How a late-holiday Cook Strait crossing turned perilous

It started out as any other late summer holiday ferry trip across Cook Strait.

Cars loaded to the hilt, families trundling on, the wind howling like a banshee, and the first lurch into the might of a Cook Strait wave at the heads of Tory Channel.

The captain warned there was an emergency drill and passengers needed to do nothing. Soon though, as the Kaitaki made its way past the rocky and isolated shores west of Ōwhiro Bay, the lights went out and, with it, the background rumbling of engines.

The lights came on shortly after. The engines’ rumbling didn’t.

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The emergency, just practised for, had become a reality but, for now, nobody acknowledged it. We drifted silently, lurched in the waves frighteningly, then came a passenger announcement. Surely, they were going to announce the massive elephant in the room?

It was, seriously, the announcement of the winner of the kids’ colouring competition.

My son and I were sitting in a windowless room but if we had been by a window we would have seen the south coast and its craggy rocks appear from the mist. A marine tracking website shows the ship – of which I was one of about 800 passengers – was at this point drifting a nautical mile towards the coast. That distance again and we would have been on the coast.

Then the captain came on, with that Chuck Yeager-type laconic calm reserved for captains of planes and ships. We had lost all power and it was being treated as an emergency. All passengers were told to get into assembly stations – in our case, the bar. Life jackets were handed out – merely a precaution, we were assured – and we were instructed how to put them on.

The fact there was little panic – one young girl, understandably, crying – was down to the calm professionalism of the crew. Not once then, or in the following hours, was there any panic. They handed out cups of ice, then later, drinks and snacks.

At this point, it seems, we were still drifting. About 20 minutes later the captain came with good news. The anchors had stuck, we were no longer drifting, tugs were on their way, as was the police launch, and the Awatere ferry. Nearby private boats were standing nearby.

Online, the various rescue craft could be seen slowly but surely coming towards us. I went out to the glass atrium to see if I could see them and, only then, did I realise how close we were to the rocks.

I would never normally get emotional about boats, but seeing the Wellington pilot boat, then police launch, then tugs appear out of the mist brought a lump to my throat. I’m sure I was not alone.

Eventually, the captain – again calm, laconic – came on the speaker: Engineers had restored power and we should be able to make it to Wellington under our own power. Applause – as there had been earlier, and would be again – echoed from muster stations around the ship.

Half-an-hour later, one anchor was up. Applause again. Then another half-an-hour and the other was up. We were on our way.

Slowly but surely – with a small flotilla of the tugs and the police launch shadowing us with military precision – we limped to port.

The Kaitaki had been due in at 5.45pm. It was after 9pm when we arrived. There was the waiting media, ambulance, police, and drivers offering to help.

I doubt many needed it. That, again, was thanks to the crew who never gave cause for alarm, the captain who managed to anchor the ship before things could have gone horribly worse, and of course then engineers, somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship.