Grey light was seeping into the bay at Owenga when we pulled up in the truck. The boat, the Acheron, was eased out into the waves by tractor and we were away into a sloppy, choppy following sea. An hour and a half of pitching and rolling across Pitt Strait was almost enough to bring my raisin toast back out to meet me but suddenly we were rounding Pitt Island and here we were: on Rangatira. 
Glen, the captain of Acheron, asked if I was ready for the “leap of doom.” What he meant was this: the front landing on the North coast of the island is actually just a massive rocky ledge. He would get the boat as close as he could while we crawled around the wheelhouse to the forepeak. Marlon the deckhand would be there on the bow to help steady us, but when the surging water closed the gap we had to jump. I was not long above the churning water though. In seconds, I was flying onto the rocks but, to be honest, I think Marlon threw me because I was taking too long. 
All our gear came next, the waterproof buckets hurled one by one from the bow. We had arrived on the Black Robin’s island, our home for the next 10 weeks.
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