A Lazy River Cruise….NOT!!!

I’ve never been so cold in my life, although in Queenstown terms, it’s a relatively balmy morning – five degrees.

Not far from the snow-surrounded city of Queenstown is the Shotover River and not far from the Shotover River is a boating company that takes passengers for little rides up and down the river.

I’m here for a ride on one of their shiny red boats. A river cruise should be nice on a clear blue morning like this – motoring up a deep canyon, taking in the scenery and relaxing as the beautiful hills and valleys of New Zealand’s South Island pass me by.

Yes, very pleasant indeed.

I’m issued with a life vest (mandatory for any aquatic activity) and a black spray jacket that’s more of a coat than a jacket. Maybe they know something I don’t and have heard weather predictions which include rain. Best to be prepared!

As I head to the pebbly banks of the river, the temperature drops even further and the silence of the pristine environment is unnerving. It’s so peaceful, so calm, so serene.

This is what the ads on my tellie have been telling me is 100% Pure New Zealand – quiet countryside, trout-stocked rivers, deep craggy canyons, deafening silence and a backdrop of snow capped mountains. Beautiful!

I stand there in a solitary warming ray of the sun that struggles over the precipice to reach the riverbed. I allow my senses to be assaulted by the wilderness. I breathe in the cold clean air, smell the pungent pines, see the beauty of the autumnal landscape and hear nothing.

Nothing, that is, until the whole damn peaceful bit is shattered by the thunderous roar of a zooming bright flash of colour on the river. A tiny, blurred red dot accompanied by a massive, booming sound appears deep downstream between the serrated rock walls of the canyon. Within seconds it becomes larger and louder as it speeds towards me.

It’s a boat, yes, but no ordinary boat.

As it approaches, the driver circles his index finger in the air and the craft spins in an eye-popping 360 degree circle to the squeals and cheers of its 12 wet and windswept passengers. As it stops, creating a fountain of showering river spray, they jump to their feet shake the water from their coats like dogs in a bath and climb on to relatively dry land. They’ve just completed their thrill ride on one of the most powerful boats of its size in the country – a Shotover Jet boat.

“That’s nice for them” I say smugly, as I notice they’re wearing the same wet weather gear as me. “Their boat must be owned by the same company that owns my river cruiser.”

James, the driver of the jet boat, alights and comes towards my group of fellow passengers.

“Okay, a couple of instructions before we start” he says with a broad grin. “Hang on to the rails at all times, don’t put your hands outside the boat and when you see me do this (he makes the same swirling motion with his hands above his head as he did when he made his dramatic landing a few minutes ago) it means we’re about to do a 360, so hang on tight. Okay, lets go”

Let’s go! Let’s Go! LET’S FREAKIN’ GO! What are you talking about James? I’m doing a gentle river cruise, a Huck Finn sort of thing, something befitting my age. What do you mean “Let’s go”? There must be some mistake.

Apparently not.

I look at the faces of the passengers who have just alighted and they don’t look like the passengers I’ve seen get off any sort of craft, be it a cruise ship or a river barge (definitely not a cruise ship). Their hair’s a total mess their faces are an eggshell white and those that didn’t have gloves on had fingers that looked like steamed dim sims.

And you expect me to do that?

“Look cool, be cool” I say to myself

Cool is easy when you’re freezing.

I go along with the group and instead of walking up the gangway to a polite and dignified boat I thought I was going to cruise on, I crouch on the cold metal seat of the jet boat and hang on to the bar in front of me for grim death.

I’m just about at water level and can feel the cold punishing river beneath me. James, the driver takes his position as he throws a menacing grin to us. He adjusts his goggles and beanie looking like a cross between an aquatic Biggles and Michael Schumacher.

As I get as comfortable as possible, he guns the engine and the jet boat leaps in a sudden jerk upstream like a salmon spawning. Hell hath nor fury than a salmon spawned.

The river is wide and we stay towards the centre building speed and an obscene amount of power. My back arches around the seat behind me as G forces propel me across the water.

“He’s twirling his finger, he’s twirling his finger” I repeat nervously under my frozen breath, anticipating a manoeuvre that will undoubtedly see me at the chiropractor tomorrow.”

Two seconds later, the boat’s in a blinding spin, shooting a wall of white water to the banks. The scenery becomes a blur of blue green and the thrill seeking passengers are yelping. Without slowing, James pushes the boat to the limits and heads back down stream towards the canyon. Towards the rocks. The rocks!

Shotover River is a fast flowing stream that rushes through the bottom of a deep craggy canyon, the walls of which are solid rock – thick, hard, unforgiving, massive rocks that look like an uncarved cathedral.

And James The Intrepid just loves them. He loves them so much he just can’t get close enough. At 85 kilometres per hour he pushes the boat across the surface of the river so close to the rocks I could touch them. I figure they’d make great tombstones but quickly turn my thoughts away.

We dart from one side of the river to the other dodging fallen trees and more rocks at speeds that would make Donald Campbell look like a university oarsman in a regatta.

He’s twirling that bloody finger again!

Another 360 and another shower of river granita covers my face. The watery bullets sting my now frozen face and my skin is stretched in, hopefully, a temporary facelift. (That can’t be too bad)

The standard issue raincoat offers little protection from the water as it’s forced down the back of my anorak, through my gloves, under my hat and deep into places that just shouldn’t be wet. I don’t know if I’m dripping from the river wash or perspiration or anything else but it’s wet, wet, wet.

The ride continues. More terrifying rocks, more water showers, more 360s and more thrills. In a few short minutes we’ve sped nearly eight kilometres down river carving a wake that rises like surf breaks on the riverbanks. Coming out of yet another 360 we head for home but James says he hasn’t heard enough squealing.

“Well just have to move closer to those rocks” he threatens, flashing a fearless and teasing grin.

Great! Why did I choose to sit on the outside seat?

On the downward run we missed them by centimetres but now the clearance is millimetres and I’m so close to the solid walls of canyon I’m sure I could even determine their geological composition if it wasn’t for the speed we were travelling at.

We whiz back up the river and the pontoon quickly comes into vision. As a finale, James throws the boat into another spin and we lose orientation. If I didn’t have my eyes closed against the blinding shards of water or the impending doom of boat meeting jetty, it would all have been a blur.

It’s over and the boat loses its roaring engine noise to be replaced by a gentle pur of a crouching lion. I look like something that’s been on the rinse cycle in a washing machine but I feel great. I didn’t die. I didn’t drown and although I was very wet I didn’t have any accidents, little or otherwise.

And one thing I’m really grateful for is that I didn’t chicken out!

An on location report by Kevin Moloney from Queesntown New Zealand on the opening of Heritage Hotels’ ICON Conference Centre.