They came in all shapes and sizes, colours and conditions. Some looked like they'd seen better days - some were as flash as a rat with a gold tooth - some were never going to make any impact on the proceedings. A few hadn't been seen for a while, some we wished never to see again, while others were clearly washed up has-beens from another era. And that was just the boards!
In the two years since the last nationals, I'd lost all heart for competition and had spiritually progressed to a place where kiting was less of a pissing contest and more of a convenient way to clean off the dirt from a weekend's DIY session. Nevertheless, keen to witness the exploits of the young guns, and support those who actually organise contests, rather than arguing about them, I flew south with a bunch of cronies to gather for the final battle. As we took possession of our 6 berth mondo campervan, I reflected on how times had changed since the first time I went to a Chch kiting comp five years ago. Then, Trumpet and I had both been so broken-assed we were forced to catch a 200 hour train from Auckland and back, sleep in our board bags and beg for food (things may not have changed so much for the Trump but his luck was about to change as we shall see).
But this time the boys were travelling in style! As Gavin pointed our mobile passion wagon in the direction of the all-pervading stench, he muttered: "Now's our chance to blow this contest and head on a five day roadie to Queenstown or Colac Bay". It was a rare flash of brilliance, but alas - he wasn't serious!
Chirstchurch is actually a helluva place for a kiteboarder. There's a solid community of enthusiasts, shops, schools, groupies and manufacturers. There are world class waves, miles of windswept ocean beaches, freshwater lakes and vast deserts of white sand. Despite this, we were soon assembled at the 'pooey'. Many of us were hoping this would be the year sanity would prevail and we would all troop off to anywhere but New Zealand's most embarrassing kiting venue. You are probably already aware of my famously bad attitude toward the place - I would rather kite Chernobyl or Banda Aceh or the Yangtzee River than endure the indignity of more southern shite, diesel and eco-nasties leaching through my gills while trogging on that festering pit. The place stinks, literally, figuratively and comprehensively.
Despite his dishevelled appearance and obvious preoccupation with various controlled substances, my friend (and surprise nationals appearance) the Hippy can sometimes utter unexpected words of wisdom. Baking in the heat of the windless first day he assessed the situation: "Well - clearly we are all insane to be here - so there's nothing for it but to act INSANE!" Yabbering uncontrollably, he then tied the fifth line of his brand new Naish Raven to the back of a commandeered VW beetle and drove round and around the carpark while I videotaped the destruction for the benefit of his long-suffering sponsor.
At the same time, Cindy Mosey was valiantly trying to entertain the crowd with some light wind kiting, with Luca's rambling commentary drifting between the two show ponies. Both spectacles ended in some sort of outrage, then as bizarre as you like, the wind kicked in and most of the fleet got their shit out on the water to 'tune in' to the local 'conditions'. Already well and truly east, I abstained, resolving only to kite the pond if absolutely vital, plus there was serious planning to be done for the night's partying. The night before I left Auckland had been a blinder and we'd polished off a bottle of Mount Gay with the Tauranga boys the following night in our campervan corral, and we were only getting started.
Well aware of my lack of handle-passing prowess, I was determined to make a big impact in the debauchery stakes and with degenerates like Hippy and Shameless in attendance, my trip was sealed in even wierder and more savage ways than I could then appreciate.
Somehow contest organiser Delphine mistook me for someone responsible and charged me with gate-locking duties at the venue. Consumed with partying, the campervan fleet was last to leave and after doing a few donuts in the Isuzu we exited the carpark. Right then a carload of local bogans stomped in and followed our lead, ripping up the turf. "Yahoo!" we yelled in unison. Eventually they tired of their game, sold us some pakololo and buggered off so I could lock the gate.
I can't remember many more details of that night except it was very long, involved many joints - some we danced in and others we set fire to etc. Needless to say we did not stumble upon a single nationals competitior in half a friday night of grovelling around the city splashing money around in return for bourbon and champagne and the affections of scarlet women.
Unlike my head, the next day rose still and clear, and we arrived late back at the estuary for more entertainment. The Hippy was lost to the night and to be honest, completely forgotten, but was eventually found lying in a ditch with pockets bulging with nitrous oxide and other paraphenalia, claiming amongst other unbelievable tales to have been abducted and taken to a 'nos' lounge. We slapped him around and started to manhandle him toward the noxious estuary mudflats to ceremoniously make him one with the poo but the tide was out and he was kind of heavy and we lost interest and went back to our bunks for a while.
Next thing I knew, there was a kiting contest on and we were sent out in massed 15 man heats for 20 minutes at a time. Struggling to get pop under our biggest kites, we mooched around in the time honoured fashion, leaping and skipping like deranged spinner dolphins. At some stage, I lost my hat and spent the rest of the heat trawling downwind for it, much more interested in its safe return than kiting on the pooey. The point of the heats, i believe was to shake down the losers from the gimps, apparently it didn't work as I was through to the NEXT ROUND AND ON MY WAY TO KITING GLORY!
