Whisky at Sea: The Voyage of SV Thistle

Most whisky just sits around doing nothing.
You put it in a barrel, stack it in a warehouse, walk away, come back later, and everyone pretends something mystical happened.

We wanted to see what would happen if the whisky actually went somewhere.

So we took a 200-litre barrel of 1919 single malt, strapped it to the deck of SV Thistle, and sailed it around the North Island of New Zealand for three months.

Not in theory.
Not in a brochure.
Actually on the boat.

No stabilisers.
No controlled environment.
Just rope, weather, and hope.

How It Started (Marcus, Optimism, and Time Estimates)

The plan, and I’m using that word loosely….. was that Marcus would sail the boat up to Houhora ahead of us.
We’d meet him there and start the trip proper.

Marcus is the skipper.
He’s the guy who sold his house, bought the yacht, and learned the rest as he went.
He is confident in a way that makes you a little nervous, until you realise it usually works out because he finally listed to your advise after telling him for the 10th time.

He said,
“It’ll only take about a day.”

We said,
“Mate… no.”

We had to remind him you can’t sail north at highway speed.
He got moving, late, but moving.

On our drive up, we told him the car had broken down and we’d be late and maybe sent him this photo…...

He panicked.
He started calculating currents and fuel and tide and daylight like a man suddenly aware of consequences.

Then we messaged:
“Just kidding, see you soon.”

He didn’t say anything when we arrived.
The silence was loud and it was time for a beer.

The Crew

Once we were all aboard, the lineup was:

Marcus (Skipper): Confident. Capable. Dangerous combination if unmonitored.
Me, Soren (First Mate): The one who knows when we actually need to reef and had spent the last 15 year + sailing.
Jason: Ex-pro motorbike racer turned oyster fisherman. Brave. Until Cook Strait proved otherwise.
Trevor: Ginger. Loves fishing. Caught absolutely nothing. Not one fish. The ocean rejected him.

And then there was the barrel, sitting there like it had seen crews like us before and didn’t expect much.

Cape Reinga at 11:59pM — Not a Storybook Moment

No epic music.
No sunrise.
No drone shots.

Just pitch-black ocean and the sound of water hitting hull.

At some point Marcus says,
“So… pretty sure this is the first time any New Zealand whisky barrel’s been around the Cape.”

We all just went,
“… yeah, probably.”

No high-fives.
Nobody got emotional.

Just sailing.

That’s how most real moments happen.

Down the West Coast — The Barrel Learns to Dance

So we’re 100 miles offshore, boat rolling in that lazy 2-metre swell, lines out mostly just to give the day a purpose.
One goes tight. Then another.
Suddenly we’re all professional fishermen.

Marcus is yelling instructions that have nothing to do with fishing. Watch here on his YouTube channel
Jason is standing there offering moral support like that helps.
And Trevor… is trying.
Trevor always tries.
The fish still want absolutely nothing to do with him.

We get five tuna aboard.
Keep two, because cleaning five on a moving deck would’ve turned us into a murder documentary.

We bleed them, fillet them right there salt water running across the boards, knife just sharp enough, boat rocking like it’s laughing at us.

First bites were “delicious”.

Then we made ceviche in a bowl that 100% was not designed for ceviche.
Lime juice from a bottle of (the cardinal sin of bartending), onion that had been along for the ride a questionable amount of time, and knife work so rough Gordon Ramsay would’ve needed a lie-down.

But it tasted not bad, defiantly the best for at leat 100miles around.

And here’s the best part:

Nobody had service out there.
So when we finally got reception again, phones all pinging at once like a slot machine losing its mind the first thing we learn is:

The storage units next to the distillery got broken into.

Soren just stared at his phone like,
“...Of course they did.”

We’re out there making ceviche on a boat, feeling like kings of the ocean,
and back home someone’s rummaging through lockers like it’s Supermarket Sweep: Meth Edition.

We couldn’t do anything about it.
We were literally in the middle of the Tasman.

So we just looked at the tuna…
Looked at each other…
And went:

“…Well whisky time it is.”

Even the whisky barrel looked like it was judging the situation.
Just rolling with the swell like,
“See? Land life is the problem.”

Cook Strait — The Ocean Has Notes

Forecast says “a bit breezy.”
Which, if you’ve ever listened to marine forecasts, you know translates to:

“Hold onto your arse.”

We’re sitting there with full sail up like geniuses.

Important note:
I (Soren) had already told Marcus to drop the mizzen before the Strait.
Said it clearly.
Said it twice.
Said it the way you say things when you know you’re going to be right later.

Marcus goes:

“Nah, she’ll be right. We’ll just ride it.”

Yeah.
Well.

So we get into it and the wind goes from “friendly breeze” to 35 knots and gaining in about twelve seconds.

Water’s coming over the bow, deck’s soaked, everything is loud.
Everyone’s clipped in like we’re filming a safety video.

And Jason — ex-pro motorbike racer, crash survivor, tough as nails, immediately turns into a human koala and clamps himself to the Bimini pole

Just wrapped around it.
Eyes closed.
Silent.
Performing the ancient ritual of “I will not throw up, I will not throw up, I will not throw up.”

Meanwhile, Marcus is at the wheel doing that thing where you pretend you are calm while your internal organs are filing divorce paperwork.

Boat’s surfing down swell she has no business surfing.

And I’m sitting there with a beer, just:

“Hey mate.
We should have dropped the mizzen.”
“Hey mate.
Turn to port or we’re gonna surf into that reef.”
“Hey mate.
Maybe reef now?
Maybe right now.
Like this second.”

Marcus is giving it the classic skipper line:

“Nah nah, it’s all good.”

It was not all good.

Boat’s heeled, Jason’s basically in prayer, Trevor is somewhere in the background still failing to catch fish, and the barrel is just sitting there like:

“I’ve seen worse.”

But, we got through it.
Eventually got the mizzen down.
Eventually bore off.
Eventually stopped testing the Lord.

The Storm & The Sounds

A proper storm rolled up with 70+ knots, so we ducked into the Marlborough Sounds and rode it out.

Made coffee.
Made more coffee.
Made sundowner coffees with 1919 First Light, brown sugar, and cream because sometimes morale is more important than tradition.

At some point we realised the engine leak wasn’t “a leak” it was “the engine telling us its final goodbyes.”
Got a replacement in Wellington.

At no point did we consider turning around.

The Sail Home

With a new engine in Wellington Sv Thistle was ready to continue again up the coast we went via Tauranga and the Coromandel before slipping back into Auckland.

Three months at sea changes your idea of “a big deal.”

So What Happened to the Whisky?

When we cracked the barrel:

No mysticism.
No marketing language.
Just nose, taste, done.

The whisky had depth.
Warm oak, dried citrus, honey, and the tiniest hint of ocean, not salt, just air that has been somewhere.

It didn’t taste like whisky that sat still.

It tasted like whisky that had lived a bit.

This Is New Zealand Whisky

Not Scotch.
Not pretending to be Scotch.
Not trying to behave.

This is whisky that went around the North Island on the deck of SV Thistle with:

A skipper who trusts the boat
A first mate who checks the weather twice
A tuna lunch 100 miles offshore
An engine that gave up in Wellington
A storm that tried to impress us
And Jason learning the hard way that Cook Strait does not care about your résumé

This is whisky for the adventurous.

Not for shelves.
For stories.

Make sure to watch the round the North Island sailing antics here: Sv Thistle