Sailing to Whangaroa is easy. The wind is volatile, funneling through the numerous valleys — seven knots of wind then, bam, 20 knots, back to seven. The beamy catamaran just accelerates with only a slight heel and clicks off the miles, carrying us out of the Bay of Islands and north.
We’re in no hurry and drop the hook off the northwest corner of Motukawanui Island for lunch. Except for an aluminum skiff searching for snapper, we have the area to ourselves. The gentle slapping of the waves on the hulls suggests a short afternoon nap is in order.
We find the entrance to Whangaroa Harbour and pick up a mooring at the Kingfish Lodge for the evening. Towers of green peaks lined with evergreens and the occasional palm define this deep harbor. Smells of garlic and butter combined with the soft soulful voice of Dusty Springfield lure us to the Lodge for an unforgettable dinner.
The former army base began hosting anglers from around the world in 1954. It seems to mirror New Zealand in its contrasts and contradictions. A musty, old summer cottage odor clings to the walls and carpet, Bucky (the dog) lounges on the sofa next to the fireplace, while the pool table waits for an all-night session. The slightly shabby atmosphere camouflages the gastronomic delights being concocted by Chef Paul. Duck à l’orange and a sumptuous venison main course certainly were unexpected, and far better fare than the diet of chips and dip Graeme and I practiced on board. 
In the morning we meet lodge owner Roger Cairns, Chef Paul and mate Austin, to head out on New Zealand’s famed marlin fishing grounds. Cairns offers several packages with rooms and charter combos. The foul weather smacks us around a bit and the fishing Gods give us the finger, yet it is still a glorious day on the water.
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