To Raglan and Back

I overslept and woke up around 11 a.m. Missed the bus to Raglan. But, 'no worries,' as they say--the commuter coach runs several times daily.

"Sorry, it's the school holiday period and buses run on a special, inconvenient schedule," the hostel owner informed me. A quiet panic caught fire in my chest, heating me up under my Patagonia fleece. I had a job to do, a schedule to keep.

The hostel owner noticed my mini panic-attack and offered to shuttle me to the outskirts of Hamilton. From there I could hitch a ride to Raglan. "It's very hitchable," he assured me. I accepted the offer and wondered if his generosity had anything to do with the fact that yesterday I had introduced myself as a Let's Go New Zealand research-writer.

I stood where he dropped me off, in front of a golf course parking lot. I extended my thumb. After several false alarms from arriving golfers, a red hatchback running at full throttle flew by me, only inches from my hopeful digit. A hundred feet down the road, the vehicle lost speed and, with a jerk, spun around with a decisive U-turn. The car accelerated toward me and came to a halt in the unpaved parking lot. I jogged over to the driver's window and asked, "Raglan?" The kid driver with hair in his eyes gave a nod and said, "Sweet as."

I opened the door, stepped into a mound of McDonald's garbage and then wedged the rest of my body into the car, up against the surfboard which ran diagonally through the interior. Kid Driver's precious board travelled in a silver cushioned bag. (He later told me the surfboard cost more than the car itself.) Once I managed to close the door, he hit the gas and we pulled onto the pavement, Dukes of Hazzard style, with a plume of dirt behind us. I fastened my seatbeat.

The one lane road to Raglan, State Highway 23, ran through typically beautiful New Zealand countryside--gorgeous green hills spotted with sheep. The road wiggled its way toward the sea, through Mt. Karioi and Mt. Pirongia, two volcanoes which may or may not be active. My eyes were on the road--SH23's blind corners and steep drop-offs made me nervous and Kid Driver was trying to go faster. He passed three cars in one burst of bravado. I remembered the hostel owner mentioned that the trip to Raglan takes about 55 minutes. When I ran this estimate by my friend he just laughed and pointed to the car we were passing and said, "yea, if you're driving like that."

Kid Driver was a first-year student at Waikato University in Hamilton. He also worked in the Pak N' Save grocery store in town as a stock clerk. This morning he woke up late and wanted to have a quick surf in Raglan before work--his afternoon shift began in three hours. But he said he might blow off his job if the waves in Manu Bay were massive. To squeeze in surfs, he and his mates would sometimes drive the length of SH23 six times in the same day.

After about 35 minutes we were there. He dropped me off in town and I thanked him with an clumsy "cheers." I looked at my watch and surveyed the town. Raglan--or Raglan-by-the-sea--was compact enough for me to cover in about 2 hours. As a Let's Go Researcher-Writer I had come to appreciate the art of bagging an entire town--updating "Practical Information," "Accommodations," "Food," "Sights and Activities"--in one furious swoop. So I consulted my wad of Let's Go documents and headed off to do Raglan, my after noon shift.

A few hours later, Raglan was up-to-date and I was cruising back to Hamilton. I hated to leave the quiet, beachside town but duty--and my breakneck itinerary--called. I caught a ride with two eccentric young woman who drove a green, vintage Austin Freeway, a handsome retrocar that struggled on SH23's steep bits.

From the backseat of the Freeway I thought of Kid Driver--would he get back to Hamilton this afternoon and get to his job? I would. Maybe the surf on Manu Bay would keep him in Raglan and he'd blow off Pak N' Save for the set of waves that he'd come looking for. I hoped so.

Jonathan S. Paul '00 is editor of Fifteen Minutes, the weekend magazine of The Crimson.