Flooded

One of the many interesting things about living in New Zealand is that Christmas marks the start of summer. The entire country listens to songs like “Jingle Bells” and “Winter Wonderland” while they tan themselves on the beach. It's sort of like going to Wal-Mart in August, except with an ozone hole to add to the challenge.

I shopped very carefully this year, because I knew that if I didn't get my wife exactly the right present, divorce would certainly follow—or at least serious bodily injury. And I found the perfect gift: a rubber stamp that you can press into a piece of bread so that when you put it in the toaster, it gets an image of a kiwi bird. What could say “I love you” better than a kiwi toast stamp? Sure enough, she adored it. I immediately checked her into a hospital for psychiatric evaluation.

After Christmas we headed to the West Coast for a brief vacation. New Zealand's South Island is divided into two parts by the Southern Alps. The east section, where we live, is a populous but bucolic paradise of sheep “stations” (ranches), sheep stations, and sheep stations, occasionally interrupted by a cattle station. The summer weather is warm and pleasant, except when it's not, which this year seems to be most of the time.

(Note: if you know what “bucolic” means, please let me know. It just sounded good here.)

By contrast, the West Coast is a bucolic paradise of sheep stations, sheep stations, and sheep stations, with a few cows intermixed for good measure. It's true that the West is reputed to be a bit damper, thanks to the mountains that make the clouds dump all their rain on that side. But it still sounded like a great vacation spot.

OK, I'll admit it. We kind of blew the timing thing. We hopped on the “Tranz Alpine Scenic Railway” (as I've said before, Kiwis can't spell for squat) for our gorgeous ride through the mountains. Only first we had to roll past about a zillion miles of sheep stations, with only the occasional cow pie for scenic variety. But eventually we got into the mountains…whereupon it started to rain. A lot. In fact, it was hard to see anything more than ten feet outside the windows.

But did that stop me from having fun? Not on your life. I have some of the best pictures of rain-spattered windows you've ever seen. If you squint, you can see a vague blob that might be a stunning mountain vista.

When we finally got to the coast, we found out that it seems to rain all the time. We drove north to see coastal scenery, and were driven back by rain and wind. We drove further north to see seals, and were drenched. We went even further to visit the lovely hamlet of Westport, and didn't even get out of the stupid car because we would have needed scuba gear. So we drove back to the motel and settled down for a raindrop-soothed night's sleep.

In the morning, our daughter announced, “You have to look at this.” Since she says that every time she sees a new rock, we ignored her. “Really, you have to look at this.” Yawn. “Seriously!”

My wife wandered to the patio door and glanced outside. “Honey, look!” I figured it must be a really big rock.

What I found instead was one of the Great Lakes, transported in toto to New Zealand. The water was only inches below the doorsill. My wife bravely put on boots and waded in to recover the patio furniture, which was floating just beyond reach. Apparently she had forgotten that we were on the second floor; she immediately disappeared into the torrent and resurfaced a hundred feet away clutching an upside-down umbrella, screaming for me to get the luggage into the car immediately. For once I followed her advice. Then I drove down to rescue her just as she was swept into the ocean. (Some Kiwi cars come with a snorkel. Really. My only complaint is that when you breathe through it, the air has a distinct diesel smell.)

Eventually the rain stopped—just in time to climb on the train and head home. It's fortunate that the train station is built on pontoons. And that the train is inflatable.

Next time, maybe I'll check the forecast first—if it's not raining too hard to see the computer.

Eclipsed

I clicked on a Web page the other day and noticed that we were going to have a lunar eclipse. Furthermore, it would happen at 8:41 PM locally, just as the moon was rising. “Cool,” I thought. “Pictures of a blood-red moon over the Pacific!”

As you may know, some superstitious ancients believed that lunar eclipses were caused by a dragon eating and then regurgitating the moon. Nothing could be further from the truth; dragons have notoriously robust digestive systems. It's actually my neighbor's dog, who will eat anything and then leave its remains on your doorstep, who is responsible for this amazing celestial phenomenon. So you can understand that I am amazed that his behavior can be predicted with such precision. But who am I to question science? After all, it is science that gives us answers to difficult but important questions like when the tide will be highest, what makes cookies tasty, and exactly how hot the inside of your car needs to get to bake those cookies.

Anyway, the eclipse was not to be missed; never mind that we had relatives visiting. I planned the day carefully: we would meet our in-laws at the airport, drive them to their hotel, and quickly rush back home to catch the evening sky show.

But my wife, as wives are prone to do, put the kibosh on that plan. “Don't you think it's a bit rude to abandon them like that? They've been living on airline food for 24 hours. They're lucky to be alive!” I had to admit that she had a point, airline food being all too similar to what the neighbor's dog presents to us.

So there we were at 8:41 PM on December 21st, sitting in a restaurant with no windows. I would have been even sulkier than usual, except that it turned out to be completely overcast and we couldn't have seen the eclipse anyway.

…until the next morning, when my favorite news site proclaimed “Lunar eclipse tonight.” It seems that, like Phileas Fogg, I had forgotten about the International Date Line. I always thought it was a phone number for meeting beautiful and lonely Russians (the same ones who keep e-mailing me with their pictures and offers of marriage), but in fact it's a huge line painted on the surface of the Pacific Ocean, where everybody on the left side of the line (that's me) is already living in tomorrow. So, if you carefully account for my confusion, the eclipse was going to be today instead of yesterday!

Note: if you think you understood the above explanation, please put down your computer and phone your psychiatrist immediately.

So I had a second chance. The in-laws decided to dine by themselves, and the sky seemed to be clearing. I jumped into the car and drove to a good vantage point on a local hill. There I was about 10 minutes before moonrise with my camera, tripod, and goofy-looking hat. (If you're interested in photography, it's important to have a special hat; otherwise people won't take you seriously. If they do take you seriously, watch out, because they're only pretending until the guys with straitjackets arrive.)

As it turned out, I ran into a couple of minor problems. No, I didn't kill any sheep. But the New Zealand wind was determined to set a speed record, and I was on an exposed hilltop. I didn't much mind when I laid my tripod on the ground (sideways) and it immediately blew ten feet away. It wasn't too bad when a gust of wind knocked me off my feet. Only when my car rolled over on its side did I begin to think that it might be hard to get a picture.

But I'm tenacious. I sat down on a rock, braced myself, and waited. And waited. And waited. Eventually, half an hour after the supposed moonrise, I got a good view of the water and saw that there were thick clouds on the horizon. No way the moon was going to be visible, eclipse or no eclipse. By the time it got over the clouds, the eclipse would be finished and it would be a plain, ordinary, boring full moon. So I packed up and drove home. No sense freezing out there.

When I walked in the house, my daughter said “Pretty neat, huh?” I looked blank; she pointed out the window to where the dog was just starting to regurgitate the completely visible moon.

Oh, great: I blew it completely. But that's OK; I'm resilient. I know how to handle failure.

I hit her over the head with the tripod.