WA KAINGA
wā kāinga
1. (noun) distant home, true home, home, home base
Ten months ago, we left Switzerland and took off for the antipodes. We left a landlocked country for a country surrounded by the Sea with only walls of water as borders: New Zealand, Aotearoa.
It was six in the morning. The sun was rising behind the Sea. From the porthole, we caught our first glimpse of our new home: Ruapehu and Taranaki, the two main volcanos of the North Island were piercing the morning fog. Freedom was already tangible. And this was why we were here. Freedom. We wanted to feel the Ocean bend beneath our board and the Earth resonate under our feet. We wanted to be part of it, part of the balance of the world. This was more of a spiritual quest rather than a surf quest. No forecast, no expectations, we would just follow the sun - sometimes to the Ocean, sometimes deep into the native forests and occasionally to the highest peaks. We wanted to see what destiny had to offer and we were not disappointed. Everyday was a discovery. The landscapes unfolded and the wonderment never stopped.
We arrived during summer. The sun set late into the evening and would illuminate our van with its golden rays early in the morning. New Zealand's east coast is the first land in the world to welcome the sun – Every morning was like the “Morning of the Earth”. We were kissed by the sunlight rising behind the Pacific Ocean stretching to infinity and beyond.
This was the typical tropical summer roadtrip. At 10a.m we would already have surfed four hours. Our skin was burnt. We were passing through welcoming azur bays with beautiful pristine surf. Between two sessions we went to the back country, guided by wild rivers, we met giant trees and heard magical bird songs. We climbed desert-like volcanos amidst the dust, feeling like we were in a parallel universe. Our Brain was upside down, enchanted by the incredible journey we were on.
Without realising it, we were boarding a ferry to the South Island, across Cook Strait. The more we travelled south, the closer to winter we got. The days became shorter and the temperature colder. The waves were getting bigger. Marine life was plentiful. The huge, unwelcoming cold bays of the South Island replaced the beautiful azur ones of the North Island. Most of the time they were surrounded by tall cliffs and home to sea lions and seals. In the deep south, the landscape was tortured by the power of the Roaring Forties. We decided to make this place our home for a while. We parked our van and experienced one place, off the beaten track, following the rules of salt, wind, rain, sun and tides: a sensual experience. Surf was wild and as good as it gets.
All surfers' fantasy is to find an empty surfbreak, but this is the kind of place where you are happy not to be the only one waiting in the line-up. This was the kind of place where you have that primitive feeling; fear. You feel vulnerable. Everything is bigger than you: the cliffs, the waves, the sea lions and the great white shark who might well swim by you. The call of the swell is however too powerful and the energy of that place is too strong to refuse to paddle out. There, the waves add a little magical detail to that landscape beautifully set to welcome them. The cliffs refract the swell toward the sandbanks and transform it into marvellous liquid vaults.
We put on the winter wetsuit, the hood, the gloves and the booties. We went surfing.
Once in the water, we had to be focused. Filled with dopamine and adrenaline, our brain was able to to check the activity of the sea lions on the beach while watching the horizon in the search for any odd tail coming out of the water between the sets.
Cold was the wind. Cold were the waves. But our hearts were warm, beating for the beauty of this place. Respect overcame fear. Far, far away from everything, we felt at home. This was exactly where we were supposed to be, crystal cylinders crashing around us.
We were facing Antarctica and the cold. We kept on gliding on the surface of the water while the moon was rising behind the cliffs. The kelp too was dancing on the rhythm of the swell.
I wish that, like the kelp, we could still be dancing on that wave. Valentin Rey
With the precious help of Ileana Romano and Charlotte Prins for the translation.