About Steve

Back in the day, my early sailing adventures in a “P” class in Gisborne were nothing short of epic. Picture this: a young sailor, eyes wide with wonder, staring at the permanent channel buoys. The black buoy, in particular, seemed like it was on the edge of the world. For us P class boys, it was practically over the horizon, a mythical marker that only the bravest dared to dream of reaching.

Fast forward a few decades, and there I was, sailing into Gisborne again, this time in my 35-footer, feeling like a seasoned sea captain. As I approached the bay, I couldn’t help but notice something odd. “They must have moved the buoys closer to the city,” I thought. “And what’s with the jetty and tower? Did they shrink?”

It was then that I realized the truth: either the buoys had developed a sense of humour, or my youthful imagination had been playing tricks on me all those years ago. Turns out, the only thing that had changed was my perspective—and maybe my eyesight!

So we were, in the middle of a Key West regatta, when me and a crewmate got invited to dinner by some North Carolina guys. “Fried turkey,” they said. Your first thought? “Heart attack on a plate.” But hey, free food is free food, right?

We arrived to see a whole turkey taking a hot oil bath. Figuring the beer and other snacks would be your salvation, we stayed. But then, the moment of truth: the turkey emerged, golden and crispy. One bite, and we were hooked. It was like biting into a piece of heaven—crispy on the outside, juicy on the inside. Who knew?

We left with a full belly, a new appreciation for Southern cooking, and a shiny new frying setup to take back to New Zealand. I’m now the proud owner of a turkey fryer, ready to spread the gospel of fried turkey to the Kiwis. Bon appétit!

If you ever need a detailed recipe to recreate that delicious fried turkey, just let me know! 

So, there I was, stuck in Dunedin for a couple of years on this large building contract. With not much big boat sailing around, I thought, “Why not give laser sailing a shot?” How hard could it be, right?

My first race started off pretty well. I was feeling like a pro until the second beat. Suddenly, I found myself drifting to the back of the fleet, slower than a snail on a lazy Sunday. To add insult to injury, the other sailors, who were barely out of their teens, started calling me “Grandad.” At the ripe old age of 30, no less!

Well, that did it. My competitive spirit kicked in, and I decided to show these young pups a thing or two. I trained like a man possessed for the next couple of months, channelling my inner Rocky Balboa.

Fast forward to the South Island nationals. There I was, ready to prove that age is just a number. And guess what? I won! Take that, whippersnappers! Grandad still has some tricks up his sleeve.

Back in the days when Russell was starting his match racing career, I managed to sneak on board for a series as the main trimmer. We were sailing the nearly indestructible Stuart 34 yachts, built so robustly that they could probably survive a collision with a small iceberg.

The most memorable time was during a match race when we were circling our opponent. Suddenly, the boat went eerily quiet, and the usual crew chatter stopped. As the main trimmer, I was facing aft, standing in the cockpit, ready to trim at speed during the circling. Noticing the sudden silence, I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see the side of the large wooden committee boat looming towards us like a scene from a slow-motion disaster movie.

Bang! We T-boned the committee boat right amidships. We did our penalty circles and finished the race with a bent pulpit, looking like a boat that had just survived a bar brawl. The committee boat, however, wasn’t so fortunate and had to retire for repairs to avoid sinking. I guess you could say we left a lasting impression!

After a successful Kenwood Cup series in Hawaii, I found myself on a mission to deliver a yacht back to New Zealand, accompanied by two other boats. As tradition dictates, we celebrated crossing the equator with a few rums. Everything was going swimmingly until we heard a loud bang—the D1 stay had broken.

We quickly turned around to make the repair. Two brave souls volunteered to go up the mast. After what felt like an eternity (and many colourful complaints about sore private parts), they finally descended, proudly announcing the repair was complete.

We set course for home again, only to realize we had to cross the equator once more. Naturally, this called for another round of rums. By the time we finally made it back, we were seasoned sailors with a newfound appreciation for mast repairs, a slightly skewed sense of direction, and a well-earned reputation for being the most hydrated crew on the high seas!

Frustrated with having a broken mast at the beginning of the Fiji to Guam leg of the 3-leg race, Auckland to Fukuoka, our crew decided to channel our inner Kiwis and take it out on each other in a game of Coconut football. Because, you know, nothing says “team bonding” like a few broken toes and bruises!

We Kiwis are known to be good rugby players, so naturally, we thought, “Why not use a coconut as the football?” The result? Well, let’s just say the coconut held up better than our toes did. By the end of the game, we had more bruises and scrapes than a rugby team after a championship match. But hey, a few beers the next day worked wonders—who knew hops and barley were the ultimate cure for coconut-inflicted injuries?

Despite our coconut calamity, we went on to win the next leg by a good margin. Maybe the secret to our success was the extra agility we gained from dodging coconuts!

While sailing back from Hawaii in a group of three boats, we decided to stop off in Tonga for some much-needed R & R. One of our crew members, who seemed to have a knack for finding the most obscure places, knew of a café/bar in a remote area up in the hills. So, naturally, we trekked up there, hoping for some fun and maybe a few drinks.

The café was a hidden gem, run by some expat French folks who also happened to be the house band. After a few beverages (okay, maybe more than a few), some of our crew got brave and asked if we could play some tunes. Who would have believed we had such hidden talent in our crew?

I ended up on percussion, which in this case was a sort of tree with bits dangling off it and a brass pipe to hit with some sticks. It was like playing a musical version of Jenga, hoping nothing would fall off mid-song. Despite the unconventional instruments, we managed to put on quite a show. At one point, I think I was playing a solo on a coconut shell while someone else was using a cheese grater as a maraca. Lots of fun and laughter ensued, and we left the café with a new appreciation for impromptu jam sessions and makeshift instruments.

Not my proudest moment, but on my 40th birthday, I was presented with a large cake. Realizing the candles were those trick never-blow-out ones, I decided to take a more… unconventional approach. Armed with a spade, I proceeded to put the candles out. Well, not only did I put the candles out, but I also managed to smash the cake into smithereens.

This, of course, was the perfect cue for an all-out food fight. Fortunately, we were outside. Unfortunately, there was quite a bit of food around, including a half-eaten sheep on a spit. Sailors can be messy at times, and we certainly lived up to that reputation.