We made our entry into Milford Sound at first light on the 25th, the fiord opening up ahead of Matariki III's bow like a portal into another world. The mountains were doing their thing — half-shrouded in cloud, peaks catching the first pale gold of sunrise while the water below lay utterly still. Mitre Peak emerged from the haze to starboard, and for a few minutes nobody said a word.

The sound was alive with waterfalls. Every cliff face was running — some as fine white threads tracing impossibly vertical rock, others full-throated cascades that you could hear from a mile off over the engine. After weeks on open water there is something genuinely overwhelming about sailing between walls of stone and bush this close, this tall.

25 February — Afternoon

We anchored in Harrison Cove by mid-morning, though "anchored" understates what was required. The cove drops away viciously — the anchor found purchase on the steep bank in over 50 metres of water, and with the shore rising almost vertically behind us we ran a stern line ashore to hold position. Matariki's transom sat barely 30 metres from the rock face. It is the Fiordland way: there is no gentle shelf here, no gradual shallowing. You commit to the cliff and trust your lines. Once settled it is remarkably secure, and the weather gods delivered an unexpected gift for the afternoon: the clouds burned off and the afternoon turned to brilliant sunshine. The sort of Milford Sound day the tourist brochures promise but rarely provide. Snow-capped peaks burned white against a deep blue sky, the water went from steel grey to mirror green, and the entire crew was suddenly on deck for reasons that had nothing to do with seamanship.

With the tender launched and the wetsuit on, the afternoon demanded a closer look at the waterfalls. We drove the RIB right up beneath the largest fall on the eastern wall — a thundering curtain of white water that drops hundreds of metres in a single unbroken plunge to the fiord surface. Up close the noise is physical. Mist drifts across you like cold rain. The scale only becomes real when you're small and wet and looking straight up.

26 February — Rain, and a Move to Deep Water Basin

The forecast delivered overnight and by morning Milford Sound had reverted to its natural state. A proper Fiordland soaking — cloud sitting on the ridge-lines, the cliff faces running with a hundred temporary waterfalls, rain hammering the deck. It is genuinely spectacular in a different way: dark, almost primeval, the sound narrowed to whatever you can see through the murk. You understand why this place receives 7 metres of rain a year.

During the day we shifted berth, moving from Harrison Cove across to the deep water basin — stern tie again, the same disciplined routine of line to shore and anchor to the steep bank. It suits Matariki well; she holds steady and the position is well protected. While we were at anchor Cam at Fiordland Lodge came through for us in fine style — parts we'd had sent ahead had been accepted at the Lodge on our behalf, and we collected them off the dock. A generous act that only a place like Fiordland, where the marine community looks after its own, makes possible.

With nowhere sensible to go and the wind building at the heads, the decision made itself: batten down and work. The saloon table turned into something between a floating office and a war room. Bruce and the crew spread out across laptops, headphones on, the whiteboard filling up with lists — tasks, boat maintenance items, dive plans, passages south. Matariki III at anchor in a Fiordland storm is a remarkably functional place to get things done. Burled wood, warm lighting, and the sound of rain on the deck above.

27 February — Morning at Anchor

We woke to blue sky and the still-life version of Milford Sound that makes you understand why people have been painting this place for a century and a half and still not captured it. The cove held its mirror reflection until the first tourist tender came through and broke the surface. Mitre Peak sharp and snow-capped to the south. Matariki III swinging gently on her anchor with that particular grace a 68-foot Oyster has when she's at rest.

Three days in Milford Sound and the place doesn't get smaller. Waterfalls that thunder in the rain become silver threads in the sun. Peaks that vanished in cloud reappear each morning like they've been placed deliberately. Harrison Cove is a superb anchorage — well-sheltered, good holding, and deep enough for Matariki's draft with plenty of swinging room. The only interruption is the steady parade of cruise ships and tourist launches heading to the head of the sound, but they hold their lane and by evening the fiord is yours again.

27 February — Fuel Up and Head South

First thing on the 27th we brought Matariki alongside the dock to refuel — one of the few practical conveniences Milford offers, and one worth taking advantage of before pushing deeper into Fiordland where fuel is a memory. Tanks topped, lines cast off, and by mid-morning we were pointing south, the sound opening up astern and the next set of fiords ahead.