As soon as our heads popped over the dunes we were greeted by the brisk onshore. We did our usual scan of the beach – let’s go left today. Yesterday we went towards the hills and found very little treasure, only a couple of unusually coloured shells.

We headed along the harder wet sand towards the pier. It was about mid-tide and the rippled sand flats were being nibbled away with each surge.

The shore was largely deserted; other than a person in the distance with a dog, there were pink and lime stripes cutting through the choppy swells that belonged to a kite surfer.

As we combed the waterline, an object came into view which rolled about in the surf. It wasn’t the usual log washed down the rivers in flood. This blob was a creature of some sort. And we could not tell if it was alive or dead which was often the case. It appeared bigger than a penguin, a seal, or a dolphin. We took a few steps closer to the dark lump now in the muddy shallows. Once we got close enough, we knew it was different, something we had never seen washed up before.

It was huger than we first thought, about twice the size of dad before he started to shrink. Once we got around a boat length away, we decided that was a safe distance to keep between us and the beast.

It appeared menacing, like a super fat greyish snake. Its head turned towards us revealing a pair of large dark eyes. Next a big set of jaws opened to expose rows of razorlike teeth. We jumped back. One question was answered, but why was it here? Maybe it was sick and dying? Possibly it had been injured or perhaps beaten up by a killer whale.

When the water sucked back, we could see spots on its grey underneath parts. In fact, it had lots of spots. These were its identifying mark, like the red patch on the back of dad’s old leather jacket. The beast was a leopard seal and it had come to Southshore. We glanced at each other with the same thought – it needs help. And quick. 

Home was at least ten blocks away so we headed up the nearest sand dunes and found a track. We ran as fast as our bare feet would allow on the freshly cut marram blades without coming a cropper.

A battered weatherboard bach came into view nestled amongst some bushy ngaios; surely it would have a house phone as most do now. We skipped across the concrete pavers and banged on the faded blue door.

Soon an eyeball stared at us through the peep hole. The door opened a crack and a tall larger lady peered down at us through thick rimmed glasses. Her long brown locks dangled upon a loud flowery dress. She sized us up then welcomed us in. We followed her into the hallway which had more bare patches than carpet. The lounge was cosy with a tatty striped sofa, and an unusual chair was wedged in the corner. The lady directed us to the sofa and we proceeded to tell her about the stranded beast and how it was in trouble.

Straight away she hobbled across the room and picked up the phone book. As she leisurely flicked back her hair, we could see a neck brace. Actually, we noticed all her movements seemed to be in slow motion. She even found it difficult to put her finger in the slots as she dialled the circle around. The lady didn’t speak any quicker either, we would look at each other waiting for her next word as she spoke to someone on the phone. Oddly, she didn’t seem that old. She looked about the same age as mum who is 37, which made it seven years since Dad went away.  

Eventually after the long conversation ended, she told us wildlife rangers would be out this afternoon.

We did a round of high fives and thanked her for the help then turned to leave.

But the lady said to stay for a bit and have a drink after all our good work.  She had recently made champagne, well a type of lemonade really, from the elderflower trees in her garden. We all sat with our plastic cups fizzing. The lady reclined in the chair opposite us, which looked like it was from a hospital.  

She started to tell us about her health. Her eyes were bad which meant she had to get stronger glasses every year. Her neck was so stuffed the brace was also required for sleep, and she had this RSI thing in all her fingers and both wrists. She suffered from constant achy backs and even when we knocked, she was lying flat on the floor. But on the bright side, she said her she could now sleep again at nights, and that her anxiety and depression were improving. Plus, she had lost fifteen kilos.

We told her we knew relatives recovering too, ones that had been addicts. There were even some mum knew that had wanted to end their lives.

She replied; yes indeed, it was a crisis for humanity, far worse than the Covid pandemics in the early 2020s. They had all been a generation of guinea pigs, lured into a world of digital devices and social media that increasingly encroached on and invaded their lives. The big corporates knew of the harm yet kept it secret, and even worse they spread misinformation. They employed psychologists to work out how to make the devices and apps more addictive so they couldn’t be put down – a limb that couldn’t be severed.

The devices were loaded up to be everything one needed – phone, text, email, camera, video call, calendar, clock, alarm, weather forecast, torch, shopping, banking, audio and video recorder, calculator, music player, radio, GPS, translator, timer, pedometer, tape measure, stopwatch, notepad, games, book reading, personal assistant, TV and movies, bookings and appointments, fitness coach, diagnosing medical conditions, heart monitor and more. Absolutely everything you can think of was crammed into the devices. They started controlling the humans.

We said wow, we hadn’t heard all the specific details like this, it sounded outrageously scary. It was lucky mum couldn’t afford all that digital stuff, so she was always on the outside of this technology world.  

The lady grinned and suggested we walk to the beach and check on the leopard seal. We thought that was a great idea and followed her out of the house. But told her we wanted to hear more later. In single file we all started to stroll the trail back through the lumpy dunes. We were eager to get over the high point so we could spot if the creature was still there. But she was in front and her steps were more like a shuffle with her two walking sticks. Eventually our toes skimmed down through the fine white sands and there it was, wallowing in the foam.

We all paddled in to above our ankles staying well back to avoid being lunch. And any deeper the lady might get toppled over and we’d have to rescue her. The leopard seal wasn’t moving as much but its eyes did seem to stare our way. The tide was a bit higher now and the leopard seal just let the waves crash into its face. It must be in a bad way as it didn’t even have the energy to lift its head. Trapped, is what came to mind, it wanted to break free yet it was imprisoned by its poor condition. A sizeable breaker rolled in and knocked it around almost on to its back, but with effort it managed to upright itself. We wanted to push it out, however, that would be too dangerous, and it would likely just return to the shore for its final moments.

“Tell me about your dad, only if you want to”, the lady asked. We told her that he had been in prison for some bad stuff he had done in the past. But he is way changed these days; at our monthly visits he shows us the wood carvings he makes inside. Dad learnt to do this in the prison and now he teaches other inmates. Religion has also become an important part of his life, and he regularly goes to the church in there. Dad is getting out on parole next week for good behaviour, but he won’t live with us. We will be able to see him more often though. The lady said, “Oh that must have been so hard for you all. How has your mum been through this?” We said mum has been strong and cared not only for us but for lots of other whanau who had been ruined by the digital harm.   

Right then the leopard seal let off a loud groaning yawn as it copped large mouthfuls of wash from a larger set. It was submerged more than ever now, close to drowning we thought. Still no sign of any rangers coming, no doubt they will be too late. The water swirled around our knees so we all edged backs towards the shoreline, still with the leopard seal in sight.

We prompted the lady to continue from the house and tell us what happened next. “Well,” she said, “everyone was carrying smartphones around with them 24/7 and could be interrupted at any moment. When they weren’t on their phone they were on a tablet, or a laptop or computer, or some other device screen. You couldn’t escape from the animated neon displays; they were everywhere, like a mirror on every wall. Humans hadn’t evolved to cope with such a rapid explosion of change as occurred with the digital technology era. Levels of anxiety, depression, isolation, self-esteem, cyber bullying, sleep and physical issues all dramatically increased until people started disintegrating. Millions and millions everywhere on the planet sought help, counselling and medical intervention, but these services got overwhelmed, and many of these professionals were addicts as well.”

That sounds crazy, like the end of the world stuff we said. She replied, “You are not wrong there at all, it was very touch and go. The Internet, which provided all the connectivity for the digital devices became like the wild west too. It was controlled by hackers, scammers, extortionists, and cyber criminals. So, with more and more of the population turning into addicts they became easier targets and it became a deadly mess. Countries lost control of being able to govern their own land and people, as the big tech companies had an iron grip on the whole world. Something had to give.”  She paused and checked on our new friend from the depths.

The leopard seal was getting knocked around by every wave. Smashed and rinsed, smashed and tumbled, smashed and rolled, it was like a wrecked ship about to go down in a storm. We shouted ‘Kia Kaha’ to it through the whistling wind but we knew it was no use. Its time had come.

She continued, “First came the uprisings which spread around the globe, then the final revolution happened not long after. Digital devices of all forms were destroyed en masse and discarded onto the pavements and streets, signalling the eventual entire dismantling of the digital infrastructure on earth and in space.”

