Wind whipped spray off the gray surface of the Southern Ocean, howling among the rocks and palms of the coast. The timbers of the Spotless Dove creaked and heaved in the cool weather, despite not even leaving the harbor yet. Rosalie held tightly to the edges of her skirt, watching the water like a hawk.

The town of Wellington sat below a range of great hills that reminded her of folded fabric. The local people said that the hills and rivers were created by their ancestors, giants who carved the earth, and looking at the city today she could believe that. It all looked small from the deck of a ship out in the bay.

The ship rocked to one side, tossing her to the deck. She picked herself up and hurried to the mast, which she held on to as the ship sailed on. Cabin boys and crew hustled around her, pulling on ropes and sails to keep it on course. "Set bearing for the Cook Strait!" roared Howell, the first mate. "Two hundred degrees south-southwest!"

For the next few months, they would no longer be on the North Island, with its cities and towns and jungles, but on the wild South Island. The hills on the South Island were said to be mountains, made of the frozen bodies of ancestors whose boat had capsized in the cold ocean. Soon they would be in the Pelorus Sound, which Rosalie had traced on the map before the journey started. She thought all those funny jagged lines on the paper, land and water all mixed up with each other, looked beautiful. But first they had to survive the gales of the Cook Strait, which had sunk many a ship before.

The Spotless Dove passed between two spits of land that marked the end of the bay, an old lighthouse cutting through the cloudy sky. Out on the open water, the wind grew stronger, and she tasted salt on her tongue when she opened her mouth. Going below-decks during a patch of rough water always made her sick as a dog, so she stayed on the main deck, hugging close to the mast. A tern flying close to the water caught her eye, and a flash of white beneath it. She thought at first that it was the bird's reflection, but it was much too large for that.

The ship lurched beneath her, a particularly large swell hitting its side. Howell, at his post at the stern, checked up on the crew. If the Spotless Dove sunk, would they all freeze to death and become mountains?

Reka, her native friend back in Wellington, had told her that on the South Island some people believed in a water god named Kaikaiawaro, who had guided the first people across the Cook Strait in canoes. They wore little greenstone charms shaped like dolphins to honor him, lest he give them good fishing and safe travels. Rosalie had always liked dolphins. She scanned the water for that flash of white again, and she saw it only in the distance, moving between the waves like a leaf in autumn wind.

The crew chanted and moved the sails around, tacking into the wind for what felt like hours on end. She stayed in her spot, taking in the wonder and the terror and hoping they saw the peaks of Pelorus on the horizon soon. Finally, the wind died down for a brief moment of reprieve and she relaxed, unclenching her fingers and stretching them out ahead.

They still were not out of the Strait yet, or anywhere near Nelson and the South Island. But sailors began to gather on the starboard side, laughing and pointing to the water.

"A dolphin!" exclaimed one. "A white dolphin's been following us!"

"Not following," said Howell, with a smile on his stubbly face. "He's leading us. It's Pelorus Jack! I've heard he's a friendly dolphin who lives in these waters."

No, thought Rosalie, it's Kaikaiawaro, the god of the water. And he'll make sure we have fair weather.