This smile-making sight greets you as you land in Wellington – a massive Gollum suspended from the ceiling, a reminder that Lord of the Rings is a major big deal here. Millions of tourists have visited New Zealand to see for themselves the breathtaking locations where these movies were filmed. Even before you reach the country, you are treated to the Air New Zealand pre-takeoff safety video where the flight crew are dressed up as Tolkien characters. Seriously. You can visit some of the movie sets, including Hobbiton, view costumes from the movie in the museums, take guided tours around New Zealand visiting the locations used (great scenery), visit the jeweler in Nelson who cast The Ring. I did none of this – my only memory of the Lord of the Ring movies I saw was their never ending length. The story is told of an eighteen year old Peter Jackson first reading Tolkien on a train traveling through North Island and imagining the landscape as that of Middle Earth; 20 years later he chose his native New Zealand as the backdrop to his series of movies.

If you don’t care to go on a tour of the movies’ location, there’s a great armchair article just out in Earth magazine, The Geology of Middle Earth, talking about how the team went about scouting, identifying and selecting locations, the logistics of filming in 100 locations across both islands and some of the challenges they faced.  A lot of pictures link the stories to the locales. Also appealing to this late-blooming geography geek, are descriptions of the natural history of the place, how the landscape was formed from the earth’s upheavals concentrated in these lands. The article almost makes me want to go back and watch the movies again. Almost.

It seems that in these later years of my life I tend to be living or hanging out right on ground zero of the Ring of Fire. Philippines, Vancouver Island, and now New Zealand.

It’s hard to get away from the realization that New Zealand is a very dynamic place, a real hot spot on a planet trying to shake us loose. The cover article in the New Zealand Geographic I picked up at the airport states dramatically that the Auckland Volcanic Field has erupted 53 times.  The islands sit precariously between 2 colliding tectonic plates. In Wellington, visiting the hilltop Botanical Garden oasis in the middle of the city, I read in the info center that the side of the hill I’m staring at, is actually the region’s most active geological fault line that runs right through the city. This Wellington Fault, is where the Pacific and Australian Plates meet, their collision causing the Pacific plate to subduct below the other. If this isn’t bad enough, this is only one of several lurking active faults around the city.

In the Te Papa National Museum (which is a don’t miss, must see) wonderful multi-media displays tell the fascinating geological story of New Zealand and includes a replica of an ordinary living room where you can stand inside and feel and hear what a 6.8 earthquake feels like. There are cautionary signs by the ramp into this display, warning people who survived the 2010-2011 Christchurch and Canterbury earthquakes that this exhibit might cause distress.

So there we are in Wellington. Feeling lucky? For 2 days we walked around, checking things out, lunching at the harbour, dinner somewhere on Cuba Street. Nice city. Fantastic museum, great bookstore, downtown galleries, cable car up to parkland. We were staying in a loft apartment in a converted building, very central, very urban, walkable to most things. Then we noticed The Sign.

On a noticeboard above the building mailboxes off the front lobby, was an official looking notice dated 2010. It advised all and sundry that this 65 year-old building had been inspected and was NOT up to current earthquake safety standards. As a result the owners had until 2020 to either bring the building up to code or demolish it. It would appear that we were living in a condemned building. That was it for a further good night’s sleep.

The failed earthquake inspection happened the year of the first Christchurch earthquake, September 2010. Six months later, the whole downtown and suburban areas of Christchurch (and other towns in the region) were destroyed or badly damaged when a second quake hit, collapsing many buildings that may have been already weakened from the first one. Lots of people died. From my perch on the 4th floor of this downtown building that day in Wellington, I looked at many other rooftops of buildings of similar vintage and wondered. We all walk precariously on this earth one way or another.

The owner of the condo lives elsewhere and appears to be making a bit of a living on this place through AirBnB which I guess is as good as he’s going to get. You can’t sell the place, after all, although it was with great amusement that just before leaving as I was reading the comments in the Visitor Book, I came upon a line that said “Let me know if you’re thinking again of selling” (one born every minute). Several pages later someone wrote “On our last night we felt the earthquake…”.

