12 Foot Nothing

Wednesday/Thursday, May 30/31, 2012. Whangamata, Coromandel Peninsula.

Three weeks. For three weeks they were waiting. Chanting. Calling on Tangaroa to work his magic. And nothing. Nothing. Inverted swell. No one was walking on water. Flat as.

It came creeping on the horizon from the east. A rolling. A heaving. A green and blue looming. The swell of the year had finally arrived.

Anyone who could was out the back, ordering up their own private waves of the day from the bar. Anyone who couldn’t was at risk of drowning in the rapid-fire, eight-wave set, double-overhead conditions.

At mid-low tide late Wednesday afternoon, the waves were breaking at Clarke Island. By 9 am Thursday morning, the channel was closing out. By 4pm, the beach was nearing its limit. Club shred was on the loose and amazing spectators with their awesome manoeuvers along the heavy walls of water.    

So might read a rather poetic report of the surf at Whangamata these last two days, from the safety of the beach.

Tangaroa, God of the Sea. By Rongo Tuhura.

As I made my way into the water in the 6ft conditions Wednesday afternoon, I was speeding through the whitewater section and rapidly approaching the last hurdle: the booming, watery curtain that marked entry to the undulations of the open sea. My pride was high, I was doing it, bro! and besting a couple of dudes who were haplessly paddling to nowhere. And then ...

The breaker seemed to leap up out of nowhere, growing bigger and bigger. It appeared ridiculous, dumpy, and unforgiving. Although I’ve been challenged by waves of this size before, at that moment finding myself face to face with a huge green monster set while belly-down on a flimsy piece of foam and glass set my nerves on overdrive.

A split second decision in favour of fear set in motion a bad sequence of events. My paddling slowed to a crawl. My eyes were too wide. My brain was taking over. I made a half-hearted attempt to duck dive. I was too slow. I did not go deep enough. The wave had its late lunch.

I was ripped off my board, sucked up, swirled around, dumped, tumbled, and held down. I came up for air only to have just enough time to gulp down some oxygen and dive deep under the next wave. And so on for three more 6ft shots of dense liquid horror.

In the past, when confronted with this scenario, there was only ever one option for me in my striving, competitive way ... work harder, dive under, and push forward to freedom because I could always rest out the back, and receive serious kudos from the boys!

But I was caught in the impact zone called HESITATION. Boom! Boom! Boom! “Out the back” kept getting farther and farther away. On and on I tumbled like a rag doll, waiting for the light to appear, waiting to take the next breath, telling myself not to panic. Which of course made me start to panic.

With panic comes loss of oxygen, reduced lung capacity, bad desicion-making, and fatigue. Check, check, check, and check.

I was tiring out, I couldn’t get a good breath, and at this point there was only one thing on my mind: land.

I went into survival mode. Between waves I managed to grab my board, hop on and boot it to just beyond where the wave was coming down. I made for shore, borne aloft on metre-high white foam. The wave reformed behind me, and with much more kick than I thought it would have, threw me up on shore. Gasping for air and yelling “oh my God!”, snot everywhere, and eyes bugged out, I was a poster-girl for “not a good look” and duck-dives gone wrong. Did it mean something that on my way out of Auckland I was behind a transport bus that advertised the grim consequences of summer drownings for New Zealand families?

Before I went out into that near-epic Whangamata swell I said to myself:

“Man, I’m going to get destroyed out there!”

Oh dear reader, beware! Tangaroa is listening, and he loves to take the piss.

FYI: wave heights in NZ are reckoned on the “Hawaiian” system whereby the measurement is taken from the back of the wave to the crest, not the wave face from trough to peak. Face height is generally reckoned in reference to a surfer’s anatomy while standing on a wave, i.e. waist-high, chest-high, overhead, double-overhead, etc. Also, surfers are notorious for exaggerating wave heights to make themselves look like heroes. Except Laird Hamilton and his crew, of course. But seriously, they were 6ft waves. Huge. OMG! And I have more work to do .... Click here for resources on water safety relating to surfing!

