Bligh Sound is one of the less-visited fiords, and it feels that way. The silence is deeper, the slopes steeper, the sense of isolation more complete. After a long day's motor-sail from Doubtful, we nosed into Amazon Cove, a tight little anchorage at the head of the sound, and dropped the pick. The water was like glass, reflecting the sheer granite walls and the dense, primeval forest that clings to them. We were the only boat, the only sign of human life for miles.

The Great Paua Hunt

With the boat safely stern-tied to a tree, Bruce, ever the hunter-gatherer, announced his intention to find paua for dinner. He donned his wetsuit, grabbed a snorkel, and disappeared into the cold, clear water along the shoreline. An hour later, he returned, empty-handed and shivering.

The failure was noted in the ship's log. His reputation may never recover.

The Sandfly Question

As dusk fell, the true masters of Bligh Sound made their presence known. The sandflies descended in a biblical plague, a buzzing, biting cloud that found its way through every crack and crevice. Doors were shut, hatches sealed, but it was too late. The battle was lost before it began. Bruce, already smarting from the paua incident, retreated into the full-armour-and-hood setup that is the only sane response to a Fiordland sandfly attack.

Dinner & a Quiet Night

Fortunately, our dinner plans did not depend on Bruce's questionable foraging skills. A quick fishing session at the entrance to the sound on our way in had yielded a fine haul of terakihi (Nemadactylus macropterus). Pan-fried with garlic butter, it was a magnificent consolation prize. We ate below decks, listening to the hum of the sandflies outside and the profound quiet of the fiord beyond.

As night settled, the moon rose over the granite peaks, and the fiord fell into a deep, silent peace. No wind, no swell, just the gentle lapping of water against the hull. A perfect, remote, and beautiful anchorage — sandflies notwithstanding.