Our minds were exploding with the information, we had known bits but this explained what our aunties and uncles had really been through. We asked the lady if she had also gone to one of them camps afterwards. She said yes, the Digital Detox Programme had been the most challenging thing in her life, it took months of hard work to start to find out who she was again. But nowadays all she felt was huge relief and she appreciated every moment being liberated.

We looked into her eyes; the teardrops ran off her reddened cheeks and blew into the salted sea. She reached out and held our hands then smiled, “It is heartwarming to see you both roam wild on the land with your futures ahead. I wish you all the best and especially with your new chapter having Dad finally out.”  

We thought about her words, but one thing still bothered us. It wasn’t our nervousness about the upcoming changes with Dad being released. Instead, we questioned the lady why people want to go about harming each other so much.

“Well, that’s a complex one. Let’s say humans have a strange way of seeing things. Advancements in aspects of our society are considered progression for our race even if it comes with destructive consequences which cause suffering”, she answered.

Suddenly, our heads looked up together. We scoured the whitewash – the leopard seal was gone. But a bit further out we were amazed to see its long torpedo-like body swimming strongly towards the deep.

We were relieved to see it return to its animal world.

There are no gulls at the beach today
Cold nights now swell too long
Absent rays harness little song 			
While the low hung clouds loom grey

There are no gulls at the beach today
Nests relocated upon finer sands
To feast fortune in faraway lands
As even the shellfish have floated away

There are no gulls at the beach today
Screechy squawks fill not the air
Squabbles become absent fanfare  
For just a lonely wind wails in the bay

There are no gulls at the beach today
Lost thoughts on walls echo about 
Our life and dreams emptied out 
Since you left with a wilted bouquet 

There are no gulls at the beach today
The roost remains part completed
On the floor but not yet defeated
I clutch a bucket leaking words to say

There are no gulls at the beach today
Tomorrow I’ll return and thereafter
Until sorrow is replaced by laughter 
When wings soar amidst the sea spray

Epilogue:

The beach is teeming full of gulls again
Graceful glides with swishing swoops 
Playful pecks and frolicking whoops
Amidst woven hands dancing over pain 

“And always remember to shut this gate before you leave,” Aunty repeated.

Max nodded as he grabbed his 10-speed and zoomed off into the salted air, which had been invisibly eating everything but the seat. He was chuffed to have been asked to care for Aunty’s prized dogs. He had never been given a responsible job like this, so mucking up was not an option. He liked his Aunty; she was kind and it was neat she lived down the road nowadays. 

The following day, Max slogged his way home from school into the nor ’easterly that whipped off the ocean. Once he reached Marine Parade, he turned into the driveway of the old two storey beach house, which didn’t look as shabby in the bright sunshine.

He repeated the instructions to himself, “Food in the garage fridge, key under the stone, large bowl for the bigger one, medium bowls for the others, lock the garage, shut the gate, and walk them every second day.”

The Alsatians strained their muzzles through the mesh and let off a wave of excited barks. Max slipped through the gate and spent the first ten minutes stroking and playing with them beside the garage. They were so good natured and had lovely thick gold and black coats. Aunty must be good at choosing dogs, he thought.

But boy could they eat, scoffing their generous servings of chunky meat roll in no time at all. Max thought they were going to eat the bowls. A row of cocked heads with big round eyes and long tongues stared up at him, but Max stuck to his instructions and put the cardboard box back in the fridge. After he patted each dog goodbye, he left and rode the last few kilometres home on his rusty trusty 10-speed.

The next afternoon was dull and overcast when he arrived. The rundown state of the house was the first thing Max noticed. But something else seemed different. He hopped off his bike and lay it on the unmown grass and entered the property. There were no nodding nuzzles to greet him, maybe they were asleep around the back in their kennel.

He called out, “Heidi, Joe, Daisy, Otto,” but not a single pattering paw or yapping jaw could be heard.

Max scanned the property. Suddenly his stomach hurt. He had walked in through an open gate. His mind whirred, could the dogs have opened the gate? Had Aunty returned from holiday early and taken them for a walk? Or had something more sinister happened, like the dogs being stolen?

He grabbed his bike and sped home, the chain ground and squeaked every revolution. But all Max could think of was the missing dogs.

“You must have left the gate open!” his mum yelled as she waved her clay covered hands in the pottery shed. “The dogs are Joanne’s family, she bred them. You can’t be trusted to do a simple task.”

Max was frequently disappointing his mum but she never usually got this angry. However, it was her sister and these were extra special dogs, as he just learnt. 

“Hurry up, jump in the car,” his mum shouted. 

The red Volkswagen Beetle screeched out of the garage and hooned up the road towards Aunty’s place. All the way his mum cursed Max for his incompetence. When they arrived, he hoped the dogs would wander out and line up at the wire netting, then woof their heads off. But it was just the cracked concrete and grass tufts behind the gate.

His mum left the bowls full and the gate ever so slightly ajar, and then they drove around the nearby blocks, knocked on doors, went over to the beach, across to the park. But there was no sign of the dogs anywhere. With every bark Max heard, he would turn around, only for the source to be too small, the wrong colour, too fat, too skinny, too hairy. It was no use; they would never be found in time and it was all his fault. 

“We’ll have to visit the pound, put notices in the shops, and place an ad in the papers,” said his mum.

Max counted, it was five days until Aunty was back, so this plan had a chance.

He cycled by Aunty’s house each day on the way to and from school. As he approached the house his heart beat faster, but the bowls were always full. Max really worried about the dogs – were they starving? where would they sleep? how would they cope with the cold nights? might they get kidnapped? and more. They visited the pound which was overflowing with canines that yelped and whined. Max thought they were not nearly as fine as Aunty’s pedigree ones. There had been not a single reply to the ads or notices, which was strange, how could the dogs just vanish?

With only one day to go until Aunty returned, the phone rang and his mum answered. Max’s ears pricked up, could the dogs have been found?

“Yes, yes…Alsatians…yes…Sydenham…got that.”

The phone hung up and his mum said two dogs fitting the description have been found in town. Max was excited but uneasy – why only two?

He joined mum on this latest mission, and the Beetle motored into the city to the address. Max pondered how the dogs had ended up so far away from the beach, it must be almost ten miles. Anyway, they jumped out of the car and knocked. A grey-haired man answered the door and what trotted along behind him – two dogs. They were Alsatians alright, or German Shepherds, these two names for the same dog always confused Max. 

But it wasn’t Heidi, nor Joe, nor Daisy nor Otto. They appeared similar but the first clue was they didn’t pay any notice to the strangers at the door. Max’s head dropped as his mum thanked the man for the phone call.  It was a quiet drive home; how was he going to be able to visit Aunty again and look her in the face?  

That night Max didn’t sleep much, he woke up often and wondered where the dogs were in the chilly blackness. In the morning he crawled out of bed and his mum said David had rung asking for him to go around for a play.

Max didn’t feel like going at all.

“You may as well go as the dogs are a lost cause, I don’t know what I’m going to tell Joanne,” his mum said in that tone which was all too familiar to Max.

So, Max pedalled slowly off to David’s, which was about halfway between his house and Aunty’s. When he got there, they decided to head over to the beach and make a hut from driftwood.

They walked along the trampled marram grass track and over the first set of dunes. Here it opened to vast sandy slopes sort of like a very mini version of the Sahara. Out of the desert loped, not a camel, but a furry creature, followed by another smaller one, then another and finally the smallest one at the rear of the train.

Max stood still, stunned. He had to check it wasn’t a mirage he was seeing. He shouted, “Heidi, Joe, Daisy, Otto!” just to be certain. At that moment, sixteen legs bounded towards him. Max leaped in the air and when he landed the dogs were upon him showering him with licks. Eventually he got up off the sand and wiped the drool off his face.

He checked his watch – two hours left. Still time to get the dogs back to Aunty’s, feed them up, and shut the gate. Then he would go home and tell his mum. Hopefully, their safe return would be enough to get him out of the dogbox.

Review Essay on Witi Ihimaera’s the Whale Rider (Reed Publishing, 2002)

I had seen the acclaimed 2002 New Zealand movie where a young Keisha Castle-Hughes gained stardom with her portrayal of protagonist Pai (Kahu in the book). With film adaptions, often the author’s nuances are absent so I relished the opportunity to immerse in Witi Ihimaera’s fiction, first published in 1987.