Why New Zealand?

Everywhere I go in New Zealand I am asked the same few questions over and over again as a function of not sounding quite like a Kiwi. "Where's your accent from?" "What do you do?" "How long are you down for?" Canada. Surf. Forever. Or something like that. But the king FAQ (an acronym begging to be said five times fast) is

"Why New Zealand?"

Sometimes saying "because I love it" satisfies people. It seems to make them all squishy inside. For variety sometimes I say, "I've spent a lot of time here over the years and I love surfing and I have friends and family here so I figured why not".

Occasionally such general answers are not enough. They certainly did not work for the couple from the Waihi SPCA who, after listening to my spiel on the dunes at Whangamata recently, turned to me and said, point blank, "Oh come on! give us the real story!". Bloody hell. Clearing my throat for the long haul, I began.

"Well, it all begins like so many tales ..."
"Let me guess", said the man, "it had two legs!"
"THE END!" I exclaimed. At this point the missus leaned in a little closer.
"And?! And?!" You could almost hear the wedding bells in her tone. The kids. The beach house. The ...
"Oh, no, unfortunately that turned to custard, as you say. But I kept surfing, and I kept New Zealand!"
They loved it. They ate it up. I'm thinking of going on tour with that line.
"GOOD ON YOU!" they offered up in unison. Which, in New Zealand, is the equivalent of receiving the largest gold star or slap on the back you can imagine. And I'll take it!

The Meeting Point (Cape Reinga)

A sacred spot of ocean where the Tasman and the Pacific become one, but not without a fight! "Antipathy, dissimilarity of views, hate, contempt, can accompany true love" -- Marshall McLuhan.

It's true though. If someone had come to me years ago and said "Junior Kinipela, in x years you will be a surfer living in New Zealand!" I would have said get lost, what are you talking about, and I would have gone back to my dance studio or falling asleep in the library. I consider myself to have been very lucky, because if it weren't for meeting a Kiwi bloke in Toronto, and accepting his totally mental, repeated invitations to come down to New Zealand in the first place, I wouldn't be here at all. Well, I might have gone to New Zealand via Australia and paid a shitload of cash to see dolphins or something like that in the Bay of Yawns like everybody else. But likely that would have been it.

My first and true Kiwi home: Whangamata (Coromandel Peninsula)

Instead, I got a crash course on what it means to live the Kiwi life. Three hours after landing at the tin shed known as the Auckland Airport, I was in the ocean at Whangamata learning to dive UNDER the waves in what was, for me, tsunami conditions. Thank God for my quick-thinking Kiwi bloke who had no idea my lack of ocean education! Anyway, from that point on I was chucked into every conceivable water scenario and was taught to survive. Plus, I've made loads of new friends, and made real, unbreakable bonds with members of my "long lost" and "long distance" family in the Land of the Long White Cloud!

Who can argue with environmental conditions like these? Rarawa Beach, Far North, NZ

Now, six years later, I have travelled from Cape Reinga to Invercargill, from Raglan to Gisborne, Greymouth to Christchurch, been down every metal road in Northland and the East Coast looking for surf, sometimes hitting a sweet spot.

Whananaki South, Far North, NZ ... a sweet, sweet spot with a HORRIFIC metal road!

Whananaki South to Whananaki North: another horrifying metal road moment brought to you by Land Transport NZ

The Kiwi bloke and I never quite got around to getting it together, but that's life. And so, when next I'm asked, "Why New Zealand?", I will confidently declare: "Love". Full stop, no qualifiers. Because God knows it's the greatest thing, and you never know what it will bring you!

The Real Kiwiana

Marketeers in New Zealand would lead you to believe that "Kiwiana" is best expressed in media like kauri (big-ass-tree wood), paua (abalone shell), and pounamu (greenstone), and consists of patterns derived from koru (fern), Tiki (bug-eyed Maori deity), hei matau (fish hook), kowhaiwhai, roimata, toki ... the list goes on. 

Hei matau FAIL!

