finest, we decided to test the rubber we’d packed.
Wrestling our boards against the wind, we strolled among the penguins and then sprinted past sea lions. Although small, the power of the offshore meant that every wave opened up perfectly, providing a quick acclimatization to hoods, gloves, and boots inside the tiny barrels — though the session didn’t last too long knowing warm stew, and premium whiskey, awaited in the little glowing house in the dunes.
Waking up the next morning to howling offshore winds and a pumping six- to eight-foot swell, a hushed bay up the coast was the day’s campsite. A driftwood fire was setup and hours of big barrels, ice cream headaches, and chasey with sea lions was on the menu.
Eating our potato scallops and pieces of fish from the local dairy that evening, we got the call from Warrick that he’d organized a helicopter to get us out to Fiordland — the swell was still a bit too big to guarantee a wide enough beach on low tide for the plane, and a boat would have trouble getting in. To get to the departure point, a cross-country van ride through the night found ourselves at Milford Sound, the gateway to Fiordland, with a warm bed at one of Warrick’s family friends’ homes. We woke early to south island hospitality: a welcoming warm breakfast and clear skies.
Our only way out. Photo: Warrick Mitchell
The flight was amazing, like a scene out of a nordic take on Apocalypse Now. Sheer alpine valleys gave way to plateaus with wild deer and massive lumps of ancient greenstone littering the landscape. Crystal clear streams led to rocky reef outcrops and lonely point breaks as far as the eye could see. The first glimpse of the Bay, our home for the week, filled all the boys with nervous excitement as we flew along a succession of right-handers met by A-frame peaks breaking mechanically about twice the length of Trestles. The helicopter landed in a small clearing. We unloaded our gear, some fresh vegetables and a few crates of beer into the small cabin a short distance away in the forest. Having taken the helicopter now meant that the first group to arrive had to wait impatiently (in their wetsuits) for the next group to turn up before we took the short hike to the perfect point break.
That first surf was a nice warm-up. Being on the west coast meant that the water was a lot warmer than the spots we had been surfing. Session by session, another item of rubber was slowly removed — and one night, all of them! — until gloves, boots, and hoods were left at the cabin.
Each day we hiked, surfed, spearfished, and fossicked for mussels and abalone. From sun up to sun down we were out in the elements — some would surf together, some alone, but every afternoon it was the same routine: get the stove going, throw whatever meat we had into the stewpot with some veggies and pasta, pull off our wet gear, crack a beer, and warm up while we talked about the day. And as with every bux party, a lot of beer and whiskey was drunk — after all, we wanted to keep the weight down for the helicopter on the way out.
