Mastering tippy kayaks and tipsy Kiwis

Editor’s Note: “Letter From…” is a column featuring a letter from a Maine, or person with ties to this state who is living or traveling far from home. The following is from Claire Dibble of Brooklin. The George Stevens Academy graduate has been living in New Zealand.

It’s getting late, and the moths around the lights are slowly dropping from exhaustion. Another kayaking video is playing in the room next to m; the occasional inquiring mind asks, “How’d he do that?” or “Do you think it’s easier in a smaller boat?” It’s one of my last nights at the New Zealand Kayak School.

It sounds like a big operation, an institution even. But the school looks much like the rest of the houses on the main street in Murchison, only with more cars in the yard and kayaks tucked around the property like brightly colored Easter eggs. Another milk tanker flies by outside the window, ignoring the 50-km speed limit now that it’s dark out.

The mist that I’ve come to expect in the mornings here is just starting to accumulate in the paddock behind the house. When I awake tomorrow it will surround us, tricking visitors into thinking that a cloudy day is in store, when in fact the sun will almost definitely break through by 11 a.m. Just around the time the pool sessions are over, conveniently, the sun shines down on us and starts drying wet river gear.

Sessions happen every morning during the four-day courses, down at the community swimming pool behind the primary school. One or both of our small vans pull out of the driveway at 7 a.m. with a rattling trailer of boats behind, a bleary-eyed instructor, and a small group of students.

Many are from the United States. I’ve met more Americans here than anywhere else in New Zealand. Some have just come from ‘the ice’ and stop off for some adventuring in this beautiful country on the way home after their six-month stint of work in Antarctica. Plenty of Kiwis (New Zealanders) pass through the gate at the school too, excited to take advantage of all of the amazing whitewater their home has to offer.

After flogging themselves to near death by trying to achieve the perfect roll in the pool, students are in need of the popular second breakfast (thank you, Hobbits). The rest of each day is spent on various sections of river, from flat to white, to work on strokes and putting the roll into use under pressure, or ‘in combat.’ Whitewater kayaks, by nature, are quite tippy, and whitewater, by nature, is quite pushy. Being able to right yourself, when the river has decided to flip you upside down, is an essential part of the learning process.

People are keen here, keen to learn and willing to teach. I fit in just fine because of my desire to learn. If you’d asked me three months ago if I’d be at the Kayak School, I would have said no. Not that I didn’t want involvement, mind you, but I knew the money wasn’t in my budget to take a course. But things fell into place, as they do, and the school ended up providing me with a job, a home, a family, and more quality instruction than you can shake a stick at.

I started out working at the local pub and helped out around in town where I was needed. For a while I was working two jobs, working too much, and squeezing little bits of kayaking into spare moments. I had a tent set up on the edge of the river and slept happily to the sound of the river racing to the ocean an hour away.

I rattled around town on my rusty stead, the 10-speed I bought off a guy at the hardware store for $20. The envy of all of my friends, I like to think. Eased my way out of the night job when the sought-after position of ‘boat slave’ became available at the school.

Working at the pub had given me a chance to befriend true Murchison locals, a rare breed. Got to know the town drunk well enough to know he was in a good mood when he drank Guinness, pondered life with a bottle of cheap wine, and shouldn’t be bothered when he drank whiskey.

He’s a creative and talented woodworker, well-traveled and educated. With wild, long hair and a thick gray beard, he’s a permanent fixture at the end table outside the pub. He wandered aimlessly around the block, sat on the steps at the back of the grocery store across the street and looked a little pathetic during the week he wasn’t allowed on the property as punishment for smoking pot on the premises.

Murchison is a small town, with all that implies. At best, 1,000 people live in the area, including the dairy farms, which occupy the surrounding valleys. Four major valleys, four rivers, and limestone bluffs separating them create a magnificent landscape. There is no lack of river sections to run around here; the Kayak School is strategically placed.

During the peak summer season, the two campgrounds overflow with kayakers and fisherman, both trying to avoid one another. The standard kayak transport vehicles, white vans with bright boats, seem to be the major traffic on the one road through town. Locals in the pub grumble about the “bloody kayakers” taking over, but access to the rivers through farmland is surprisingly easy.

Mick Hopkinson, the founder of the Kayak School, has put years of community involvement into easing the tension between locals and kayakers. And I’ve felt welcome around town, accepted as a familiar face, and I see that as part of Mick’s success at gradually making outdoor enthusiasts seem less alien to the local boys. Still, the mingling of gum-booted rugby diehards and river bums in flip-flops is somewhat limited in the pub.

The season is coming to an end so the locals can have their favorite spots to themselves for a while. There will likely to be even more kayakers next year, the way the sport is growing in popularity. The small-scale, but highly professional operation I’ve worked for is booming and considering employing two boat slaves.

The glorified glue-sniffer’s position (I spent a lot of time gluing bits into boats) might be more than my brain cells can handle two years in a row, but I’m sure I’ll feel the pull of Murchison, the rivers and my mates (boaters and locals alike) when the new season comes around. Hard to say goodbye.

Claire Dibble is a 1997 graduate of George Stevens Academy in Blue Hill. She is the daughter of Keith and Allison Dibble of Brooklin.