I was happy enough to pack up for our next and last stop, heading for the 3-hour ferry to South Island. The Wellington ferry terminal happens to be located at a central transportation hub. Here is where the raised main highway on concrete pillars crosses the railroad terminus, which is beside the ferry terminal. Genius. It’s all absolutely directly above the Wellington fault line where even as we speak the plates are grinding together as one slips below the other, pushing it upwards. We walked on board, settled into seats by the windows, in the forward cafe, Eventually the ferry pulled away and we headed out of the harbour to make our way over to the South Island. Escaped with our lives.

Leaving the big city behind, we headed up to Northland in our large “upgraded” rental car, which is car rental company speak for “We can’t be bothered honouring your reservation request for a small car and never had any intention of doing so – here’s what we want to get off our lot – an ‘upgrade’!” Aside from fuel efficiency concerns, there was another reason to want a smaller car – think narrow, hilly and mountainous, switchback roads with no shoulders! I spent most of my white-knuckled passenger time clutching the side of the door in a valiant effort to keep the car from sliding into the gullies a mere 6 inches away or scraping the side of the cliffs. (Well maybe not 6 inches, after all New Zealand is metric, and exaggeration is possible but from my point of view, perched on the wrong side of the road, highly unlikely).

Two hours out of Auckland we stopped in Wharangei, the region’s largest city, for lunch and supplies then continued on another 40 minutes along turquoise water beaches and through forests of tree ferns into the rolling farmland hills, shades of green and now mid-summer brown. Everywhere along the roads, purple and white  Agapanthus bloomed wild, a favourite.

When we reached our hilltop which was to be home for the next few days, I poured a glass of New Zealand’s finest and sat out on the terrace, absorbing the views and the quiet. The silence and solitude, after the traffic drive and noise of the city, was initially disorienting. No cars, no voices, no machinery, nothing – just outstanding views and extraordinary beauty. The shoulders relax, the breath deepens. On these rolling hills I could make out specks of dark and gray – herds of cattle and sheep, and here and there, glimpses of a country road and farm outbuildings and houses.

After sitting there for awhile, it became apparent that it wasn’t a silent place after all. As my ears became accustomed to the lack of human noise, I started to hear the birds, insects and bees, the breeze through the trees close to the house and even from miles and miles away, the sounds of a rooster and occasional sheep or cow.

The following morning we were ready to explore and descended from our hilltop paradise to make our way to a “tramp” as they call a “hike” there, through Bream Head with its views and coves and beaches. It was 11:00 am. On the way we came upon a police roadblock, stopping traffic in both directions on this small coastline road. A very pleasant female officer informed us that it was a breathalyzer stop and all drivers had to state their names and blow into the machine. (“Oh damn, wish I hadn’t had those 6 beers for breakfast!”) The incident became the source of many jokes during the next weeks. What kind of place is this where the locals are pissed by 11:00? More likely, preventive maintenance – send an early message so people will think twice later on.

There’s a lot to explore in Northland but we soon decided to explore our immediate surroundings instead of doing a lot of driving to go further afield. We’d look out at the view and choose – what do you think that estuary is like, how do you suppose we get to that cove, what is that beach off in the distance. As navigator I was hopeless and kept us completely off-track, missing turns all the time. No matter. Missed that cove? There’s another beauty just ahead. It was high summer in New Zealand and the kids were still off on summer vacation but nowhere was it crowded. Most beaches and coves had at most one or two other families on it, and sometimes no one at all. Our exploration of the estuary was memorable –  as we turned to go back to where we parked we found ourselves totally outnumbered by a bunch of sheep that had made their way down to waters edge and were nibbling at something on the beach. Too much excitement. We never made it back into town. Lunches were at the local pub on the water and dinners were light on our hilltop watching the sunset.

