KEY POINTS:
The neighbours sure are nosey on Stewart Island. Three are on the balcony now, staring at us, but I reckon the two on the roof who are actually leaning upside down over the guttering to get a better view are taking their scrutinising to extremes.
It is just as well we are as fascinated with them as they apparently are with us.
I have never seen kaka close up before and can hardly believe there is not one, but five to study.
Like their kea cousins the kaka are cheeky, curious and - although their upper feathers are chestnut brown as opposed to mossy green - both parrots share gloriously coloured feathers under their wings.
Our kaka might be the most extrovert of our feathered neighbours but they are not the only ones.
Our cottage sits on a forest-covered promontory above Halfmoon Bay and two wood pigeons are riding the updrafts - they suddenly appear in mid air in front of us before lazily swooping down and out of sight.
There are tui as well. Misha, my Russian friend, can now identify these and several other bird species.
He can't believe how fat the pigeons are.
"They would be good eating. . ." he muses.
It rains overnight but by morning the showers have cleared away although the southern skies are still clogged with cloud.
We're not too worried because this morning we are going fishing with John Leask on the Rawhiti - at least there will be no chance of sweltering on an open deck.
John's fishing boat is the real deal - the deck glints with a patina of fish scales and the tiny wheelhouse is crammed with battered oilskins.
John is the quintessential quiet Southern man too - there's no slick patter, just a warm welcome and let's go fishing.
There are 12 of us amateur anglers on board, including a family of five from Christchurch and an English tourist who tells us she has never caught a fish before.
We head out to sea past flotillas of bobbing little blue penguins. John puts one of the passengers at the wheel, telling them where to aim for and while we putter onwards he begins sorting out fishing lines and cutting up bait.
When we reach his chosen spot I drop my line with its three hooks over the stern.
Almost the second it touches the bottom there's a "clomp" on the line. I can't believe I've caught something already but the line feels heavy. I haul it up, leaning over the stern until I see a flash of silver emerging from the deep. My first blue cod of the day.
I rebait the line and try again. This time two blue cod obligingly take a bite. I steal a glance at Misha and can't help a small gloat.
"Three-nil."
One of the Kiwi men hauls in a dogfish - feigning nonchalance but I can tell he's chuffed.
Sue the Brit is still fishless. But suddenly she squeaks with delight, as she brings up her line to which is attached a scarlet red wrasse. We vote it the prettiest catch of the day.
I turn around to see Misha matter-of-factly removing a large blue cod from one of his hooks and geting back to business, vowing at the same time that from now on I am not going to wimp out and leave John to unhook my catches.
It's not as easy as it looks - my blue cod is understandably squirming for dear life and I learn firsthand that the spines along its back are sharp.
I hold it against me to reduce the wriggling (It's only later when we reach the wharf I realise that was not a good idea. My jacket was smeared with fish remains and continued to reek of fish even after several washes). Eventually I succeeded, but pride comes before a fall...
On my next attempt the hook comes out easily but my beautiful fish suddenly shoots out of my grip and over the side. Misha's mouth twitches.
We are not alone on the ocean. There are six mollymawks in constant attendance. Beautifully graceful in flight, these members of the albatross family lumber into the air like an overloaded Bristol freighter and touchdowns involve splayed webbed feet frantically walking on water - each one looks like an emergency landing.
We fish for several hours - another red wrasse is caught, two striped trumpeter fish and dozens of blue cod. Misha, with no fanfare at all, pulls in a metre-long dogfish. It's the largest catch of the day.
As we motor into Patterson Inlet and the Ulva Island bird sanctuary for lunch we debate our respective tallies - does my 16 blue cod outrank his five cod and one large dogfish?
Misha pulls out a water bottle from his pack, along with his two new shot glasses - one has a small sheep on it, the other a kiwi. I'm thankful that I hadn't earlier taken a swig from the bottle because it certainly didn't contain pure Stewart Island drinking water.
Lunch is our own blue cod, boiled up with onions, sea water and served with John's freshly dug spuds dripping in butter and bread baked by his wife that morning. It's delicious.
As we sail home John guts and fillets the blue cod as Sue the Brit steers us across the bay.
She's going home in a few days and reckons her fishing trip was the highlight of her visit.
When John's finished he slides the bucket of bloody fish heads, tails and innards along to me.
"Would you like to feed the mollymawks?" he says. The birds are swooping in lazy arcs behind us.
I survey the swirling mass of guts and then at the magnificent birds, roll up my sleeve and plunge my arm in.
- Jill Worrall
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Pictured above: John Leask and Misha with the metre-long dogfish. Photo / Jill Worrall
