Choppy trip to Stewart Island rivals Queenstown adventures

A mollymawk soars across the waters of the Foveaux Straight. Photo / Jill Worrall

It's a stormy morning in western Southland. Shafts of rather sickly sunshine are intermittently fighting their way through a tumultuous pile-up of gloomy grey cloud. As we approach the coast, the wind picks up, hurling rain at the windscreen.

When Foveaux Strait comes into view it is a heaving mass of whitecaps. I suspect a less than smooth ferry crossing to Stewart Island is in store for us but decide not to share my thoughts with Misha, my Russian friend.

For the past 10 years or so he has lived in Uzbekistan which is one of the few double-landlocked countries in the world. Consequently he's not spent a lot of time at sea.

I turn off the highway to check out the quaintly named Cosy Nook - partly because I can't possible imagine anything less aptly named on a day like this. We judder our way down an unsealed road to a rock-strewn cove, around which are dotted a few cribs (baches to those of us from points further north). There's a touch of Cornwall about it. Today's weather would certainly have made it perfect for piractical pursuits, if not a stroll on the beach.

Our next stop is in Riverton, where the sun has finally succeeded in breaking through. It glints on the river estuary, and strikes the wings of the gulls that are wheeling above the fishing boats at anchor in the tiny port. The car doors almost become airborne too when we get out to find coffee.

Riverton might have an end-of-the-world feel about it but the cafe has great coffee and even more magnificent savoury muffins.

The only thing missing, Misha suggests is a warming vodka - I have a feeling he is thinking more about fortificatiaon for the ferry crossing than warding off the cold. He makes do with an anti-seasickness tablet.

It was probably a good insurance policy, as when the ferry leaves the harbour at Bluff the skipper advises us all to stay put in our seats as it might be a "bit bumpy".

As we hit a sizeable wave with a crash, Misha raises an eyebrow at me. I remind him that he once served in the USSR Navy in Vladivostok, which to my mind seems a rather robust seafaring pedigree.

"I was a driver" he replies, as a wall of deep blue water rolls towards us. He pats the backpack on his lap in which is a carefully wrapped bottle of 42 Below.

"I don't think a shot would stay in the glass, do you?"

The boat is full of passengers who are exhibiting a range of reactions to the heavy seas. I suspect that if offered, several would gladly attempt even a flying toast of vodka.

Two women are gripping the tables in front of them for dear life, wincing every time we hit a wave head-first.

Near them, a grey-haired man in full tramping kit sits, apparently oblivious to the crossing, reading. But abruptly he stands up, abandons the book and disappears in the direction of the toilet. As the next wave hits the book bounces to the floor.

Misha turns to watch him go, and I attempt to distract him by pointing out the sooty shearwaters zipping above the waves. I explain to him how the local Maori hunt them each year and how many people regard muttonbird as a delicacy.

It was possibly not my best move - the thought of eating salted seabird isn't improving his demeanour. However he brightens up when I spot a mollymawk. These members of the albatross family have a wingspan of about three metres - two are swooping low over the waves beside the ferry, wingtips almost seeming to brush the whitecaps.

As we get closer to Stewart Island, or Rakiura (glowing skies) the sea quietens down.

Arcs of golden sand appear in between headlands of native forest. We pass a small flotilla of little blue penguins bobbing in the calm waters of Halfmoon Bay before tying up at the wharf.

Misha lights a cigarette as we wait for the luggage to be delivered via a forklift and contemplates the crystal clear water under the wharf. A school of fish is milling around one of the seaweed-encrusted piles.

"There was no need to go on the jetboat at Queenstown," he remarks.

"That was enough excitement."