Off shore within view of our place were a group of islands and one day we decided to get out on the water to check it out instead of just gazing at it from the beaches. An hour’s drive up the coast was Tutukaka and a “Perfect Day”.

Perfect Day was the boat and non-diver sister program of Dive! Tutukaka, one of the dive operations servicing Poor Knights Islands, the islands we could see offshore. Jacques Cousteau had apparently said at one time that it was “one of the top ten dive sites in the world”. I don’t dive anymore but if it’s good enough for Jacques Cousteau…

There were quite a few people on board including several children, this being summer holidays and all, but it didn’t feel crowded. There were a few divers among them, who suited up and entered the water before everyone else, but I suspect they were part of non-diving groups. I did notice several other dedicated dive boats anchored not far from us, so no doubt it is a popular dive location. The crew were as expected, young, friendly, fit, tanned and good looking; the captain and tour narrator was a bit of a stand up comic.  On board Perfect Day for our day trip to the islands were wetsuits, masks, flippers, kayaks, paddleboards, showers, lunch…I went snorkeling twice along the cliff shoreline, bobbing along in the small waves and currents, watching the kelp sway and peering into the shapes and movements of life below. “Remember this” I told myself. “Remember this”. I hovered above a mass of bubbles rising to the surface from well below me, glittering in the sunshine. Divers below. I wished I was still there.

Poor Knights Islands was named by Captain Cook during his exploration and mapping of these waters for reasons unfortunately he did not record at the time. Around 1820 there was a Maori settlement there, where the people farmed and fished, until one day the warrior men went off to fight their enemy tribe, leaving the women, children and elders at home. While they were gone, another group of enemy bad guys, alerted to the fact that the settlement was undefended, landed on the island and murdered most people. When the men returned it was to this scene of sorrow and destruction. The settlement was abandoned after that, it was a sacred place in their story and no one was to live there again.

In more recent times the islands have been designated as marine and nature reserves and no one is allowed to even land on them. As a result of these many years of isolation, as well as its own micro climate where warm ocean currents converge, the islands have a unique ecosystem, far from introduced plant species that become invasive (agapanthus?) and animal and human predators. They are a nesting refuge for many migratory birds including some that travel back and forth from the Arctic, pausing here to nest. Among the many and varied species on the island are the world’s largest insect as well as – wait for it – the world’s only surviving dinosaur, the tuatara, Or so they say. As I said, we weren’t allowed to land.

What we could see from the boat as we traveled around and through the islands before heading back to shore was a landscape of huge cliffs emerging from the sea, with many archways and tunnels and caves at its edges. We entered what was described as the world’s largest sea cave to see up close the walls streaked with colours and shapes from its erosion by the salt sea below and the dripping through from the land above for however many years since this island erupted and cooled.

Back on land at the marina after, yes, a perfect day, I watched as the boats were cleaned, gear was offloaded for cleaning, crew and dive instructors headed for the bar where groups of divers were hunched over their log books pen in hand. It took me back.

After four days in Northland and some pretty heavy duty relaxing we headed back down the highway to Auckland airport and a short flight to Wellington where we were to stop for a couple of days before taking another boat over to South Island and more good times.

Auckland is more or less surrounded by water with harbours on both coasts and endless coves and bays and islands and beaches. It’s easy to see why it claims bragging rights to the largest number of sailboats per capita based in its waters, as well as being a working port and cruise ship stop. From the water, it’s easy to believe, as you can see thousands upon thousands of masts in the many city marinas and at anchor in protected waters. An evening stroll around the downtown marina where the larger visiting sailboats berth tell a story of long sailing voyages to reach this beautiful place so far from home – on one short walk I noted large sailboats from London, Denmark, Cayman and Big Sky, Montana (?). Later in the trip up north, while having lunch beside the marina in Wharangei I spotted a small Canadian sailboat, no more than 35 feet, with a very skinny sailor washing the deck and a dozen plastic water containers lashed to the bottom of the mast. It almost made me lose that lunch – a cross ocean voyage of epic proportions and my own personal nightmare of epic proportions.