Round two was a little windier but still as gay as the gayest session you've ever had on your biggest kite on dirty flat water. As is my custom, I started well in the four man heat, then got smashed in some ill-concieved kiteloop, lost my upwind advantage, any remaining dignity and spent the rest of the 8 minutes trying to get back to the beach. As always, I was up against Trumpet, who spent well over half his time re-launching his kite, Tim who was asleep in his van for most of the heat, and Kelby Bright whose father and uncle were the judges. Needless to say, the road to glory had come to an abrupt end for Tim and myself - veterans of many contest sagas both good and bad.
Stoked to be under no pressure to kite on the pooey again, I rinsed the sewage from my barely warmed up body, got dressed and started watching the proceedings from a fresh perspective, less as an insane accomplice and more as a startled onlooker at an all-in prison riot.
Sitting out the business end of the contest allowed me to get the party inside my head started and really try to wrap it around what was going on pooside. Clearly, the youngsters who were doing well at the nationals a couple of years back were doing even better, landing 20 foot air passes and kitelooping like it was child's play. Paul Jackson, (allegedly a kiwi exile but he sure sounds like an ocker) was far and away the standout at slim chances and KGBs (front and back rotations with bar passes). Heat after heat he would grind upwind past the judges, then start edging the other way, unhook, bear off, suddenly get pop and do something fancy upside down while switching hands on the bar. He was always very composed and seemed fully at home doing his tech tricks on flat water. Less composed but just as ballsy and technically advanced were Aaron Smith, Andrew Twenion and the irrepressible Pithcaithly bros.
From where I sat there was another group of challengers, who were throwing down solid routines, all of which included some bar-pass trickery. Someone had to lose and I agreed with the judges that this group probably deserved to end up seventh equal, a mix of old school legends like Kane, Gavin and Andy plus a few upwardly mobile groms; Matt, Jaime and Kelby.
There followed some incredibly complicated series of heats that saw the top five kiting against each other over and over, then Paul and Trumpet kiting against each other over and over.
Despite its many downers, the Christchurch estuary sure knows how to keep the wind pumping for a contest - I guess this is one of the reasons our hard-working contest organisers dig the place. For the finals, the tide was going out, and the wind had cranked up a couple of notches. The setting sun provided perfect lighting for us rubberneckers as we sat and examined the styles of the two remaining warriors. If it hadn't reeked of open latrines, the scene could almost have been poetic.
Mad Dave, the athlete formerly know as Trumpet had earlier admitted to me, he was surprised to make it past the second round, but suddenly he was head to head against one of the most accomplished riders to ever set fin in this country. Both of them had been banging away all day with their set routines, and by now we all knew their moves off by heart.
Trumpet has always cut an impressive figure on the water, charging hard with superpowered kiteloops and his own style which can be summarised as: a man on a mission to ram his lower leg bones through his kneecaps. To my knowledge he has never even tried an airpass on the water, and is in fact permanently shackled to his chicken loop making unhooked moves of any ilk very difficult. On the other hand he is a born performer and the more cameras you point at him, the harder, lower and faster he will spin. I found myself wanting him to lose, but secretly hoping he beat the aussie.
Technically, there was no denying Paul's superiority, but as the final played out, it was hard to ignore Dave's performance and when Paul finally lost control of his kite toward the end, the Trump was the last man standing and made the most of it. Days later, we learned the judging panel had chosen homegrown low-tech aggression over hi-tech progression.
So there it was, a round of single elimination flat water freestyle had determined everyone's destiny for another year. Big losers were; old guys, aucklanders and slingshot riders (three categories I fitted into nicely). Big winners were; young guys (thank god - it would be embarrassing for the sport if the same old goons kept getting TV time), southern men and north kites, and of course the Trumpeter who has always been in a category of his own.
But did I care? Hell no, I was stoked to take advantage of the campervan's hot shower, wash the poo off for the last time of my life and get ON IT!
As losers will do, my companions and I immediately comsumed our entire stash of stimulants which included all the usual party favourites plus liberal doses of nos painkillers administered by the hippy and his trusty balloon. When we were sufficiently merry, we made our way to Sumner's Club Bazaar for the night's planned entertainment. This soon degenerated into body shots, with Su Kay and Hippy sharing body fluids much to the amusement of all and the horror of Decay. Kiting dvds lit up the big screen and everyone was full of aloha - the boys were on fire!
Apparently the proceedings had taken their toll on my judgement because when offered a couple of different party pills - from the Hippy and Murrell, I knocked them back with stiff bourbon and cokes and carried on my merry way as if I was a hardened rave freak, and not a staunch chemical virgin. Cautionary note: never let either of those two characters direct your pharmaceutical intake (Hippy+Murrell+Chemicals=BadIdeax200).