The land and creatures await man’s arrival. Paikea comes upon a great whale, planting an eternal life-force spear for the iwi where a female child’s afterbirth will one day to be buried. A carved Paikea and whale sit atop the meeting house, watching over the iwi endeavouring to reconnect with their past. But disharmony arises. Porourangi has a baby daughter jeopardising the traditions of a male heir. While Chief Koro shuns his granddaughter and seeks a male successor, Kahu is nurtured by her Uncle Rawiri, and Nanny Flowers. They bury Kahu’s afterbirth on the marae and soon discover her affinity with the ocean creatures. Meanwhile, the ancient great whale leads his herd on encounters around the Pacific, but invariably he must return to the iwi’s shores where he beaches. Koro knows the iwi’s survival hinges on saving their ancestor but despite the efforts of Koro’s prodigies, the whale is dying. Kahu swims forth and saves the whale, who mistakes her for his ancient master Paikea. He rides off with Kahu where earnest discussions take place amongst the herd to decide Kahu’s fate. 

Very soon, Ihimaera has me retracing last year’s road trip winding around the bush-clad hills of East Cape punctuated by glimpses of turquoise and rustic settlements such as Whangara. The story’s setting feels very last century being so isolated from the urban scourge. Further on is Waituhi, Ihimaera’s tūrangawaewae, where he lived with his grandma and experienced the Pākehā education system at age five. He discusses his first days of school with Diana Dekker (2013):

‘What did the Pakeha teach you today?’ And I said, ‘Jack and Jill.’ And she said, ‘Why is Jack wearing a crown and why are they going up the hill?’ “The next day it was Little Miss Muffet and his grandmother had a host of questions, including: ‘What kind of girl would be frightened of a spider, and why didn’t she just say kia ora?’

This whitewashed schooling helped motivate Ihimaera to become an early Māori writing pioneer, telling the stories of the Māori, which is the overarching essence of Whale Rider. The suppression of Māoridom by Pākehā also provided fuel for his work as in ‘The Matriarch’ (1986), where Māori fight for their land and people against Pākehā brutality (Free-Range Bookclub 2022). Elements of past injustices do creep into Whale Rider’s narrative, such as references to Land Settlements, Bastion Point, and Waitangi Protests. But Whale Rider moves on from the Pākehā wrongdoings to focus on the Māori world, yet keeps a similar structure to The Matriarch blending Māori history, legend, and fiction.

Whale Rider explores connections between the human iwi, their ancestors and the non-human world. Chief Koro educates male iwi members concerned by the erosion of the ‘old ways’, identity and language. Māori author Paora Tapsell speaks of his iwi’s preservation measures: 

‘Te Arawa’s genealogies, rituals and korero have been secured in “whakapapa books” of our elders, and used to educate a select few of each new generation…Released through oratory upon the marae, such whakapapa, ritual and korero tie the people, land and ancestors into a common identity.’

Ihimaera vividly illustrates how Māori are empowered and guided by their gods, ancestors, sky, whenua (land), awa (rivers), forests, and non-human inhabitants of these, especially that of Tangaroa (ocean god). The interrelationships between all are the essence of their whakapapa (genealogy), cultivating a beauty largely absent in the Pākehā world. Indigenous rights advocate Tina Ngata describes this importance of whakapapa:

‘Our World, Te Ao Māori, is a whakapapa – one vast genealogical chart that connects us as siblings, mutually dependent upon all that surrounds us in this time, and across time,” Traditionally, these genealogical relationships have aided our movements through this world…a relationship based upon connectedness and reciprocity between us and our non-human ancestors.’

As Whangara’s iwi come to life in English and Te Reo, I am reminded about the orchestrated declines of indigenous cultures and languages.  For Māori this would be akin to severing one’s whakapapa, identity, and place amidst the wider environment.

Fortunately, Ihimaera builds reconnection themes with a moving piece of eco-fiction. It often puts the non-human world centric, allowing it to act and speak predominantly through the whales, with the iwi responding “Kahutia Te Rangi brought with him the mauri, live-giving forces which would enable us to live in close communion with the world. This included ‘how man might korero with the beasts and creatures of the sea so that all could live in helpful partnership. They taught oneness” (33). The reader is privileged to drift alongside the whales as they transverse time (pre-iwi to present) “Within the fluted ice chambers the herd of whales moved with infinite grace in holy procession. As they did so they offered their own choral harmony to the natural orchestration” (95). The main non-human character, the ancient great whale, takes on mythical proportions with his appearance “A dark shape rising, rising again, A taniwha, gigantic…For the sacred sign was on the monster, a swirling moko imprinted on the forehead” (12). And has humanlike traits “Reminiscing like this the ancient bull whale began to cry his grief in sound ribbons of overwhelming sorrow” (31), building a character whom Māori have the connectedness with as Ngata describes. Ihimaera creates intimacy sharing close-up encounters like when the female whale elder convinces her leader (and lover) he has erred “‘E taku tane,’ she breathed with slyness, threading her words with sensuous major arpeggios, ‘e hara tera tekoteko ko Paikea’” (136). The whale personifications continue “She gave her head two shakes” (137).

Above water, Ihimaera crafts the lifelike characters of Kahu, Koro and Nanny Flowers, frequently too with voice. Kahu binds the story with her sweet disposition “She put her arms around her grandfather and said again, “It’s alright, Paka. Everything will be alright” (110), and even shoulders the blame in adversity, “It’s not Paka’s fault, Nanny, “she said, “that I’m a girl” (87). Kahu too takes on mystical proportions being at one with the ocean animals “Karanga mai, karanga mai, karanga mai.” She raised her head and began to call to the whale” (123). Nanny Flowers adopts the matriarch persona delighting with her ruffling banter directed at Koro “The old Paka. Thinks he knows all about being a chief (…) He isn’t any chief. I’m his chief” (21) and “You can have him, moko, as soon as I get my divorce tomorrow” (5). Koro, who in turn regularly inhabits the ‘dogbox’, takes on the gruff chieftain personality “Haere atu koe,” he said. “Haere atu. You are of no use to me” (82) as he unleashes at Kahu. Yet he also possesses a reflective and concerning manner for his people “If we are able to return it to the see that will be proof oneness is still with us. If we are not able to return it, then this is because we have become weak. If it lives, we live. If it dies, we die” (116) and has a deep conscience about upholding iwi traditions, ‘His words were steeped with sadness and regret. “But we have not always kept our pact with Tangaroa” (51). Rawiri, a narrator (the other omniscient), isn’t made to stand out but is more the neutral iwi observer, and Porourangi takes a backseat to let his daughter Kahu shine.

The pages are literally painted with colour by Ihimaera to build characters, scenes, backdrops and atmosphere for the unfolding action. With Kahu, it is repeated use of white, evoking mythical, regal and pure images “Dangling on the wise of the whale, like a small white ribbon” (125). The ocean is full of life from ever changing hues as events occur “Brilliant green, blending into dark blue then a rich purple” (110) and “The sea was ever-changing pounamu, shimmering and seamless to the sky” (10). Further animation of the ocean is achieved by word repetition: hissed, thundered, shimmered, stirred, roared, surged “The sea hissed and fell, surged and soughed upon the sand” (105). Additionally, personification makes the sea humanlike, mirroring how Māori view their moana “The sea seemed to be trembling with anticipation” (92), reinforced further by its speech “There, there, moko. There, there” (55). Gold features for the ancient master Paikea reflecting rare exquisiteness, worthy for both a revered ancestor and their moana “He had been succoured by the golden human” (16), “The whale herd hovered in the goldened sea like regal airships” (58). Ihimaera doesn’t stop with the precious metals, with notable use of silver evoking a slick mystique “The moko, was agleam like liquid silver” (147), “The dolphins were like silver dreams as they disappeared” (91). As you can see already, Ihimaera loves metaphor and simile, giving his work a rich poetic flavour and this doesn’t let up “The sea had looked like crinkled silver foil smooth right out to the edge of the sky” (47).

