But Rain Gods don't forget – delivering a month's worth of water in a couple days. All because we couldn't leave well enough alone and stay inside our dry homes with non-zippered doors and full-sized refrigerators.
No, our family had to trade brick and tile for the great outdoors, which becomes the great indoors when rain falls in sheets. We're driven to the interiors of tents, caravans and the communal park kitchen, where a TV blares Spongebob Square Pants, The Jeremy Kyle Show and American Gladiator.
For all the forces of the natural world we fear – cyclones, king tides, birds that squirt fresh laundry with poo – some of the fiercest foils to camping nirvana are humans at the next site.
Our neighbours in Ohope around New Year's included a set of mature adults who spent every waking moment drinking wine at their glamping tent's picnic table while talking quietly; and a family on the other side of us who played death metal while talking loudly about their toddler son.
Two nights ago, the adults in the glamping tent moved out, handing over the reins of their multi-roomed platform structure to a half-dozen teenagers.
The teens played hip-hop music with reverberating bass and invited another half-dozen friends to join them for thoughtful discussions of world events until 2am.
"F**k that, man. He's a f****ing a-hole."
This was followed by high-pitched laughter suggestive of a 17-year-old whose testicles were caught in a vice.
Which was what I wanted to do when I couldn't sleep through the noise. Having not brought the vice, I fetched a security guard instead. He called for back-up before heading to the disruptive young ones' tent. By the time security arrived, the party had dispersed, presumably to the beach.
Last night, our family crowded into a 1965 caravan which comfortably sleeps two. There are four of us.
Despite the squeeze and the unbearable sound of Master 12's teeth grinding, we slept most of the night, mercifully unperturbed by juvenile revellers. I suspect they took the night off to read Nietzsche, knit, or practise homemade tattoos.
The flip side of the annoyance of camping masses is the humanity of friends and strangers.
Several friends, after hearing of the coming storm, have offered their homes to us, knowing we had rented our place for a week. Another friend camping nearby brought me along on her birthday walk back when the sun showed her face – 5.5km up interminable flights of stairs along the Toi track. We celebrated the end of the hour-and-a-half slog with ice-cold beer her husband brought when he picked us up.
We shared stories over dinner with another couple whose beloved dog got run over shortly before Christmas, proving someone always has it worse than you.
I bumped into a friend outside the cinema who suggested a night at her home in Whakatane if we wanted a break from the rain.
Other sentiments of help and commiseration arrived via social media. My friend, Joel, wrote, "We must be related. I wanted to hire myself to drought-stricken areas…I would pitch a tent, roll out a sleeping bag and then wait for the deluge…"
Nicola posted a photo of her tent near Opotiki, reporting she and the family headed for home after getting hit by a vomiting bug.
The forecast was calling for more rain, possibly gale-force winds Thursday night. I ran with my friend, Kelly, this morning, starting out in a light mist. Fifteen minutes later, water pelted us in a rapid-fire spray. We were soaked. Another pearl for the memory jar.
Soon, we'll be back home in Papamoa, warm and dry, asking, "What were we thinking, camping in early January? The weather is almost always rubbish."
After the tent, stretchers and sleeping bags dry, we'll probably book again – so we can try next year.
Unlike Shakespeare's Ides of March, our Ides of January haven't seen tragedy.
Mostly comedy – soggy, with a side of hot sausages and cold wine.
