Now, I should clarify that the camouflage theme was entirely ours. We hadn’t been given a special dress code by the Oceans Festival.
It was just us.
The six of us turned up in various amounts of camouflage.
Leaving Northland, the first part of the journey is deceptively straightforward. You head south through Auckland, and eventually you find yourself on that magnificent stretch of motorway that seems to have been designed by someone with an almost pathological fear of corners.
Straight.
Straight.
Straight.
Another straight.
And then, finally, the motorway ends and the fun begins.
From there, the road to Whitianga appears to have been designed by a committee whose only instruction was: “Make sure nobody can see more than 200m ahead.”
Up we went, around one bend, then another, climbing what seemed like an eternal series of hills. Eventually, having reached what I assumed must be the top of the North Island’s highest mountain, we started winding our way back down again.
And down.
And down.
By the time we arrived in Whitianga, the OG Couples were in the mood to be festive.
The Oceans Festival was waiting for us.
One thing I particularly appreciated was that accessibility hadn’t been completely forgotten in the excitement of the festival. There was a wheelchair-accessible portaloo, and, more importantly, it was actually big enough to accommodate my travel-sized mobility scooter.
That may not sound like much to some people, but accessible facilities are rather like good weather – you tend to notice them most when they aren’t there.
Being able to get into a toilet without having to abandon your mobility equipment outside or perform some sort of Olympic manoeuvre to get through the door, makes a surprisingly significant difference to a disabled festival-goer.
Having successfully negotiated the portaloo, the OG Couples could get on with the serious business of the day.
And that was when I realised our camo outfits were slightly out of kilter.
Because the dominant fashion statement wasn’t camouflage.
It was cowgirl and cowboy.
There were an insane number of ranch-style outfits.
Boots, hats and denim shorts.
The golden-hatted cowgirls were particularly impressive.
Meanwhile, we wandered around in camouflage.
It reminded me of Brad Pitt’s recent appearance with Ines de Ramon, where he turned up in a camouflage suit. Oh the swag!
Then came the wind.
A strong southerly blew relentlessly throughout the day. It wasn’t the sort of wind you politely describe as “a bit fresh”.
This was wind with intent.
At one point, a particularly spectacular golden cowboy hat was lifted clean off the head of one of the golden-age cowgirls.
Unfortunately for Jon, the hat didn’t simply blow away.
It collided with his drink.
The drink went everywhere.
Mostly over Jon.
Jon was, understandably, outraged.
Not so much by the drink. Not even by the hat.
It was the complete absence of an apology.
In Jon’s view, if you are going to send a cowboy hat flying through the air and have it knock someone’s drink all over them, there are certain social obligations involved.
An “I’m sorry” would have been appropriate.
Perhaps even a “Goodness, are you all right?”
Instead, there was nothing.
Jon was left standing there, wet, indignant and apparently the victim of a very low budget Western shoot-out.
The rest of the OG Couples, naturally, provided the sympathy and emotional support expected of lifelong friends.
Which is to say, we laughed.
The trip had everything a good festival weekend should have: sunshine, wind, music, questionable fashion choices, excessive consumption and enough food and drink to make the return journey interesting.
Because what goes down to Whitianga must eventually come back up.
And that’s where the road really got its revenge.
The enthusiasm of the journey down had mysteriously disappeared.
Those endless bends, climbs and descents that had seemed almost picturesque on the way there became considerably less charming on the way home.
After two days of overindulgence, some of us discovered that our stomachs were not quite as enthusiastic about the Coromandel’s famous scenery as we were.
The winding road produced a certain amount of biliousness.
Apparently, the exuberance of the journey down is all but matched by the nauseating properties of the journey home.
Still, the OG Couples made it.
A little paler.
A little quieter.
And considerably more appreciative of straight roads.
We came home looking like six survivors of a particularly enthusiastic weekend.
And perhaps that is what the OG Couples do best.
We turn up together, have a bloody good time, look ridiculous, occasionally spill a drink, and somehow make it home again.
Preferably by the straightest possible route.