Koruesque

Kowhaiwhai-ish

Red, black, and white. Merino wool. Possum fur. But these "takeaway" versions of Kiwiana are strictly tourists-only. As all the Chinese souvenir manufacturers know.

The REAL KIWIANA (RK) for New Zealanders by New Zealanders is of a different stripe. With great humour and sentimentality, Kiwi ad-men have used it as a powerful weapon in the battle for the hearts and minds of the NZ consumer. Nothing says "NZ" like Lemon and Paeroa, or L+P, a pop made in the one-horse town of Paeroa in the Waikato. There is lemon in it. So obviously .... Anyway, the following ad packs in more RK per second than any other I can think of, and is anthropologically significant. For the tourist or foreigner, this ad will tell you more about NZ than any Lonely Planet book, or a trip to the Waitomo Caves.

Even this example of RK is just a little too slick. 

Much of the RK is hidden out of the way from the average tourist. The following humble artifacts are pure RK, and are found in just about every Kiwi bach and home the length and breadth of NZ. 

"Would you like a hot drink?"

Kitchen items are among the artifacts that most pointedly declare a Kiwi home a Kiwi home. Nothing says "New Zealand" like the brown glass mug. Basically, if you haven't been served a "hot drink" (aka tea, coffee, milo, hot water) in one of these babies while in NZ, you are well and truly out of the loop, and are likely some manner of social outcast.

Wash, dry. Cold, hot. No rinse.

For the North American accustomed to two sinks (and one tap!) the Kiwi kitchen sink is a stretch of the hygienic imagination. If you're eating in NZ, you're also ingesting the residue of last night's meal along with the dish soap! I love, however, the seamless metal sinks and counters! It makes cleaning up such a treat! 

Where the NZ cutting board lives.

You know when you have to ask where the cutting board is? Not so in NZ. The NZ cutting board lives on top of the two taps. Almost without variation. Only posh people put it away in a cupboard. Which is likely something Dad knocked up in ten minutes from old fruit crates 20 years ago to store the pots and pans after Mum decided enough was enough.

I wear my sunglasses at night -- and not because I'm cool.

I have noticed that people from islands and the Mediterranean tend to like overhead lighting. What's more, they seem to enjoy the glare and oppression of bare bulbs. Incandescent, energy-saver, flourescent, whatever. I reckon they are trying to replicate the glare and oppression of the high-noon sun at the height of summer. On the other hand, people from more northern and continental climes seem to love soft lamp-lighting that creates safe, cocoon-like spaces out of the evening dim. I reckon this is in replication of a low-slung, weak sun and the effects of candles and fire-light. A visit to the average NZ home has all the ambiance of an interrogation room at a police station. I end up with something akin to snow-blindness after 15 minutes, and am frequently found shielding my eyes with my hand or my arm. It tends to make me squirm in my seat too. I have decided that, along with huge puffy wool socks, a parka, and a toque (to combat inclement indoor house temperatures), I am going to start wearing a visor and sunglasses at people's houses. For the love of God, people, I'm no mole, but buy a damn lamp!

Of course I've left out so much. But I hope this small glimpse into the untapped RK inventory gives you some idea of New Zealand and New Zealanders beyond bungee jumping in Queenstown and pohutukawa tchotchkes!

A Small World After All

My last night in my hometown of Pickering, Ontario, Canada was not what I had planned. I had envisioned a calm cruise into the sunset and clear sailing upon sunrise. After farewelling beloved family and friends who had come to farewell me at my leaving party, I got back to "packing". But it was more like I got back to "panicking".

Holy crap! I was really doing it! I was moving to New Zealand! All chips in! We don't do things in half measures around here! Plane leaves in twelve hours!

Your ship will come in eventually, Kinipela!

