THE OCCASIONAL MANIAC

Ahhh Mr Kelly, come aboard.

I stepped onto the water taxi being provided to take media and “celebrities” across the harbour to the rock concert held on a barge off the Devonport foreshore in Auckland. I fit into the former category of media, working as I did in those days as a journalist for a boating magazine.

The driver was a young blond dude. As soon as we were aboard, we were off, throttle mashed hard down to the stops and the 140hp Yammie howling. The driver, readers, was not a person who believed in moderation as far as throttles were concerned. I’ve since learned that he feels the same way about red wine – but that’s a story for another day.

We got to the rock concert, which had drawn a large crowd. The musos were playing on a barge moored some distance off the seawall. There were lots of girls in flimsy white dresses but the thing that grabbed my attention most – no, really it was - was the likelihood of the musos being electrocuted.

Standing on a steel barge, moored in salt water, with power generators and humming wires everywhere as well as stacks of speakers – the poor buggers looked nervous as hell. No wonder that concert has never been repeated – these days the OSH Nazis would line everyone up against the wall and shoot them.

Then it was time to return, and Mr Throttle Guy gave us an unforgettable demonstration of what happens when you apply his philosophy to wind against the tide conditions. We hit the first of the pressure waves, leaped out of the water and landed with a huge crash. Repeat 77 times.

There were several dozen beer stashed up by the bow. It was the real type, in big quart bottles and wooden crates. They bounced their way aft, smashing and exploding and sending foaming brown liquid and shards of glass down the boat towards our jandals-clad feet. Try keeping your feet in one place when the floor is jumping up and down about 6ft.

The passengers hung on for grim death, the women were screaming and the children crying, as the bloody maniac crashed his way up past the wharves and finally into the calmer weather. And that’s how I met the editor of this magazine. I forgave him, but the bugger still owes me several lunches by way of compensation.

You come across these maniacs from time to time in boating, don’t you? The Mr Throttle Guys who have spines of steel and legs made from cast off Super Truck shock absorbers.

The most entertaining I ever traveled with was at a fishing contest and there was a strange “twist” to the occasion.

I was fishing the Ramco Cup in the Bay of Islands and had been invited to join a couple of hard cases for the day. The weather had been ugly for a couple of days and as we left the Waitangi River there were huge swells rolling into the bay.

Richard was “Mr Throttle Guy” on the trip and … it went straight to the “Wide Open” setting.

The boat roared off across the ocean, leaping and crashing. From the cabin, huge boxes of frozen pilchards and squid, the day’s lunch, drinks and spare clothing bounced their way aft to end up against the transom – where I was perched – in a great filthy slimy mess.

Richard’s mate had had enough. He reached across and grabbed Richard’s ear and twisted it …hard.

“Slow the f*** down,” he shouted.

Richard wasn’t having a bar of it.

Another handful of ear, a severe twist and another gentle plea to “slow the f*** down.”

Also ignored.

By the time we arrived at Bird Rock, Richard’s ear looked like one of those bright red twisties on a plastic bread bag and we were ankle deep in smashed pillies, squid, food, drink and clothes. I have to admit, it was bloody funny.

“Jeez sorry about that mate,” Richard apologised.

I had to tell him I wouldn’t have missed that spectacle for anything, even if I was now 4 inches shorter. Why is it you never have a video camera when you most need it?