Episode 6: O Captain, my Captain!

Hola, Senores y Senoritas. Running out of languages.

It is 5am on the morning of Saturday the 25th February. I am walking through Tauranga, which I am now very fond of, to the bus station. I am bleary-eyed and jangled-nerved, with an 11 hour slog ahead of me. This does, at least, give me time to indulge in a strong dose of Robin Williams, watching Dead Poets Society and Good Will Hunting on the bus for the first time. I love both.

Mr Keating reminds me of my dear A Level politics teacher, Dan Buschle; charismatic, irreverent of the status quo, profane, and endowed with an infectious passion for his subject. “Carpe Diem!” he advises them. “O Captain, my Captain!” his students rally. I know I said before advice doesn’t work. I know I said before that I was a kite in the hurricane. And yet…

We pick up the action in Ratched’s front room, a dismal and faded affair, where I stand before her as an accused might stand before the judge. She sits in her customary large armchair, with a customary cigarette balanced between her left fingers and customary vodka and lime in her right. It is 10am on Friday morning. The customary glare is firmly in place as I squirm under her gaze like a steak on a grill.

“I really am sorry I couldn’t let you know earlier, but it’s just the ummmm reality of my situation, being cash strapped and ummmm you know just really short on options and ummmm” I fumble desperately. Ratched’s lair is so distant from Tauranga town that I have been left with no choice but to come to the negotiating table with a jumble of white lies in my back pocket. I was meant to stay a week at least. I can only stomach four days. The final straw came last night, when Prometheus and Ratched had a thunderous blow-up, nearly coming to fisticuffs involving Lebowski. When the police arrived at 2am, I ducked under my duvet and booked an intercity bus from Tauranga to Wellington. Hancey has agreed to let me crash at her place. It’s a precious window of opportunity.

I take a deep breath. “My friend George is driving down to Wellington for the 2nd test match. He’s offered me a lift, and I won’t find many other free rides. He’s leaving tonight.” This is only partly a lie; my beloved Dobell really did offer me a lift to Wellington for the 2nd test five days ago, although unfortunately before I knew that a) I would be going to Wellington as a safe haven and b) that my host was the devil incarnate. I hide behind my exaggerated poverty as an excuse to escape free accommodation. It’s not a brilliantly constructed lie, but I get away with it, and Ratched furiously permits me to sit in the back of the car as she drives to a supermarket in Tauranga.

We share the world’s most awkward farewell, and I scuttle off under the pretext that my lift is departing soon. In truth, my bus doesn’t leave until 6am the next morning. I’m in no hurry, so I go for a burger and chips next to the supermarket and, in a cruel twist of fate, as I am withdrawing cash for the bus fare into town centre, the accursed Ratched rounds the corner of the street. She definitely sees me, but I snatch my card and sprint off as if the Reaper himself were on my heels. I stay the night back with Richard, tail firmly between my legs. I download Robin Williams films. The saga is over.

When I arrive at Welly, the weather is biblical yet again, with torrential rain and fog. There has never, according to unanimous Kiwi consensus, been a summer as bad as this one. I may have seized the day earlier, but I’m still a Rider on this Storm. And yet…

The next few days are glorious. Hancey and her boyfriend (another Richard) have a deluxe house in a Wellington suburb. They’re doing a lot of work on it and although I keep feebly offering, I feel guilty that they won’t set me to work to earn my keep. Because I have serendipitously found myself near a test match venue again, I attend the final two days. New Zealand end up winning by 1 run. It is the joint narrowest margin of victory in the history of the game and widely regarded as one of the best test matches of all time. I am extraordinarily lucky to witness it. England skipper Ben Stokes shakes hands over a drawn series. O captain, my captain…

After the game, I peruse the Wellington museum, where I discover this entry’s Word of the Week. It’s Piritani, the Māori word for Britain. The Māori word for police, by the way, is Pirihimana. Prime Minister is Pirimia. Make of that what you will. I’ve learned a lot about the relationship between the Māori and the white population whilst I’ve been here, but I still don’t know quite what to make of it. So I think I’ll leave it on the backburner for a while.

I take a leisurely stroll along the urban waterfront to have a beer in the sunset, and idly lay plans to visit the botanic gardens. Hance takes me to meet her uncle and aunt, in their large and tasteful house complete with piano, pool, and Peronis. They have a pretty and personable (this alliteration is unintentional) 18 year old daughter, Amelie, who suggests we go to her friend’s party next weekend. I suggest we also go out for a drink before that; on my birthday. Wellington is fast becoming one of my favourite cities in the world.

I might even, incidentally, be able to afford to buy Amelie a drink now, thanks to my generous benefactor that this blog has attracted! Yoni’s mate Ben - where are you Ben? Come on, stand up, take the applause - hilariously decided to reimburse the 70 bucks I spent on my Scandinavian sirens way back in Auckland. My maiden journalistic paycheck, and commendable shithousery from Ben. Your investment will reap rich dividends, you have my word.

My fortunes, dear readers, could hardly have undergone such a drastic volte face. But is it fortune? I don’t believe in such a thing. As my grandfather succinctly put it; “I’m not a fatalist. I’m a relievedist.” All the while I’m rolling these dice I am laying plans before me, and I hope you’ll read all about them as they come into focus. I am Carpe-ing a few more Diems than previously. Perhaps less Rider on the Storm, more Rudder in the Ocean. Less kite, more sparrow. I leave you with William Henley’s perennial words.

“It matters not how strait the Ratched

How charged with punishment the Farquart.

I am the master of my fate

I am the captain of my soul.”

Adios, hermanos.