Land-based fishing in the Mahurangi Harbour

We set out on a long walk with our two dogs, one fishing rod just in case, neither of us expecting a catch. I carry my camera instead of a second rod. At high tide we wind our way along the coast, pressed in close to the cliffs. The shoreline is congested with slips and falls and trees brought down in heaps at the base of the cliffs from our summer of cyclones. We make our way over and through and under fallen trees, across mounds of dirt, toi toi, and clay, and quickly across slopes of scree in case any more of the cliff face decides to fall.

Along the shore, dozens of birds signal where kahawai might swim beneath the surface. The water boils with activity. The feeding goes on for hours.

I do not fish on this day, but I exalt at what is caught, at the dozens of birds, at the bend in the line, at the boilups just offshore. I photograph everything. In between images I pace the shoreline, explore rockpools, look to the horizon, count the birds and the catches, read a few pages of my book, hide from the wind, put myself in the way of the sun.

I’m taking my camera out more. Logan encourages me too, which helps. So often our intimate partner is the subject of our photographs, some more willing than others. Fishing keeps him focused more on the water than what I’m photographing. Logan is my subject, along with the dogs, the bay, the water, and sky. He is the subject of the photographs and the object of my affections, both acting and being acted upon. But behind the image I am the subject too, subject to the world around me and the world of my own making. Subject to capture.

My feet are also bare on the rocks, sinking into sand, immersed in water, cautious and shuffling for stingrays. My hair stands on end between lightning flashes, ears ringing with thunder, clothes dripping with water. I too stand on oysters, though perhaps more lightly. I do not run to the water or to the cliffs but pace steadily towards shelter or exposure, with perhaps not unreasonable bolts of fear coursing occasionally through the older parts of my brain. I run to the cliffs, find a rocky ledge to stash the things I’d like to keep dry. I sit under the dripping ledge and pohutukawas, comfort the dogs, share in the delight that is ongoing despite hunger and rain and a long walk and drive before we make it home. I relent to the rain and thunder, to my hunger, to the hours, to my tired legs, to the sky and water—to art, to capture, to life—and later, to the shower and dry clothes and the crumbed fish we cook and finally, not so many hours later, to sleep.