Many Easters ago, we travelled to Stewart Island for a holiday now etched into family lore. We ferried from Bluff in what were probably average conditions by Foveaux Strait standards, but what I remember as resembling an end-of-times, perfect-storm swell.
The piddly catamaran strained and lurched and dropped off the back of waves the size of apartment blocks while my brave-as-bricks brother screamed the entire journey.
"I don't want to die. Daddy ... I'm TOO YOUNG TO DIE!"
He didn't, which was nice, but every minute on land thereafter was marred by knowing we'd all soon be back on the ferry and making the return trip.
They don't get those seas in the Gulf, but taking a long weekend from Auckland over Easter makes for commuting horror of another kind. The stuck-on-the-southern-and-going-nowhere-fast kind, where you're shifting in your seat and creeping and stopping and losing all will to go on.