Dusky Sound – Fiordland, New Zealand

Early Sunday morning, I set off with nine of New Zealand’s finest to visit the Dusky Sound in Fiordland. We boarded two laden helicopters in Te Anau and were ferried through some of the most spectacular landscape I’ve seen. We could almost touch the Southern Alps as we veered through tight passes, the shadows of our rotor blades within spitting distance on the mountains around us. As a chopper junky of note, this was my favourite flight ever.

We dropped onto a tiny beach in Supper Cove and were greeted by thousands of sandflies. Thankfully they dissipated once we were underway but we loaded our gear at top speed to escaped onto the trusty Pembroke – our rustic palace for the next four nights. Only thirteen licensed charter boats are permitted to operate in Dusky Sounds and most cater for their guests and provide all the necessary supplies making it easy to simply sit on the deck and enjoy the spectacular scenery. We chose to self stock and cater because our captain for the week was an old university friend of our organiser, and our lot being mostly hyperactive over achievers had no plans for any downtime.

The Pembroke is a sturdy little ship with tight communal quarters – definitely not for the private or prissy. There were two tiny cabins for happy couples (no place for arguments in these quarters) and a larger adjoining bunk room that slept five. Our captain lived in relative luxury in the bowels of the boat next to the fridges and the pantry.

Because I’m practiced in boatie lingo now, I should write that there were two heads aft, but since most of my subscribers might think we’d snagged a sea monster, let me explain instead that there were two tiny toilets at the back of the boat, and one of which doubled up as the shower. These we all shared with great consideration but by the end of the holiday, we were intimately acquainted with each others’ snoring, as well as all other audible venting habits.

We started our cruise almost immediately with the first of several crayfish dives. Captain and host, Greg, dropped four of our boys overboard at one of his secret hunting spots. After just 15 minutes foraging, they returned to the boat with catch bags brimming with massive specimens.

We gorged without restraint that evening until no-one could force another mouthful – a unique experience I would happily repeat.

We anchored overnight in Cascade Cove and rafted up with another boatload of fabulous friends. You needn’t see another person the entire trip but we had no such desire and thoroughly enjoyed sharing our stories and spoils at the end of a fabulous day. It is quite normal for a passing boat to come alongside and share a yarn or their spoils of the day. All the operators know each other and the occasional yachtie that ventures through is usually made welcome too.

The following morning we took a short walk through native bush to visit Astronomer’s Point. In 1773 Captain Cook’s mariners made New Zealand’s first beer here from Rimu and Manuka leaves. Oh, they also cleared a space in the forest to provide a stable platform to record the path of Venus for navigational purposes. The site is still marked there today.

Dusky Sound is steeped in navigational history. Captain Cook explored and charted the area on his second voyage here on the Resolution and New Zealand’s fourth largest island is so named as a result. (North Island, South Island and Stewart Island being the others)

The first house in New Zealand was built around 1790 on Anchor Island by sealers who were left ashore for two years to harvest some 40,000 seal pelts. At the same time, they also built most of a large boat hull in case their crew never returned to collect them. That same vessel was completed several years later by another shipwrecked party and was then used for a successful return voyage to Australia.

After our daily historical excursions some of us kayaked around picturesque coves and enjoyed the prolific bird life and seals basking on the rocks. The others hauled in catches of kingfish, cod, groper and tarakihi. The afternoon dives harvested mussels and more monster crayfish that we froze to take home.

We ate and ate the entire trip. I noticed even the bays we visited were named after meal times. Night three we anchored in Outer Luncheon Cove, having already passed through Inner Luncheon Cove and you might recall we started at Supper Cove. I was tempted to stay on trend and rename our other anchorages.  We definitely could have called one Booze Bay, and Double Rum Cove would cover the antics of another particular afternoon.