Ihimaera’s fictional world often seems so real with his actual locations, authentic characters and integration of Māori culture, history and legend, or resemblance thereto. An example is the stranding of 200 whales on Wainui beach, where people come with a chainsaw to butcher the whales for their jaws. Rawiri arrives seeing “The breakers were already red with blood” (101) as he confronts the culprits “Hey, man…That whale belongs to Tangaroa” (102) and subsequently scuffles break out. The whales all die and diggers are bought in to bury the carcasses. Now, fifteen years before Ihimaera penned Whale Rider, the following event occurred at this exact location (Souter 2015):

On 18 March 1970 nearly 60 sperm whales stranded along Wainui Beach…Observers recalled that the sea was red with blood. Controversy broke out when some sightseers tried to take body parts as souvenirs, in one instance with a chainsaw. None of the whales survived; a grave 150 metres long, 10 metres wide and 5 metres deep was excavated to bury them.

This scene would likely be a recalled memory of Ihimaera. Both versions show a clash of belief systems and expose the hierarchical superiority by humans over non-human animals. But here Ihimaera takes the opportunity to highlight this, demonstrating the connection and value of non-human animals to Māori. Living above land, many generations have taken the ocean depths for granted; polluting and pillaging what is a home for billions of inhabitants. New Zealand Geographic cofounder Kennedy Warne alludes to this ignorance:

“It reminds me that conversations in the ocean are happening all the time, but humans rarely tune into them.”

Rawiri in Papua New Guinea (PNG) shows he does have this rare ability to tune in “I place the shell back to my ear. Hoki mai, hoki mai ki te wa kainga, the sea whispered” (73). But I do question the story’s diversions to PNG, and earlier Australia where Rawiri meets his cousins. Perhaps the Sydney excursion highlights iwi’s disconnection from their ocean roots as Warne also raises:

“Oceanian people might be losing their relationship of reciprocal belonging to the sea, becoming desensitised by western anthropocentric ways.”

The PNG experience does spotlight racism. But why did Ihimaera choose to locate this remotely offshore? Did he want distance from Pākehā-Māori history, but still make the point? Yet, Whale Rider is not about racism. Therefore, this passage must be about confirming one’s identity and roots.

Ihimaera blows up another very poignant message at Moruroa, set amongst the migrating whale herd “Suddenly a flash of bright light had scolded the sea and giant tidal soundwaves had exerted so much pressure that internal ear canals had bled. Seven young calves had died…Sparkling like a galaxy was a net of radioactive death… the ancient whale could only despair that the place of life, and the Gods, had become a place of death” (58-60). Such intensely reminds us of man’s blindness to the natural world, through this destruction not just to non-human creatures, but additionally to their habitats.

But there is another thread dominant throughout Whale Rider’s narrative which equals the messages of reconnection. This is the subject of gender imbalance faced by women, in this case Māori women. Ihimaera, a father of two daughters, creates a character Kahu who has to overcome extreme gender prejudice from the older generation Koro. ‘“A girl,” Koro Apirana said, disgusted. “I will have nothing to do with her”’ (18).  The story swirls and surges with this issue until its conclusion, where Kahu is the vital link to save the iwi, restore relationships with the past and oneness with the non-human world. This is only can happen when Koro accepts that traditions must change, signifying old ways do need modernising to progress.

‘Tirohia nga tohu o mua ki te whakatere I te wa kei heke mai

Look to the past to navigate the unknown/future’

(Paora Tapsell)

Works Cited

Dekker, Diana. “Witi Ihimaera’s Charmed Life.” Stuff, 10 Jun. 2013,

https://www.stuff.co.nz/entertainment/8763358/Witi-Ihimaeras-charmed-life. Accessed 17 August, 2022.

Ihimaera, Witi. The Whale Rider. 1987. Reed Books, 2003.

Ngata, Tina. “Wai Māori: A Māori Perspective on the Freshwater Debate.”

The Spinoff, 6 Nov. 2018, https://thespinoff.co.nz/atea/06-11-2018/wai-maori-a-maori-perspective-on-the-freshwater-debate. Accessed 18 August 2022.

Soutar, Monty. “East Coast region – Climate, flora and fauna”. Te Ara –

the Encyclopedia of New Zealand, 1 Mar. 2015, http://www.TeAra.govt.nz/en/photograph/33281/whale-stranding-at-wainui-beach. Accessed 25 August 2022.

Tapsell, Paora. “Whakapapa: Stories through Time and Space.”

Swamphen: A Journal of Cultural Ecology, vol 7, 2020, http://www.openjournals.library.sydney.edu.au/index.php/Swamphen/article/view/14358. Accessed 24. Aug., 2022.

“The Matriarch – Witi Ihimaera”. The Free-Range Bookclub, 20 Mar.

2022,https://thefreerangebookclub.com/2022/03/20/the-matriarch-witi-ihimaera/. Accessed 4 Sep. 2022. Blog Post.

Warne, Kennedy. “Hearing the Ocean Speak.” E-Tangata, 20 Oct. 2019,

https://etangata.co.nz/reflections/hearing-the-ocean-speak/. Accessed 23 Aug, 2022.

I’m bored, bored, bored. Once again, Mrs Wright has given me shitloads of homework to do, so selfish. No way I should touch a school book in my own time. Anyhow, I’ve become allergic to homework; I break out in a nasty rash. Actually, what I do is I sneak outside with my shirt off and roll around in the marram grass. This works a treat – Mum and Dad ain’t figured this one out yet.

My older brother was being a total geek as usual, doing homework at the dining table. Don’t know why he bothers as he’s already top in the class. Next year he’s off to high school, one for brainy kids with all boys. Cool I say, there’ll be no one to dob me in anymore.

I opened up my textbook, read two lines, then slammed it shut. A crappy easterly from the dunes smashed into the upstairs bungalow windows. The panes bent and creaked heaps in their rotten frames. One day the lounge will be all covered in glass – I better not be sitting in here when it happens.

“Hey, how bout we go check out the witch’s cottage?” I asked Martin, “Mum and Dad aren’t home.” 

There was nil movement from the mop of blonde hair fixed on his maths equations.

“Come on, you never do anything adventurous,” I added, “you’re such a nerd.” 

A pair of blue eyes stabbed at me. “You’re so annoying. You know we’re not allowed to go near that place; besides it is much too creepy.”  

“Whammo, I knew you’d say yes. I won’t have to tell your friends that you sleep with a dolly.” 

He lunged towards me with both hands raised.

I jumped back and ducked. I had received a fair few hidings, with bro being taller and heavier, but this time my ninja moves were much too slick.  

“Chill, chill…I reckon we’ve an hour before they get back from town.”

I leapt down the stairs and out the door before he could change his mind. Martin tagged along some distance behind as we crossed the clumpy section, which was the size of a rugby field. Ahead the forest looked extra gloomy and scary, with the sea mist lurking in the towering pines. I started along the shaggy as heck track – you’d think a witch could easily abracadabra it into a neat path. My school shorts were soaked through in no time and the decomposing needles underfoot gave off a rank smell.   

I started to get nervous but didn’t’ let on in case Martin piked out on me.  

“Keep up, don’t be a scaredy-cat,” I said.

We walked deeper into the woods until we must have been about fifty trees in, when it came into sight. I had spotted it once before on the day everyone went shopping to buy Martin’s new glasses. That time I only had the guts to reach tree number twenty-eight. But from there I had caught a glimpse of it through the rows of sap-oozing trunks.

Martin and I stopped behind the last tree.

The cottage sat in a wee clearing, its timber was all decayed and its once creamy paint shit-stained all over. The grey iron roof looked like it had been puked all over with a gooey moss. Growing on this were ginormous red spotted mushrooms – ones that would kill ya even if you touched them. The windows were blacked out and coated with muck. There was a big sign nailed to its side; ‘Private Property – Keep Out!’

Suddenly there was a loud squawk and a flutter in the branches above.

“That’s it, I’m going back,” Martin whined, “I am going to tell them it was your idea.” 

“It was just…a magpie see,” I stuttered, “we are here now, don’t be such a sook. I’ll go first.”

I crept across the patch of sandy ground to the front door and tried the handle. It was well corroded and wouldn’t turn. 

The drizzle had turned to rain and I became saturated from head to toe without the cover. I edged around to the rear of the cottage where the thickness of trees resumed and signalled Martin to come.  He took pint-sized steps towards me.

“Hey hurry up, the window up here has potential,” I whispered out, “but I’ll need a foot up.”  

Martin scuttled back a few metres. “We can’t coz there might really be a witch in there, or something equally terrible.  It’s all your fault.”

