A Privileged Lifestyle

This article has been submitted by a GrownUps member. GrownUps accepts no liability for its content and the views and information contained within are not necessarily those of the GrownUps website.

The first night on the estuary I slept well. It was late summer and the full moon engulfed my tiny bedroom as the houseboat rested under the weight of newly placed furniture.

What an unusual house-shift. Several friends had assisted with an interior repaint days before, so everything was fresh. The difficulty was fitting all my belongings into the small nooks and crannies.

The outside of our new home was painted brick red and new decks were added. The A-Framed cottage on a raft was made buoyant with flotation drums. Because of this the incoming tide gently lifted us, but most of the time we nestled on mudflats.

The first weeks and months were a challenge. With seasonal changes we had to adjust to new chores and reassess priorities. My teenage son, who made his bedroom in the loft, continued his active social life. There was always important tasks to do at home too.

We cooked on gas, conserved water very strictly, and installed a proper shower complete with gas califont for instant hot water. The long drop toilet onshore was far from ideal but we got used to it. A slippery path was dealt with by covering it with crushed shells which also made it easier to see in the dark. Carrying heavy gas bottles down the track was no mean feat. Gathering and chopping wood for the potbelly stove, along with collecting rubbish that washed in with the incoming tide, were routine.

What I did miss was my garden. Fortunately I was able to plant a few colourful shrubs in the shade of the kanuka trees onshore. As autumn reduced into winter it became more crucial to regularly adjust the solar panels for full advantage.

Our cat family also had major changes to contend with. The toughest hurdle was learning to ‘walk the plank’ to do their ablutions. They coped, just as we did.

My daughter and son-in-law brought the family to visit often. The effervescent grandchildren loved the houseboat and it’s environment. Their joy extended to the fascination with our feathered wetland neighbours.

Special moments far outweighed the harsh reality of choosing this educational and delightful lifestyle. To be awakened by the dawn party of pukeko, and to watch the morning moon disappear behind the hills that acted as a backdrop to mangroves and onshore flora. Sipping that first morning cuppa whilst hand feeding small fish as the houseboat gently leaned with the tide; being greeted twice daily by a group of mallards that raspingly demanded their rations; watching the banded rail and her babies that showed no sign of fear or intimidation in our presence as they gathered food. Shag, heron and kingfisher were in abundance, all acting out their daily routines on the mudflat stage.

The mud was something else! Thick and dark, speckled with crab holes. It turned black when disturbed. It was pleasing to note my cats never attempted to encroach on the fragile wildlife. But we ensured no visiting dogs were welcomed.

Our jetty however did welcome many visiting human feet. People were curious about the lifestyle. What an honour it was to live there and learn to minimise our impact on nature. I discovered so much about tides and the value of wetlands. I fell in love with mangroves.

Winter brought storms, the most severe and dramatic coincided with a king tide. Our jetty was soon under water and mooring ropes needed to be checked frequently as the water rose. It was the only time I can ever recall feeling a rocking motion. A neighbouring houseboat was partially submerged due to insufficient floatation drums, with it’s resident fleeing to us for refuge through rising waters. We all sat snugly by the wood fire sipping hot chocolate and were thankful that the power cut affecting the rest of the island did not bother us - an advantage of solar power.

The tiny houseboat community of eight people was mutually supportive and friendly. We all cared for the inlet and its residents, human and feathered. Even the eels were our companions.

Five small rooms that floated with the tides in that sun-drenched mangrove haven, that was living! Shopping, working and ‘normal’ life continued, but being at home was always special and profoundly satisfying. There were no lawns to mow, no mortgage, power cuts, or noisy passing traffic. The odd stray cow might visit in the dark of night and startle anyone walking to the long drop. But it was magic. I would sit on my sofa and look out onto what felt like my own private lake. A tap-tap-tap on the window would attract my attention to the sight of a neighbour paddling by in her kayak, waving happily. Where else would this happen?

For four seasons that sleepy inlet was the hub of my universe, and my houseboat attested to it’s name…Peaceseeker.

print