When the evening came, all the bravery and courage in the world could not help me. And any bravery and courage I had -- which everyone declared me to possess in spades -- drained away. Excitement mutated into dread. Even though this would be my fourth journey to NZ and I knew what was waiting for me (sun! beach! surf! woo hoo!), I felt freaky, foolhardy, and flummoxed. It felt more and more as though I were about to walk an extended gang-plank that reached over the North American continent, clear across the Pacific Ocean. This, only to be dropped from a fantastic height somewhere downunder and over a bit on some random, floating specks near Antarctica, where life is rumoured to exist. Although outwardly I seemed to be having a crisis (aka a really really huge tantrum) about which bikini to take along among my 23 kgs of immigrant goods, I was utterly and truly wondering what the hell I was doing. It seemed insane. Canada was all around me, safe, secure, and not adrift in the middle of a vast sea. It's one thing to live on the shores of the Great Lakes. It's one thing not to be able to see the other side of Lake Ontario. It's one thing to live in a country with the world's largest coastline. But this adventure gave whole new meaning to the Canadian motto, a mari usque ad mare. God help me!

The Great Lake Ontario

Sleep was difficult. I clung to my sheets and every so often would start in memory of what was coming. With each realization I emitted a kind of groan, as though the world were dissolving around me. The ship of my bed was rolling on uncertain waters. The urge to heave-to, bury myself in the hull and wait out the whole ordeal was tempting. Were I a different kind of person, I am almost certain I would have jumped ship. Pulled the plug. Aborted mission. It was that awful a night. It was the gurgling of a soul drowning in a body that was made of holes.  

Nevertheless, on the morning of February 19th, 2012, despite serious misgivings and a good dose of "WTF", I said good bye to mum and dad at Pearson International Airport and in what seemed like the blink of an eye, I was in LAX. Because I was flying through the USA, there was no opportunity to linger with my parents and get used to my imminent isolation exercise. US Customs and Immigration/Homeland Security is in your face the second you check in for the flight. With what felt like a sudden wrenching before time, I burst into the uncontrollable tears of a small child who fears their unseen mother has been swallowed whole by the mysterious and dangerous aisles of a huge department store, never to return. I was, perhaps, reenacting a classic scene of immigration. 

Somehow, through the whole process of applying for NZ residency and planning for my grand departure, my logical mind had convinced me -- as I think it has convinced us all -- that it's no big deal to pick up, jump on a plane, and move to another country. Skype! Email! SMS! Holograms! Global Village! Transferable Skills! English! It's a small world after all!

Whatever. I know from experience that when you are in a foreign land, feeling lonely, looking out on some bizarre landscape that's not your own, listening to languages or accents that continually mark you out as alien, making due with what's to hand even if it's a passable approximation of what you know and love, it is hard not to pine for the comfort of the presence of friends and family who, if the world weren't so damn huge and if we hadn't made it even huger, would be just up the road. And Skype does not cut it! Skype cannot give you a hug and a cup of tea and say, "there there, it will get better". It drops calls and tells you your signal is inadequate.

But somewhere over the International Dateline, the tides turned for me. Those awful feelings of foreboding, finality, and plain, animalistic fear evaporated. Although nothing really prepares you for how you will really feel when you take the initial plunge into unknown seas, somehow by facing it head on you realise how often fear is simply a prelude to amazement and fulfillment. Just as I hadn't really known how sad I would feel leaving my "home" behind, I hadn't really known how amazing it would feel to enter New Zealand as a resident, not a foreigner, and be welcomed "home" by the immigration officer! She must have got a third-degree burn from the beams of joy radiating from me! What a triumphant moment it was for me to present my Canadian passport with the stylish, blue sticker in it that declared me a resident of New Zealand ... indefinitely!

Haere mai! Haere mai! Haere mai!

Welcome indeed!

Six years of waffling, one year of forms, hoops, loops, fees, interviews, examinations, blood tests, x-rays, photocopies, true copies, original copies, fingerprints, RCMP clearance, emails, phonecalls, planning, banking, 20 hours of flying, 23 kgs of summer clothing and $5 in my pocket  later ... this Canadian girl made it to Auckland by the grace of God and her own steam. 

And the first thing I did in my new country of residence was run outside, breathe in that salt sea air, kiss the ground, and say AMEN!

It is a small world after all.