As most of you know, I’m an appreciative foodie – other peoples’ food of course – so this trip was particularly heavenly because seven of the ten on board were outstanding cooks. Two of the remaining three were of the hunter, gatherer persuasion and, if you can manage the math, it’s plain I was the only non-chef aboard. When it was my turn to prepare lunch, I was saved by a miraculous intervention from the captain who made a sophisticated salad brimming with so much crayfish it would have dented a royal’s wallet. I was content being relegated to squeezing a few limes and grating a bit of fresh coconut. Come to think of it, when it was my turn to produce dinner, that same wonderful chef-man cooked up an sublime venison dish and I was again designated sous-chef. I wonder who warned him I wasn’t up to scratch.

All our meals (except breakfast thankfully) were accompanied by magnificent tastings (guzzlings) of our host’s newly launched wine label Wet Jacket; aptly labelled after the magnificent spot we anchored in on our third night. The Wet Jacket Arm was named by Captain Cook’s men after being caught in a typical Fiordland deluge whilst recording observation points for Cook’s astronomy readings. It was from here too that our own two hunters went ashore and returned a couple of hours later with the freshly butchered hinds of a deer they’d spotted from the Pembroke a little earlier. It was their perfect day; crayfish bagged, kingfish hooked and deer hunted.

With questionable wisdom, because I wasn’t sure I’d get back to visiting Dusky Sound again, I decided to attempt a scuba dive. Diving in Fiordland is not for the fainthearted. Depths range mostly between 300 and 700ft so its impossible to reach, or even see, the seabed. The steepest mountains surge up through the sea so the diving essentially takes place alongside underwater cliffs. In addition, the first several feet of water are fresh run-off from cascading waterfalls so divers have to sink through this murky layer before the visibility improves.

In deference to my obvious nervousness, having not dived for many years, the boys advised I try a forward entry from the dingy into a shallow area instead of dropping off the back of the Pembroke into deep water like they had done.

Well I can tell you now that flopping off a tiny dingy, laden with dive tank, huge fins, and ill-fitting gear was not a helpful reintroduction to the sport. Remember the lame joke about the diver who falls into the boat instead of over the side – I came close.

Secondly, by the time I realised my regulator had ‘stopped working’, I was already in the water. “Did you turn your air on Doris?” Oh God, most essential rule number one – must breathe – need air.

Thirdly, because there was no opportunity to check my buoyancy until I was actually under the water, I struggled to stabilise in the shallow depths and repeatedly popped back to the surface like the corks from a case of exploding champagne. I think the boat buddy suspected I was so terrified, I was checking to see if he was still there – totally mortifying.

Lastly, my dive buddy decided it was a good idea to record this great endeavour, so while he fiddled around for several minutes trying to get his go-pro to work, I bobbed back to the surface for yet another couple of unscheduled chats with the dingy captain.

By the time we finally set off at a depth where I could actually swim under the water, I was exhausted and had sucked a quarter of my air. I did eventually reach an area where I could see the mountainside disappear miles below into murky darkness. I saw where the crayfish hid in their caves and crevices and a curious seal scared the proverbial out of me when it darted past a few millimetres from my nose.

When I finally resurfaced – deliberately – my dive buddy continued on awhile in the company of a very large seven gill shark. Thank God I’d already heaved myself to safety when that appeared. I can’t imagine the consequences if I’d seen it.

On our last day – too soon-  we chugged towards Broughton Arm where we caught several groper and watched dolphins and seals playing in the sunlight. We cleared up after a hugely productive final dive off Gilbert Island and then in the late afternoon, headed to Sunday Cove where we rafted up to a permanently moored vessel called the Uni. A massive storm hit late that night but we barely noticed, such was the calibre of our entertaining company.

The choppers, scheduled to return for us at 10.30am the following morning, eventually broke through the clouds at 4.00pm. We’d opened a more few wines by then, and played darts and cards until they’d radioed through their pending arrival. I wished we’d been grounded for a few more days.

Dusky Sound (or any other Sound in Fiordland) is magical and definitely worth adding to your bucket list.