“What was that?” I startled and Martin let out a stifled cry.

A black cat had jumped from an overhanging branch onto the roof and stared at us with its yellow beady eyes.

“Told you so, that is totally a sign,” Martin protested.

“Remember the dolly,” I mentioned and flicked my brown hair back to keep the steady stream of water off my face. “Remember the dolly…”

“I’m so going to pummel you and your big mouth for this,” Martin muttered.

He shuffled towards me and joined his hands into a cup then proceeded to give me a hoist up.

I grabbed at the ledge and held it tight with one hand, whilst I tugged at the frame with other. Chunks of wood peeled off like slices of mouldy cheese.

Bit higher, a bit more…”

Martin groaned and wobbled as he worked me up another handful of centimetres.

The window started to budge so I gave it another decent yank. Immediately it flung open in a cloud of dust and splinters. Martin dropped to the ground. I was left hanging onto the opening, but managed to pull my stomach up on to the ledge.

Whilst I caught my breath, I used the long sleeves of my white school shirt to wipe the gunk out that scratched at my eyes. I peered downwards.

“Yikes Martin! You wouldn’t believe it.”

Right then a couple of large grubby hands appeared from nowhere.

“Gotcha, ya little punk.”

“Martin! Martin!”

Before I knew it, I was thrown to the ground on a concrete floor.

“Aaargh, careful,” I groaned, “don’t hurt me, I was only having a quick peek.”

The lights were so bright I could hardly make out the figure that loomed over me. The room stunk worse than the boys’ toilets and green plants grew everywhere like it was a jungle house.

“Where did ya come from?” a gruff man’s voice asked, “come on, tell me, or I’ll smash your head in.”

“Ah, from the other side of the woods. My Mum and Dad will be here soon. Promise I won’t say anything. Please let me go…”

“Yeah right. I’m gonna have to work out what to do with ya,” he replied and grabbed me.

“I’ll shout and my parents will be here straight away.”

The shadowy man gave a filthy laugh and spat at me. He dragged me off by the arm brushing past rows of bushy tubs. I could now get a clear view of him; tall and skinny, faded ripped jeans, jandals, and a dark hoody which covered his head. His tattooed forehead, messy black beard, and reptile eyes left me in no doubt he was a badass crim.

The hallway had the same greenery and smell, lots of plastic hoses, plus loads more lights that hung and hummed from the ceiling. My wrists really hurt as we entered another room. It was a bigger sea of green except crammed in one corner was a scungy mattress, a rusty kitchen bench with a loaf of bread and a few utensils, and a folding metal table with chair.

“Sit!” I was chucked on the steel seat. I found it hard to breathe as the air was being cooked and moistened by the factory of lights and spray.   

The man bent over so close that I could see the blood veins in the whites of his bulging eyeballs. The cigarette odour reeked so much my nose started to go haywire.

“Move an inch and you get it bigtime,” he said then disappeared into the vegetation.

My body started to shake. A warm wetness leaked out my shorts and pooled before it dripped down into my sneakers. My mind whirred around like mum’s blender – no way I wanted to end up minced into plant food. I so wish that I had listened to Martin or was more boring like him. The wimp had scarpered off so I was left captured alone with some up to no good paedo. I’d do anything just to have him here now with me. I’d make his bed and tidy his room for a whole year. I glanced around; the two windows were boarded up, but at the end of the room was a door.

“Don’t even think about it,” the man bellowed, as his head popped up amidst the leafy wilderness. He bustled out then headed around the narrow perimeter of the room, and slammed a number of bolts shut.  

Damn. Next, the man left the room and I heard cupboards being opened and closed in the hallway. If I stay here, I’m done for. I could hide in the crops. Nah, he’d find me in no time.  I could make a run for the first room I came in. Nope, the window is too high without a lift up. Yes, I’ve got it – there was a breadknife on the benchtop.

I started to crab myself and chair backwards to be handier the weapon, but not too far that he would know I’d shifted. At some stage he would turn his back to me and that would be the moment to strike.

However in-between movements I had to freeze, as the man returned and he clasped a serious amount of rope. He started to tie my chest and arms to the chair, then my ankles to its legs. Lastly, he bound the chair to the table uprights.

“That’ll teach ya to snoop on my turf,” he said while he stood over me and rubbed his grimy fist into my face.

I tried to wriggle but the ropes burned my skin.

Then it happened; I blurted out some massive cries and sobs. “Don’t hurt me…I didn’t mean to…I’ll give you anything you want. I can get money from my parents and bring that to you…”

“Shut up! Keep blubbering and you’re finished forever.” he yelled and stormed off.

I clenched every muscle. I wanted it to be a dream and that Mum, Dad, and Martin would walk through the door now. I would do anything in the world to be free. I’d do my homework every day, actually I would do the whole classes homework. I’d even suck up to Mrs Wright.

Next there was a thump, and another coming through the wall. Yep hammering; probably he was fixing up the window I broke. Great, I was completely trapped in a stinky hell hole with a pyscho. My life was finished. I won’t get to say goodbye to Liam and Finn and Johnny and…

The flip flopping of footsteps grew louder. I sat like a statue and dared not shed a single tear. I prayed he didn’t mistake the sweat that ran down my cheeks.

He walked up and down beside the plants, which had oodles of flower buds on their upper parts. He paused, looked at me, and then continued to pace. This kept up until a sizzle sound suddenly filled the air. All the lights dimmed, several fittings went bang, and then their glows fizzled out.

He kicked a tub over and paced again. This time with more urgency.

Clip clop, clip clop, clip clop.

He reached into his jacket pocket.

Clip clop clip clop towards me.

An almighty crash boomed around the room. A huge axe blade split through the door. I screamed. Several more explosions followed. The whole cottage shook and the room billowed with dense smoke.

I choked a ton. I tried to yell but nothing came out my burning throat. I heard shouts, lots of them, followed by rapid gunshots that stung my ears. Someone tugged at me. I forced my eyelids open a crack, there was a fuzzy shape. I was being seized. By Iron Man who carried me and my chair under his arm.

There was still a commotion inside the room but I was no longer inside. Instead, I bounced along a different wooded track out on to a backstreet. My chair didn’t hit the pavement until I was behind a road block of police cars, ambulances and fire engines.

“You are safe now Ethan,” Iron Man said, all decked out in his black helmet, gas mask and armour. As he untied me a swarm of medics approached.

“Thanks, er, thanks…” was all I could say.

Iron Man replied, “We all need to thank your brother who ran home, and with no one there, quickly thought to ring 111 and explain the situation.”   

They laid me on a stretcher and the last thing I saw, before the rear doors of the ambulance opened, was Mum and Dad rush towards me.

And who trailed behind them – my real super hero.

I love to swim with the kids. See them come alive as they drift away from their devices. Watch them discover how to really play again. Splashes, shouts, screams, and wide brimmed smiles. Me, I’m quite the heavy sinker nowadays. Only seeing my once buoyant self in their ripples. Each time we go there’s usually one less fish in our pond, as they start leave me in their wake.

Until it is just I. 

I dive under. Only full immersion will do, to rinse me through and through. Descending to a calmness, not obtainable in air.  Where the pressures of the land dissolve into tiny bubbles. Ones that trail behind my elongated body then become surface bound to pop into oblivion.

Now 
I’m a fish 
Wagging school
A dolphin
Hanging Ten
A shark
Looking For Legs
A seal
Clapping on its back
An orca 
Leaping to catch 
Only daylight
But mostly 
I’m a jellyfish
Wobbling 
In the shallows
Such the amphibian
Am I
Why?

I was an embryo right beside the sea, Southshore my watery womb. The beach and dunes my amusement park. The ocean my wave pool and lazy river all swirled into one. Offshore, onshore, always sure to be swimming.  And surfing, bodysurfing too. Now that’s a sensation like no other – stretched out, a torpedo planing down a liquid face propelled by the sun, moon and winds. Then its foam time, soon to be home time, coming to a stop as the sand grazes my undercarriage. 

