Great Barrier Island life has ups and downs

In the second of four articles set around the Hauraki Gulf, ANNE BESTON and photographer PETER MEECHAM pass Little Barrier and pull ashore on Great Barrier Island.

"Whale!" Another telltale spout shoots into the air and as we plough 90 degrees to starboard, teacups and cutlery flying, everyone shouts at once.

Circling in a rolling swell, we debate whether to go north or south. We go south. The whale must have gone north, because there's no further sign of it. It's the biggest disappointment of our four-day tour of the Hauraki Gulf.

Cruising aboard the 11.5m launch Chancellor, we are headed for Great Barrier Island from our one-night stopover at Kawau Island.

During the peak boating season, from late December until late January, this stretch of the gulf has a steady stream of boat traffic, but in early December it's all but deserted.

Behind us, Tokatu Pt and Kawau are covered in a rainy, grey mist, but out here the sun glints on the whitecaps and there is an ever-widening pool of blue sky overhead. As the boat motors easily into the on-coming swells, the effect of sun and sea is mesmerising.

It's not until we reach Little Barrier (Hauturu), about three hours later, that we see the grey mist again, covering the island's craggy peaks in a brooding gloom.

This slice of pre-historic New Zealand is strictly for the birds; you can't land here without a permit. Since 1895 it has been a nature reserve, these days providing refuge to the biggest range of endangered birds in New Zealand, including the saddleback, stitchbird, kiwi, black petrel, brown teal and kokako.

It's a favourite spot for a bit of off-shore fishing during summer, and the small island provides overnight shelter from prevailing winds, but better anchorages are to be had at its larger neighbour, Great Barrier (Aotea).

The two islands were named the Barrier Isles by Captain James Cook in November 1769 because they formed an effective "barrier" across the mouth of the Hauraki Gulf.

We cruise past Great Barrier's Wellington Head, into Port Abercrombie and turn into an idyllic-looking Nagle Cove.

If we had thought we were the only souls about, we were quickly proved wrong. No sooner have we dropped anchor than a small launch buzzes in to the bay and a man jumps out and disappears into a plain, weatherboard house.

He is Alan Phelps, a 51-year-old former shearer who has lived on the island for 14 years.

Between long telephone conversations to various MPs about the two-year aquaculture moratorium, which has probably just sunk his mussel farm plans, Mr Phelps talks about the problems of existing on the island.

He and his American-born wife, Mary Fisher, have raised five children here, but it's tough making a living. Mussel farming is one solution, but there are plenty arguing against it, including some of the island's 1000 or so residents.

"People who live in remote places have a right to make a living," says Mr Phelps. "If it was bad for the environment, I wouldn't be doing it. I feel kicked in the guts."

He earns some money as "chief rat man", trapping rats over a 1km square area in a trial project to save the rarest of the region's 13 species of lizard, the Chevron skink.

Mr Phelps used to get off the island more, "but it seems to be less and less these days". Not that he minds: he caught a snapper under the macrocarpa at the bottom of the garden the night before.

Port Fitzroy and its neighbouring coves are the most popular of the island's boating destinations. Over the holidays, hundreds of yachts and boats descend on Great Barrier, pulling into every bay and cove.

Most of the houses around Nagle Cove are accessible only by boat, and that's the way the locals like it. Mr Phelps ferries his youngest son to school each day in the family's small runabout.

The islanders prove a friendly bunch, whizzing us in a small runabout to Mohunga Bay, on the eastern side of Nagle Cove, for a barbecue.

After dark, we're ferried back, , avoiding the rocks by moonlight. Back on the boat, we're reluctant to close the evening. The Chancellor is a tiny island of light and sound in the blackest, stillest of nights.

But once we're in our sleeping bags, the moreporks take over and the waves lap quietly against the hull, easing us towards sleep.