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I spring from my bed as the roar of the river drowns out the rain’s rumbles.
Yesterday, the heavens opened and rain pelted down, causing the river to flood; now these rains have arrived at the bridge.
When I reach Mylady’s cockpit, my hands fly to my mouth. There is a little sail over the cockpit where I can see the rain cascading over the railings and onto the gunwales.
It is hard to see into the distance through a curtain of solid grey. Mylady is pushed from port to starboard, jumping back into place so hard she throws me off balance.
Then, as the rains temporarily subside, I notice the tide coming in.
I go down and dress. By 10am, the rain has stopped and a drier spell looks imminent. With some effort, rowing across a strong current, I safely reach the jetty. What an experience! Normally I wouldn’t tackle the river in such conditions, but I have to mail a parcel today if I want it to arrive in time. Be quick and be back before the tide is high, I tell myself and with that, I secure the dinghy and briskly start the uphill walk to the small, historic town of Kerikeri.
The roads are still wet from the rain and cars hiss as they pass. The ground smells fresh; the air is clean. In town, cafés are full, the ATM queue is longer than a boat’s mooring, and the town centre is buzzing like a beehive. Nobody is thinking about those living on the river; on the contrary, the community is rejoicing because it needs the rain. With my parcel posted, I begin my return journey to the quay.
As I approach the bridge, I gather from the rumbling noise and the crowds of people dotted about that the river is now in full flood.
People with cameras seem to be everywhere. It’s a spectacular sight. The crowds remind me of when I lived on a farm in Africa and we too would watch with awe as the river on our property swelled with rain.
I remember my shock when I saw cattle and sheep being swept down the river. I remain nervous to this day at the thought of what floodwaters can do.
Thunder roars. With my heart in my shoes, a hundred anxious thoughts run through my head. Do I really need to get back on board? Can’t I wait till the flood has calmed? Isn’t there another way to reach Mylady? It’s frightening to watch whole trees flash past on the current like matchsticks. Just one of those trees could badly damage our yacht. If the lines should break or the moorings give way… I don’t know what I’d do if harm came to our sturdy but gracious sailing boat. Mylady is our everything.
I decide to cross the river – even though I’m not a strong swimmer.
With difficulty I manoeuvre our dinghy away from the jetty between the logs that have collected there. Rowing with all my strength, I head for the first green marker opposite the jetty and pray the current doesn’t jettison my dinghy. The current shoots around the pier and circles back towards the bridge, where the main current intercepts it and takes it down the other side of the river. But waves run downstream over the counter-current. Which side of the green marker should I pass?
I wonder. "Upstream," says the current and pulls my dinghy one way. Then the waves push the dinghy in the opposite direction. I’m going to hit the marker! I exhale slowly as I miss it by a hair’s breadth, and suddenly my dinghy’s on a roller-coaster ride. My head spins as we go up, down andaround.
People ashore are signalling that I should row upstream in the direction of the bridge. Why? What disaster is downstream? Oh no! The second green marker is frightfully close and I still have two-and-a-half metres of main current to traverse. Row! The green marker is a metre away. Row harder! That I might slam into the marker is the lesser of my worries – if I pass on the current side, I’ll miss our boat altogether.
The green marker is still a metre away, but I realise I am gaining ground. Row! You can! Exhausted,
I pull myself up against the shrouds onto the deck of Mylady. The water around our sloop has turned into a thick, brown, boiling, muddy whirlpool. The yacht behind ours has broken one of her lines. Two yachts further down, a big tree has become tangled in ropes and smashed onto a ship’s deck.
As the river bubbles around me like a foam bath, I snuggle down in the cockpit with a hot chocolate and sigh with relief. I’m glad to be safe, semi-dry – and home at last.
Namibian-born Kowie Fransen is a 47-year-old mother of three. She enjoys writing about her adventures during her “retirement” with her husband who, she says, has saltwater for blood.
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