Now
I’m beached 
A sealion
Floundering 
Like a basking shark
Not a ‘Jaws’ one 
That pulls you under 
Then laughs
While you jumped
Over the breakers 
Rolling in   
From out back
Where you often ride
With your leg chops 
Dangled
Beneath the board 
Knowing real ones 
Will circle 
Soon
It’s their sea 
Food time
Time to paddle
Closer 
To the shore
Don’t feel much 
Like seeing
My own blood 
And gore

That’s why mum only swam at high tide, not low tide as she had never seen its bottom, nor what lurked in its crevasses. Actually, I was always getting sand in mine. It came out of every crack and orifice you could imagine. At night I lay in a bed of infinite grains. If you swept some specks off the sheets, straight away   more would appear. It never bothered me though as this came with the territory. The ocean, with its numerous inhabitants, has forever been a best friend. One always there, only going cold on you for winter. But now my friend has been designated a menace, a threat, even an enemy to some. By some of those who have participated in the very neglect. We all played our part in its once unfathomable rise, and yet continue to do so. Time has almost run out to stop our lands being further eroded, drowned, and dwellings turned into castaways. I stay put, loyal to my companion, and grasp on to hope that the tide of humankind will turn. But at the same time, I do hold my breathe wondering if I too will become submerged.

I watch the gulls
shimmy above
the shallows,
full of sunrise 
song 
in a symphony
with the ocean
orchestra,
recalling summer
days burnt,
my sandprints
just pipis,
maybe  
a few grains more,
it was squawks 
of scavengers  
swerving missiles
of my wrist spun
dosinias.

Now at the bay 
it is balding,
bare islands
wrinkled   
sprinkled 
in trinkets
like memories,
abandoned,
strewn driftwood 
textured, twisted,
tortured by age,
shells well ringed,
edges nibbled 
away 
by voyage,
tumble washed 
up in late surges
of the day
near to a boy 
building
a castle and moat
to fend off  
the inevitable onset 
of the swirling 
invader,
futilely equipped  
with black bucket 
and spade, 
whilst I finish off
my page,
another chapter,
and amble back
the overrun track,
like weaving 
through time,
home time,
time to place
my book
upon the oak shelf
where there’s still 30 
odd left 
failing fire or theft,
so a few more  
will have to go
to the recycle
centre
unread.

Day 0

Noah chucked his bag down and flopped onto the bed. He pulled out his new smartphone from his blazer – the cracks reflected his contorted face. Last time it had been nicked, this time it was biffed to the ground. The raft of messages shouted at him. He didn’t want to open any. The first words were a giveaway and the teardrops just magnified the hate. His stomach ached.

“What’s up with you today, Noah?”

The words sliced through the door. He tried to explain the situation but received the usual level of understanding.

“You have to try harder to fit in…why not take up rugby too?”

His mum only cared about work and Facebook. Grandad often said life used to be more wholesome. People spent time outdoors, visited each other, made things with their hands, had vege gardens and climbed trees. They also built huts like the ones Grandad made with him at the beach when he was younger. Grandad said the old way of life resulted in far less problems than today. He often talked about camping out on the West Coast, crafting spears from sticks to snare flounder in Ōkārito lagoon, under the moonlight. Afterwards, he would cook the fish on a fire, listening to the magnificent sounds of the bush. In the morning, large kōtuku swooped down into the lagoon to catch their breakfast.

Noah picked up his phone, his guts churned; even more messages. He pushed the first:

“we goin 2 kick yr skiny butt 2morrow shithead’’ 

The next:

“No-ah friends ha ha”

The next, a hand drawn stick figure sent to everyone captioned:

“micro dick nerd”

He hit delete delete delete…until every single one had been obliterated into cyberspace. He wanted to explode. No way could he go to school tomorrow. Or even go near that place again. He emptied out the school books from his oversized backpack. He would pack like he was going to Scout camp. 

Day 1

Around each bend in the road, it was the same immense green wall of jungle. Eventually, a recess appeared, a trail reclaimed by the relentless undergrowth. Noah looked up; the sun hung low atop the bush canopy. Shortly, he would need somewhere to sleep. He jumped as a bird landed on a tall Punga and “oooeed”. He could make out the plump white chest and metallic green-purple wings of a kererū. The bird swayed his head towards the opening. The bush looked dense. He gazed towards the kererū, again it seemed to nod as if to enter.

Noah took a big breath and drove his lean frame into the mesh of vegetation. Thankfully he had worn his trackies. The rainforest was alive, invisible creatures startled all around and shadows flickered. He bashed through the thicket of ferns until his chest burned. A fallen tree beside a stream provided the ideal resting place. Noah watched the water cascade over moss-covered stones, as a series of “cheeps” billowed out. He flinched.

It was an alien world for a freckly red-haired teenager from Ōtautahi chocka full of concrete and cars. He took a swig from his bottle and pulled his compass out from his backpack. He was heading west which was the right way. 

“Duh, of course, this stream must go to the ocean,” he muttered.

A “cheep” from the bush seemed to answer him. Noah began to splash through the icy flow which numbed his feet. The snow-capped alps, he had seen out the bus window, would be filling the stream with spring melt. He often lost his footing and tumbled, but then “cheeps” would ring out downstream. Noah sensed the bird was trying to help.

He sat upon a boulder and ate his last ham sandwich from the Hokitika tearooms; finding food would be tomorrow’s mission. The pitstop was interrupted by swarms of locals, the notorious sandfly. He was relieved he had remembered to pack repellent and applied it thickly, before checking his smartphone: 7.18pm. Normally he would be gaming by now. Friday, 14 October, no reception, and battery red. He would save its last drop of juice for later.

Where had the mysterious guide gone? He could only hear occasional distant tweets; it must be getting late for the birds.

“Stay calm,” he fretted. What would those wilderness survival experts on TV do? He concentrated hard and managed to pick up a faint rumble. Encouraged, he splashed on until he found a path. Soon it began to lighten, and underfoot the forest debris turned to sand. He stopped and stared.

An orange ball was about to be swallowed up by the vast ocean. It illuminated a cosy bay, nestled below cliffs chiselled by high seas. Driftwood lay strewn across the fiery sands. The tea-stained stream dissected the bay, as it carved its way out to the foam. Further out, swells smashed over chapped rock formations.

Noah surveyed the back of the bay – left or right of the stream? He went left and found a possie with a grandstand view; however, the ground was boggy. Next moment, something brushed his cheek and landed on a branch nearby.

“Cheep cheep”. Noah, intrigued by the sizeable white and brown fan on a little body, recognized its sound from earlier.

“Hey, what’s up mate?”

The pīwakawaka fluttered, glinted its wee dark eyes, and flew across the stream. Noah realised something remarkable was occurring but tiredness hammered at his brain.

“Wait up…I’m coming.”

He paddled through the water and stepped up onto a bank. Here under some large bushy trees the sandy ground was dry.

“Cool, thanks buddy, this is ideal,” said Noah holding out his hand.

The pīwakawaka spiralled off. Noah threw off his backpack. He estimated   there was around an hour’s light left to make a rough shelter. Firstly, he dragged slender logs from the beach and angled these up to rest on a low branch. Then he gathered armfuls of dried fronds and scattered them on the timbers and ground. It wasn’t a flash structure, but it would have to do. If Grandad had been here, we could have made a kickass one.

Once finished, he climbed underneath and switched his phone onto flashlight mode. He had only managed to pull out a sleeping bag and beanie before darkness struck. Damn, regret not packing a torch.

Snuggled up in his cocoon, he listened to the waves tumble, accompanied by the clicks and rustles of the bush. He thought of the pīwakawaka, and the kererū, bamboozled by how they seemed to understand and reach out to him. They were like mythical creatures from fantasy books. Exhaustion crept up his body.  

Day 2

Noah awoke to song raining down onto the shelter. His belly grumbled, so he clambered outside and stretched his sore pale limbs. The air was fresh, but the sun already dazzled its way over the mountains. A couple of tūī chased each other around the branches then dropped onto the roof. They checked Noah out.

“Hi guys, what ya doing?”

They cocked their heads, chortled, then made off into the bush. They returned with the pīwakawaka who landed beside Noah.

“Morning fella, what are you up to?”

It spread its fan and chatted. The birds here were not bothered by a strange two-legged beast in their territory. It’s like they know I won’t harm them. And men with chainsaws haven’t been here yet.

“I’m off to forage for some brekkie.”

Its tiny head tilted, its miniature eyes brightened, and it flitted off towards the sea. Noah ran across the sand into the frigid waters, where it hovered. To his surprise, dark shapes darted around the shallows.