Despite the timebomb ticking away behind my forehead, I felt we were finally in our element, mixing it up with the other kiters who hadn't even glimpsed our form of the preceding nights. We caused general chaos, absorbed some young German backpackers into our group and soon there was only one thing for it: BACK TO TOWN! Hyundai sponsor Quintin was a willing driver and we soon had him at the wheel of our massive camper with a large assortment of tweakers on board, partying to my Ipod, which we were sending through the car stereo (until a regrettable incident involving Shane Murrell, lots of shouting and a blown fuse). But soon the Hippy had the van re-wired and to the tunes of Micheal Jackson's Billy Jean, the girls were loosening up and we were unstoppable!
We were just outside the city on the edge of the estuary stench zone when the drugs began to take hold. I had an overwhelming desire to run through the streets, bounce in and out of clubs, grin, dance, yell and generally behave like a yahoo in a mob of wild animals - all at once! I didn't need alcohol or drugs (though the odd nos hit was acceptable), I didn't need kiteboarding, I didn't need anything or anyone! Except water, jugs of icewater, gallons and gallons of precious water. It became my passion. Whenever we entered a new club, I would barge through the crowd and drink the bar dry of all water stocks before breaking into a cold sweat and needing more water. Despite this obvious hang-up I seemed to be functioning OK, communicating with my companions, getting all stimulated and generally chewing up the night.
This kind of thing went on for quite some time until Thomas the tanked engine scared the women away, and various other regrettable events forced us to admit defeat and regroup at our camper several hours before dawn. Parked back on Sumner beach (after a couple more nos hits) everyone turned in for the night, understandably whipped after a day of kiting and nights of mayhem. Not me, I was way too wired for sleep and as I lay on my bunk, the full enormity of my overdose kicked in.
There was so much going on in my mind, I didn't know where the hallucinations started and the memories of the day stopped. The only certain thing was my urgent need of a stomach pump but I was too paranoid to get myself to a hospital. Whenever I closed my eyes, I would find myself back on a psychedelic dance floor with a massive mural of the guy off the zig zag packets on the wall. Sometimes, I was sure it was Osama Been Kiting, then suddenly the Hippy's face would appear asking if I needed more nos. I slept not a wink, tortured by strange delusions, Brad's nocturnal activities in the forward cabin and other unmentionables until mercifully the sun eventually rose.
It was the calmest morning yet and I plunged into the ocean, taking time out to listen closely to the chirping crickets who were trying to communicate with me (one of the lethal cocktail of pills I had ingested was all about extra sensory perception). At least there would be no wind today and we wouldn't have to fester at the pooey. Wrong again! Quickly the wind built and it was clear that this would become a truly fantastic day at one of the nearby beaches - a chance for young and old to get out amongst a bit of motion in the ocean and kite at a place where your girlfriend might actually consider a swim. Unable to rise from a horizontal position myself, I was nevertheless keen to get to a beach and salvage something from the trip.
As always, sane ideas were quickly overruled by the flatwater freaks who one by one were tricked into heading out on the estuary for an all-in best trick contest. Next thing you know it was pushing close to 25 knots and people were going BIG on their 13 metres! What a spectacle: 40 or so seedy souls boosting huge, slamming their kites and feeling free. If only we were at the beach where more proactive types were ripping uncrowded waves on their 9 metres. Be that as it may, the session was a great spectacle, with Paul Jackson proving he had many more tricks in his bag, including some monstrous baton twirling demos. Many riders were unceremoniously blown off the water, including Trumpet who wrote off a kite on the harbour wall, Brad who simply wrote off his kite and much more zany action. Even contest commandant Delphine slipped into my unemployed wetsuit and headed into the fray. It was great to watch! The wind kept building until a man definitely needed his small kite, but everyone just kept holding on, probably too scared to come in to land.
And so another day passed, me still without a second's sleep and starting to face the reality of the impending prizegiving party that night. Fortunately, this last gathering was a subdued affair (by recent standards) and the fire extinguishers stayed on the wall. I drunk several more litres of water, listened to the winner's speeches, skulked back to the camper and tried to get some shut-eye but was rudely awakened by a call from the Hippy who was boarding a plane to Auckland and who needed me to wander around Sumner looking for the tree where he'd hung his wetsuits and harness out to dry, and would I mind bringing them back on the plane with me? Who needs mind-altering drugs with severe kickbacks when you have friends like the Hippy?
Next morning, the rest of us jafas stealthed out of town with our tails firmly between our spanked asses. I gave the estuary the finger as we flew over it and then noticed there was something wrong with my throat - an infection that plagues me to this day - and which I can only blame on my 28 minute kite-in-the-shite session.
Back in the city of traffic with a day off work, I trundled down to Orewa and wouldn't you know it, scored a fully powered 9 metre session in the waves with no crowds, no heats - just pure kiting pleasure. Thanks Hyundai for all the hotdogs but home has never tasted so good.
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