I read somewhere that our relationship with the ocean is a reflection of how we see ourselves. Which makes sense because growing up I saw the moana as just a body of water. Nothing special. And sadly, that’s how I saw myself.
I am a descendant of Ngāpuhi and grew up in Te Tai Tokerau with Waipu beach at my doorstep. I spent hours on the boat out at Langs beach, taking day trips as a child to Ninety Mile beach, the Hokianga, Cape Reinga and all the untamed places my ancestors landed on when they first arrived in Aotearoa.
Despite being surrounded by oceans of water growing up, the moana was just somewhere I went to because Mum forced me. Mum said I almost drowned a few times so maybe that’s got something to do with it. I hated the feeling of being cold, of being smashed around by the waves and feeling unsafe.
My relationship with the moana began to change as my relationship with myself became more defined. Last year I undertook a full-immersion te reo Māori course and it was the hardest year of my life. I began to unravel hidden parts of myself that I didn’t know existed through learning a language beaten from my ancestors. Emotions began to surface that felt beyond my control and I would hear the whispering to go to the moana.
At the time, I couldn’t understand why. I live 40 minutes from Piha beach and it was the middle of winter. It didn’t make sense. I listened to the promptings, jumped in my car, and the rain pounded on the windscreen as I drove to what became my āhuru mōwai – my safe haven.
It’s strange to think that despite growing up around the moana and being spoiled with choice, it was a black sand beach tucked away in Waitakere that became my favourite wild place in Aotearoa. You drive along the windy roads, get around the bend and see the cliff-top view of the ocean, and you breathe in the sight and say “woah” to yourself even though you’ve seen it many times. You pull up to the car park and there’s the rock that looks like a lion that reminds you Piha is wild and dangerous and there have been many deaths. The waves are imposing and the rips will get you if you’re not careful.
The first time last year I went to Piha, it was pouring down with rain. Tangaroa is the God of the Moana and he is very much a life force. I said a karakia to him and dived into the water. When I came out of the moana, I felt light and connected. It was Tangaroa rejuvenating my spirit. I learnt that when you swim in the moana, you’re surrounded by his love. He caught my hopes and dreams and swept away my tears all at the same time.
As the challenges of learning te reo Māori came, I escaped to Piha and gave it all to Tangaroa. It soon became a regular routine. It didn’t matter what emotions I was feeling or what I was going through, Tangaroa seemed to understand me. And slowly, my view of myself began to change.
This year I didn’t just reclaim my language – I reclaimed my relationship with myself through the moana. Piha beach is rugged and moody and beautiful and imperfect. It is also a taonga (treasure). And that’s how I see myself now. There’s nowhere else in the world like it.
Shilo Kino (Ngā Puhi, Tainui) is a writer, reporter and author of the novel The Pōrangi Boy
What’s your favourite wild place? If you would like to contribute to the series, tell us about it in 200 words and send it to newzealand@theguardian.com