“Sick, you’re psychic. Noah won’t go hungry now.”

Noah made several attempts to grab the shadows but came up empty handed. He sat down in the wash. As the swell wobbled him about, he questioned his running away and wondered who missed him. He had only ever bailed for one afternoon, before slinking back for a meal and his comfy bed. This time was the real deal. His thoughts shifted to the rugbyheads and soon a steely determination returned. He would make a net. As he hopped up, the tide sucked back to reveal clusters of black mussels on some rocks. Cool, some grub at last. He wrenched a handful off and skipped back to camp, where he prised open the shells with his trusty pocket knife.

After the snack, loneliness sifted in like a sea mist, so he kept busy by strolling the beach. Realisation smacked him once he had sipped his last water rations. Without water I could die. He checked out the stream, not only was it brown, but rainbow patterns filmed its surface. Maybe the pollution came from those lime-coloured pastures inland dotted with cows. Anyway, it was undrinkable. He wondered whether drinking his urine would work, he had heard boys talk about this. Right then the pīwakawaka swept down, did a few loops and made off up the creek. Noah scampered in pursuit trying not to fall on the banana skin stones. They came to a vertical rock face covered in moss and ferns. The greenery oozed with crystalline drops.

“Unreal…You are a life saver…forest ninja,” he exclaimed and slurped at the steady flow of drips before filling his bottle.

The pīwakawaka somersaulted then vanished. Noah wondered how this speck of a creature was tuned into his needs. All the birds seemed to thrive here, buzzing about their wooded land. Flying made them so godly. He craved to be able to soar without needing a clunky contraption like a jetpack.

Noah spent the afternoon inside his hut, the last days had been draining. He thought of his only friend, Jack.

I wished I’d told him my plans; he’ll have FOMO for sure. Maybe mum misses me too. She used to do stuff like movies and bike rides with me. When dad left things changed. It was fun when I could hang out with dad lots. Nelson is far away and he has Sarah now. Anyway, out here in nature I don’t have to worry. Only about finding food. And staying warm at night. And not getting too lonely. The school bullies can’t get at me here. No smartphone works either. Before, one vibrate could ruin my day. It has been shitty since Grandad died last year. If he hadn’t injured his leg chopping that wood, he would be still alive. The falls afterwards nailed him. Grandad was a real Coaster. That’s why mum scattered his ashes over here. I wish I’d been allowed to miss school to say goodbye to Grandad. That really sucked.

A familiar melody rang out from aloft. Dusk deserted the shore and the sea began to whisper. During the night he had to duck out for a pee under the southern sky. The night sparkled; the Milky Way streaked above him like a boxer’s glittering prize belt. He wished back home shone like this, not dulled by all that energy burning to keep the city alight.

Day 3

The sun had traversed a sizeable arc when Noah arose with a fierce hunger. A tūī flew into the tree above, like it was being sucked into a black hole. Moments later it burst out to seek another load of straw-like strands. It’s ability to build a family home using a beak and the barest of materials amazed Noah.

He paced about the hut entrance. The pīwakawaka shimmied off the tree onto his shoulder and began to chitter-chatter. Noah froze and listened.

“Yes…You’re right, I’ve got to keep busy. I’ll do the net now. My Grandad used to take me fishing in his dinghy. He’d get one on and reel it in close. Then whammo, I would scoop it up with one of them nets. Quick as lightning.”

 The pīwakawaka chuckled and sailed off to the sea. It was up to something – Noah tailed behind. He lost sight of the bird so he scoured the beach, only to find plastic fragments, a lamb’s tail ring, comb, straw, and supermarket bag. He was frustrated that the polluters hadn’t thrown anything more useful into the ocean.

Noah sat on the shore; the surges massaged his toes as he anguished over how he could catch the fish. I’d kill for a feed of Maccas to drop out of the sky. No way he could afford to starve and become feeble. He remembered how Grandad shrunk away to nothing at the end, a scarecrow of grey and bones.

After a while, black-tipped wings landed nearby – a seagull. It tussled with something in its beak and kept staring at Noah. He wandered towards the bird who released the item. Noah marvelled at the rusty piece of olive netting. The intelligent world of these creatures also astounded him. He knew they made noises and chirped in the garden. But he was realising so much more; they spoke with each other and worked together. They could even interact with humans.

“Wow dude, that’ll be mighty useful. Thanks heaps. I’ll catch you a fish too…”

Noah trotted up to the hut still somewhat baffled. He unlaced a shoe, picked up a long Y-shaped stick, and went to work. The pīwakawaka watched on; Noah grinned at his companion as he threaded and tied.

“There, that should do it, one killer fishing net. Watch out fishies!”  

The pīwakawaka belted out a song and let rip some acrobatics. Noah joined in, jumping about, then he sprinted to the breakers. He made a series of frantic scoop attempts. But the silver flickers were too clever and quick.

“Down the net goes,

Up it comes

Dripping woes,

For dinner

He’ll be eating his toes,” taunted the mullet.

After many failures he paused. He recalled the boating trips with Grandad, so he changed his technique, leaving the net underwater. Once the fish became curious, he flicked the net upwards. After several goes, he was rewarded with a jiggly mullet.

“Awesome! …You’re not so tricky now, are you, huh?” quipped Noah.

“Let me out, you bastard.”

Noah carried on until he had caught three beauties and a tiddler for the gull. Next, he had to make fire. He had learnt at school that most fish caught in Aotearoa contained microplastics. Noah shuddered, but he was at the hangry stage. It would be a challenge to create fire in the wild, even though he had seen it done in video clips and at Scouts. He was glad the shop guy had talked him into the compass with the inbuilt magnifying glass. Noah made a fist-sized pile of dry leaves and spindly twigs, then focussed the mid-afternoon rays onto the tinder fuel. The first tries failed, so he switched to different kindling. When he was almost out of puff, a wisp of grey plumed skywards, accompanied by a tinge of amber.

“Yahooo, I’m a genius!” he shouted to the rainforest and bounced around like he had won Survivor.

Gradually, he added chunkier pieces until his efforts were guaranteed to stay aflame. He shaved some thin sticks with his knife and roasted his catch. Noah dined with his friend who twirled about nabbing sandflies mid-air. The horizon turned from crimson to magenta above the chattering sea. It had been a perfect day; one Grandad would have been so proud of.  

Day 4

Noah awoke to pain, not from hunger, nor the boys at school – they were far from his thoughts now. Homesickness burrowed deep. He longed to see his mum, hang out with Jack, and even tackle school. I’ll also ring dad and sort out staying there next holidays. Right, decision made, hiking back to the highway it is, but first I’ll gather some shellfish.

When he reappeared with his bounty, a flurry of activity fizzed around the hut. The kererū, pair of tūī and pīwakawaka all whizzed about, their chortles and chirps much louder and shriller.

“What’s going down chaps?” Noah asked.

Their screeches were chilling.

“Shit, big trouble, eh?”

The pīwakawaka flew inside onto his backpack.

“So, I need to pack my gear?”

It flung open its fan, so Noah speedily rolled up his sleeping bag and stuffed it in his pack with the rest of his gear. He blessed the shelter goodbye, knowing it would be soon reclaimed by the earth, or worse still, gobbled up by the rising Tasman.

“I’m ready, where we heading?”

The pīwakawaka made a beeline to a far rocky outcrop, which Noah had not ventured over. There they ascended the steep cliffs. Noah’s fingers gripped the crumbly ledges, while the ocean crashed below. He reached the plateau and almost stumbled backwards from the view.

A long sandspit shimmered, its narrow inlet emptied an enormous punga-dyed lagoon, backdropped by rampaging greenness. Grandad had painted this very image in his stories. He followed the pīwakawaka down and forded the inlet onto the point. There in the lagoon, waded two marvellous sparkling white kōtuku. Their yellow dagger-like bills and elongated necks poked about in the reeds. The pīwakawaka flew across and weaved in and out of the birds. The kōtuku looked across to Noah, then one spread its large serrated wings and skimmed across the surface towards him, reverse thrusting in the shallows.

“Gee…That’s beautiful…Totally mean…But what’s wrong?” Noah questioned.

The kōtuku speared his head repeatedly towards the towering woodlands.

“Okay, we’re heading inland…And fast.”

