By the time our agent’s representatives come to the boat soon after we anchor we have been inundated by a large sealion. First she tries to fit on the bottom starboard step, but she is slightly too big and can’t seem to find a comfortable spot for her head to rest on. When the water taxi arrives with the agent, she reluctantly slides into the water when they clap their hands, only to grumpily heave herself onto the port stern where she decides to go for the second step up to avoid the swimladder. A good plan; it fits her perfectly.
The agent’s representatives explain what is to happen. In exchange for bundles of cash they arrange for Customs, Immigration and the Quarantine team to visit, a contingency of nine people who arrive by water taxi around 2 pm. While David is questioned by the local coast guard about the number of lifejackets and flares on board and about where we’ve been and for how long, the rest of us scribble furiously to fill in multiple copies of immigration forms. Meanwhile, a diver inspects the bottom of the boat, another official takes air samples and a third person checks our cupboards and cabins for introduced plants and pests. When they are all satisfied that we are clean and in possession of proper documentation for where we’ve been, they ruffle the childrens’ hair, mumble something about blondies, and depart. Only the Marine Park official now remains to visit – he had something else to do when the rest came and will come to check us later, although after he misses two appointments we are told that he won’t in fact turn up. He is the person who was supposed to ascertain that we won’t harm the marine life through our visit, and check our black water system and the rubbish set up. David is terribly disappointed – he was looking forward to the poo tank inspection; after all the trouble he went through to put it in, he craves an admiring glance and a low whistle from an impressed official.
Soon after they leave, we are colonised by another two sealions. They clamber onboard, lifting themselves heavily out of the water and flop down, seemingly exhausted. They literally can’t keep their eyes open, some of them seem to fall asleep whilst trying to look at us, they just keel over mid-eye contact and start snoring. They pee copiously whilst asleep and soon the back steps are covered in brown urine. They are a bunch of moody teenagers: when we step onto the back steps they lift their heads and snarl at us, honking and braying much like the Wookie Chewbacca. A large male comes over, ousts a smaller female and promptly falls asleep. When new sealions approach, our grumpy male snaps at any males, but allows females to come onboard as long as they keep to the other steps. At one point we have three on one side and one on the other, a nice arrangement of bunk beds to put up young males and their burgeoning harems while the larger males roam the shorelines.
Finally, tired of waiting in vain for the Park official, we hail a water taxi around 5:30 pm to go ashore for dinner, and step gingerly over our hostile looking colony. Ashore they are everywhere: lining the beaches, asleep on the steps by the jetty, zonked out on the park bench. We spend some time watching a tiny baby roaming the beach colony braying confusedly for her mother – it manages to traverse the entire beach, emitting heart piercing cries, but no mother comes forth.
On the jetty a large heron stalks newcomers, and on the rocks lining the beach are black iguanas and Sally Lightfoot crabs catching the last rays before sunset.
It is amazing to be in a place where the animals are, if not in charge then at least given space to be, and it seems impossible that we can’t have that elsewhere – imagine how incredible New Zealand would be if there was space for native birds to roam the streets of towns.
SV Bob The Cat 