Behind the dunes in Whangamata we could hear the waves crashing. There was something, and we couldn’t climb the last meters fast enough. First, the sceptical two-three seconds, then the joy that we could make it, further north, and finally all tension released at once.

Faster as ever before we slipped into our wetsuits and reached the salty water. Let’s go, let’s go. She tried and felt. I tried and slipped. Again, again. After an hour or so I lost confidence, couldn’t believe that we forgot everything in these two days of travelling. Is this a course? Should you never traverse an island if you want to be an surfer?

After two hours she spotted Garry coming. He paddled out to us, wanted to show us some Australian surf style. Ha! Felt and felt again! I know that’s not very nice to be pleased about that, but at least we knew that the surf conditions were not favourable. Small and powerless swell, which could not carry you anywhere.

Maybe we just caught a bad time to surf in early March. Or this was an important lesson: to paddle faster than before to exploit the smallest waves, the smallest gift. Yeap, a wave is a gift to us surfer, and we like that. Like this so much that we returned the next morning for the same conditions and for the same results.

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