Instantly the pīwakawaka landed on Noah’s hand and smiled with its ebony eyes. Noah figured at this moment the baton was being passed.

He choked up. “Thank you, my friend for letting me stay…in your kingdom… and showing me how amazing you are…You’ve helped me survive…and become stronger…I will remember this place…forever…and those wicked tunes… Hey, look after our hut in case I…”

Before he could finish, the pīwakawaka rattled off a cheery goodbye and set a course back to the other bay.  

The kōtuku croaked and motioned with its wings.

“Okay, let’s go big fellow, you’re in charge.”

Noah glanced at the hinterland; storm clouds brewed above the milky peaks. He grabbed his pack as the sandflies became thick, and hurried off along the beach. The kōtuku often circled to allow him to catch up. Noah was in awe of this bird, considerable in size yet so graceful in flight. He left the beach and entered the forest on an overgrown track. The kōtuku would disappear, but miraculously appear soon after perched high in a tōtara. He trekked on until thirst and hunger wrestled him to a halt. He drank and cracked open some mussels for a much-needed energy boost.

The kōtuku floated down out of nowhere like a white spirit. He offered up a mussel which was eagerly plucked from his fingers. Noah insides tingled as he ate with this majestic creature, but he knew they had to crack on.

At last, they came across a dirt road. The kōtuku swooped down from the heavens and became animated. It beckoned up the road with its beak and took off. The sky rumbled and heavy drops began to strike Noah’s face. Up ahead the kōtuku waited on the roadside. It wailed. Noah ran to the noise. There on the ground lay a bird. It whimpered and could barely move. The downpour turned angry, waterfalling off Noah as he bent over – a brown kiwi!

“Holy crap! That’s bad…”

The kiwi groaned; its eyes half open.

“Did a car hit you?… Last night?”

The kiwi shuffled his long beak.

“We need to get help super-fast.”

The kōtuku flapped in agreement.

Noah took out a hoody and laid it down. He inched the injured bird onto the fabric, then wrapped it carefully and held the bundle against his chest. The kōtuku took off into the fury with Noah trudging behind. Bright forks lashed the greyness, cutting it into jagged pieces. The rainforest lit up then boomed and shook. Again, and again. The road became a torrent. Noah pushed on into the onslaught. The kōtuku landed in the distance, a lily-white angel in the charcoaled gloom.

Noah stopped alongside the kōtuku. Relief surged within his shivering body; they had arrived at the highway. Here he could hitch to the Franz Josef DOC centre; a likely set of wheels already approached in the distance. The kōtuku walked towards him. Actually, it hobbled, favouring one leg. Noah squatted down with a firm grasp of his patient. The kōtuku unravelled its neck and nuzzled Noah’s face. He stroked the bird as the car slowed amidst the deluge.

“Bye my great bird…I’ll see he is mended; don’t you worry.”

The kōtuku had a twinkle in his eyes and jabbered excitedly.   

The car door opened and a lady leaned across.

Day 5

Noah got chauffeured back to Ōtautahi. The emergency dash to Franz had turned into a luxury stopover. The kiwi would recover well after surgery, and the DOC staff honoured Noah as a true wilderness hero. They could not understand Noah’s affinity with the birds; it was unheard of.

As the vehicle wound through the alpine passes he thought of mum – she hadn’t been mad on the phone. He actually looked forward to school too, nothing would faze him anymore with his special powers.

He reminisced about the pīwakawaka and the other feathered friends, and smiled. And lastly the kōtuku, he pictured its snow-white plumage gliding over the treetops. Then there was its unusual limp. It reminded him of Grandad in his final days.

I was reading recently about petrol theft in Christchurch where thieves fitted a very large tank into their boot, put the pump nozzle through the rear window, filled up and made off with a grand’s worth of gas. This inventive and brazen heist started my brain whirring.

Five young lads gather at the pocket-sized shopping centre on the way home from  School. We give the duffle bag to our red-haired mate, his turn. Inside the mart, we split up to be inconspicuous, but are like the giant gobstoppers on the counter. The duffel bag heads to the Willy Wonka aisle while some of us order lolly mixtures, ones where the shopkeeper has to fetch each item and place it in a little white paper bag. Like a school assembly drill, we soon meet outside at our bikes, lazily blocking the walkway. Eight eyes gaze towards Michael, but there is another pair that tower over us, “Give me your bag.” Michael’s face starts to match his hair as he hands over the bag. I think of the grounding and other punishments. The man opens the bag and then becomes frantic as he looks for secret compartments that don’t exist.

In that outing Michael had choked on the job, interestingly he still received a decent lashing from the boys for not loading up the ‘king sized’ loot.

Why did we shoplift as youths? Well, I guess ‘steal’ is a more pertinent word fitting the crime of these free shopping sprees. It was the pricier items sought, being very selective as the often-tricky operation always had the real risk of a frisk.

I feel I need to find some meaning behind these escapades in my somewhat disorientated past.

I fire up the computer and start to search the internet. I soon find that shoplifting stems from some psychological unfulfillment. Most shoplifters are not in desperate need of food or clothing but are destitute in other ways – emotionally, culturally, or lacking affection. Furthermore, the act of shoplifting is not an exotic deviance from normal behaviour. This would account for a high percentage of people having shoplifted at some stage, so odds are that you, yes you! have done some five fingered discount shopping in the past. Time to fess up, cosmetics? clothes? confectionery? a three-legged lizard from the pet shop with big adoring eyes?

Maybe I was destitute in some way? I did have a strict upbringing with a non-maternal mother who did her duty to have children, so perhaps I was lacking affection. But it feels like there’s more to the picture.

The school van pulls up at a remote diary nestled beneath the foothills. The older couple behind the counter are overwhelmed by such custom. Senior members of our  ski team lead by example, creating decoys and distractions, then begin to pillage the shelves. Us younger guys always look to mirror our role models, so we join in the grocery grab. We walk out ‘barred up’ so to speak, soon back in the van comparing our heists, chocolate blocks being the common denominator. 

Why did we do the après ski sting? It wasn’t detailed on the trip agenda. This dairy was no doubt run by heartland folk eking out an existence in the rural back blocks.

I think more research is required. I find the site of a reformed shoplifter, now expert and therapist, who details seven types of shoplifters: common thief/professional, drug/gambling addict, impoverished, thrill seeker, absent minded, kleptomaniac, and the addictive-compulsive.

Okay for us, it wasn’t because of alcohol or drug addiction, although a few of us did roll up the odd joint in the school field.

Although I have wandered out of shops and then had horror moments of realisation, rushing back in to covertly repatriate the stowaways, the ‘thrill seeker’ reason has set off the store alarms. 

I was actually born with a handicap, the ‘thrill seeker’ gene. Those of you who have it know what an affliction it is, needing to throw yourself into dangerous and daring situations at every turn, just to feel whole. It’s as tiring as heck.

We decide to spend a week in the beat-up Ford Anglia van at Kaiteriteri. Our supplies packed include:  gas cooker, loaves of bread, tins of baked beans, crates of beer, and a very nourishing bag of marijuana complete with hefty heads. Walter (name changed to protect identity) drives up a steep grass bank to get us onto the motorway after he missed the entry. We are now cruising towards paradise fuelled by THC. Our first stop is a random diary, a beacon with all its cut-price signage. Sun lotion is on the shopping list, an item well out of our unemployed budgets. We stride back out of the shop with our shorts bulging and it wasn’t because we’d been reading the Playboy mags.

Thankfully, I was sun smart back in those days. See kids, crime can pay – possibly don’t show this part to your parents.

The internet throws up some more clues – emotional motivations for shoplifting: anger, grief, depression, anxiety, acceptance, power and control, boredom, low self-esteem, entitlement, and rebellion. Well, it’s as obvious as walking out with a microwave up your jumper – I’ve always had problems fitting in, being born discombobulated (I always wanted to use this word). Also, I get bored easily with this hideously overactive mind. And I’m a rebel from way back, popsicle orange mohawk, boots and all.

Well, the retail trade didn’t have a chance with all that lot. I’m just surprised I didn’t take it up shoplifting for a career. Interestingly, my ancestors were Irish and sent out to Australia in the 1800’s.

So, after this episode of self-reflection I can put my shoplifting down to psychological and emotional circumstances absolutely beyond my control. However, to make amends for these past wrongs I will now shop more at dairies.