Day Eighteen – Chasing a Hot Bath

Once more it is raining as we depart and I opt for a no-walk around the harbor area but I do drive through a small boat yard because I spotted a sailboat of about 30 feet in length at a weird angle of heel while at anchor in the shallow bay and was curious. It turned out to be a design I recognize as British based on it sporting two bilge keels one port and one starboard on the hull. The tide was on the ebb (going out) and one bilge keel was on the mud while the other side of the hull was still slightly afloat. This type of design is common in areas with extreme tides like the one we were viewing. When 15 feet (5 meters) of water rushes out of the harbor and boats are left to rest in the mud, the twin bilge keels keep the boat upright until the tide comes back in and lifts the boat off the mud. My first cruising sailboat as a teenager in Wisconsin was a 19 foot pocket cruiser of this same design. The tidal range in Lake Michigan may only be less than 3 inches but I was told the twin keels would allow me to sail into bays much shallower than any other keelboat could access. This process of visiting small shallow bays is referred to as “gunkhole-ing” and no, I do not know the etiology of that term but I did take that boat into much shallow water. Often TOO shallow and my bilge keels both showed scars attesting to my thin water exploits.

Once again aiming the Toyota Puke northward, I was looking forward to our first stop, a small bay on the map labeled only as Hot Sand Beach. Again local knowledge alerted us to the place, having been recommended by the nice lady who had reminded us to turn on the bed warmers before we went out for dinner the night before. The Coromandel Peninsula appears to have been completely forested at one time but now is intensively logged as evidenced by the constant stream of double bottom log carriers flying at me around every sharp corner and rising over the top of every hill. The lanes are 8 foot wide and the trucks average about 9 foot wide. There are few side-of-the-road shoulders and those are rarely more than 2 feet except at turn outs for trucks going uphill. Also one must carefully consider tonnage rights when demanding one’s share of the lane since the Toyota Puke probably weighs less than one log being transported on a 20 log truck. As has been the case for the past two and a half weeks, gasps are audible from the passenger seat and I see more chocolate from the replenished supply disappear, but the sun has come out and the blue sky is radiant. In spite of the intensive logging, the road winds its way north through dense forests of pine varying in height signifying their respective age but also indicating a clear choice to harvest in a sustainable manner. Every now and again, one can glimpse a logged-over section and it is easy to see it confirms my theory about harvesting trees in a sustainable process. Nowhere is there evidence of the massive clear-cut logging that I have seen in many places in the world including the US.

Hot Sands Beach must be a bit of a misnomer since after walking a quarter of a mile the sand seems normal temperature (cold because it is winter) until we reach a group of about 30 people dressed only in swimming suits sitting around in mud puddles. They have dug little pits in the beach sand with rented shovels and are wallowing in the holes they have dug. After nearly three weeks here, my bathing suit is at the bottom of my suitcase with no expectation of ever seeing daylight and the sight of these intrepid folks doing a “hog” imitation would be humorous if my teeth were not chattering. Standing on one of the few “sandy” beaches we have come across, I marvel at the bravery of these hardy souls. When Kris steps into an unoccupied mudhole, she yelps and jumps backwards. The water is near boiling. . . well maybe not NEAR boiling but much hotter than a 106 degree hot tub.

The woman in the adjacent mud hole warns her to be careful because some to the pools are quite hot. The woman has an American accent and she and Kris start a conversation. The woman is here with her husband who is a Kiwi but they live and work in Ohio. She asks Kris where she is from and when Kris tells her Milwaukee, the husband says he had just been there a week ago. He mentions he works for a company in the marine supply business called Forespar. I chime in that I know of the firm as they are major providers of racing sailboat equipment that I have installed on several of the sailboats I’ve owned over the years. He then mentions a name of the one person he does business with in Milwaukee and of course, it is a person with whom Kris not only knows but shares a Board position with at the Community Sailing Center on the Lake Michigan waterfront back home. So here we are half way around the world, 10,000 miles from home in a tiny village with a population of 300 and the six degrees of separation has been reduced to two degrees. We do live in a mobile, global society. Kris and I exchange a few more words with them and continue to stroll the beach attempting to locate the source of the hot water that bubbles up into any depression one makes in the sand. Strangely enough, the sand is not hot to the touch nor on one’s feet, but when you scoop a few handfuls out, hot water immediately begins to fill the depression. Apparently it is only in this one section of approximately a hundred yards on a beach well over half a mile long that the phenomenon occurs. Nevertheless, just as when we drove through the Rotorua volcanic area with its many steaming lakes and ponds, I would feel a bit nervous being a resident here and living atop what can only be described as the lid of a huge pressure cooker.

Our next stop is a small city just across a bay about 25 kilometers up the coast but our map shows a ferry crossing so one is not forced to drive a 70 kilometer circuitous route to reach Whitianga. We still have not adjusted to the WH letter combination pronunciations as “EFF” and are corrected by a local but the ride is pleasant in the rolling hills and sunshine. Unfortunately, upon arriving at the ferry landing carpark, it is full. Then it becomes apparent. . . it is a passenger only ferry. We laugh and I am happy to report that although gas is about $8.00 US a gallon I am grateful the reliable little Toyota Puke gets about 40 miles to the gallon. We drive back out the way we came and do the around-the-bay-the-long-way trip only to find the little harbor town of Whitianga is missing the charm described so eloquently in the brochure. We can only assume the author of the brochure was a moonlighting wine label writer. We cross more small mountains to the western side of the peninsula and find an absolutely charming restaurant in an old hotel in Coromandel City but arrive well after the lunch hour.

The Pepper Tree owner invites is in to have seat anyway and produces an interesting menu that includes their entry into a country-wide “wild dish” contest sponsored by the NZ brewing company, Montieth. If you try the dish you get a free pint of an appropriately matched beer and a chance to vote on the entry’s “wildness.” I personally am not anxious to sample any dish that combines pork belly, shrimp and a local fish. Any or all of these items separately can entice me at any time of day but combined in one tall stack supported by green stuff and held together with glue that is allegedly edible makes me a reluctant experimenter. Call me chicken. The free beer and the opportunity to voice her opinion however, is more than enough to convince Kris to order it. I wolf down my large order of the local version of Fish and Chips done in a Tempura batter. Delicious. Kris is too stubborn to admit an error in judgment and declares the “wild dish” fabulous. The fact that she abhors pork belly is not mentioned in her raves.

Tomorrow we must return to Rick and Judith’s farm before 11 AM and so Kris and I find a small cabin on the shore of the Firth of Thames just north of the city of the same name. Sunset is only semi dramatic and Kris once again is able to dip her toe in another named body of water. My collection of Kris-with-toe-in-water shots is only exceeded by my collection of Kris-with-butt-facing-me shots. Waves crashing on a rock beach lull me to sleep quickly and deeply without a hot bath.