Auckland harbour has seen many many impressive sights over time, from regattas to races to visitors in all sizes and shapes of vessels but on our last day there, a transient arrival caused a stir, newsworthy even in this city that has seen a lot of yachts in its day, earning itself a front page spread in the local paper as the largest superyacht to arrive. I was fortunate to have a front-row seat to the buzz.

Early that morning as I made my way over to the coffee machine, I glanced through the glass wall to the harbour to see this sight, just below our apartment – James Bond meets Auckland.

This 439 ft, $330 million yacht is one of the largest in the world and has a crew of 52, two helicopter landing pads, storage for a large submarine and a huge interior salt water pool, among other creature comforts of home. You can rent it for $5 million a week (which is no doubt negotiable) as Bill Gates did last summer. It is owned by the Russian vodka tycoon, Yuri Scheffler, who was rumoured to be aboard, and who is on the outs with Putin, who tried to snatch the vodka, and now makes his Stolychnaya in Latvia, and lives, well, anywhere but Russia.

It was a fun and fascinating morning watching the docking action with binoculars and taking a gazillion photos with my wonderful 40x zoom Canon camera. Every yacht has to have a blonde, so I went looking for her. Oh, there she is.

This was not, by any means, the only black-hulled vessel with pride of place in Auckland harbour. Across the wharf from our apartment is the Maritime Museum where one day I found myself wandering about, pretty aimlessly, without a clue to what I was looking at. In the middle of this 3-storey high atrium of what I found out was a new purpose-built wing of the museum was an intriguing permanent exhibition on international ocean racing. Looming above it all was a huge black hull of a racing vessel suspended from the ceiling. This exhibition seemed to have a specific focus on some guy called Sir Peter Blake. Who?
I ducked into a small darkened theatre off the exhibition space where a looping video of the life of Sir Peter (known commonly as ‘Blakey’ which suits this smiling, blonde Kiwi adventurer so much better) was screening. Fascinating story of this man who spent his life on the seas, becoming a leader in Kiwi international ocean racing, including breaking all kinds of records for fastest circumnavigation of the globe (1994 ‘Enza’), winning all 6 legs of the Whitbread around the world race (1989 ‘Steinlager 2) and ultimately the America’s Cup (1995 Black Magic), which is still described as one of New Zealand’s greatest sporting moments. It was not just his prowess behind the wheel that was fascinating, but also his role in the early development of the sport. Blakey was the team leader, the promoter, the main PR guy, and maybe most important to get the boats built and the race entries possible, the major fundraiser. There was no back office in those days.

The film gave a sense of the private Blakey as well, the family man. His wife Pippa tells the story of when, in their early days together, she traveled with him on one of the racing boats, to the extreme displeasure of Tom Clark, the team’s major funder, who disapproved of women on the boats and threatened to withdraw support. Blakey refused to step down and Pippa ended up spending her honeymoon on board with a bunch of guys, enduring the same hardships as they made their way through a major typhoon, and cementing her place as just the perfect woman for this man. “Family first” he said, not for the first time, which is a bit curious as for their entire life together he was away for many months at a time, and she spent a lot of time on planes, flying here and there to meet him in various ports of call. A mariner’s wife.

After retiring from competitive sailing, Blakey turned his attention to exploration of the planet and documenting climate and environmental effects on the Amazon and Antarctic. He was an expedition leader for the Cousteau Society for awhile and then went out on his own with Blake Exploration after buying his ship from the Society. In late 2001 after completing a major expedition in the Amazon, the ship was anchored in the mouth of the river one evening when they were boarded by a bunch of armed bad guys. In the ensuing fight and mayhem, Blakey was shot dead. 53 years old. The robbers made off with a bunch of watches and a 15 hp motor.

After enduring and embracing everything the planet’s oceans could throw at him – uncountable typhoons and hard weather, running aground off Namibia, breaking his mast in the south Atlantic in his first Whitbread attempt, and much much more, his life was taken too early and too tragically – by a human with a gun.