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I doze, I sleep, I dream, my reality. The shoreline breaks with the colourless sands and the viridescent of Papatūānuku but an indentation within this picturesque scene takes my eye as we seek the harbour for anchorage of the Nukutere. Our commander, the ocean-going navigator, known by many names, Whiro, Whironui, Iro and Iro-nui-māota, is at the helm. We are travelling with Whakaari directly on our stern, the outcrop of a rocky tapered end to our port. Our tīpuna, Tārawa has already stepped foot on this location, our landfall will be Awaawakino. Whiro threads our vessel carefully through the rocks to a cove called Te Rangi where the Nukutere is moored.  Our whānau number many. Whiro is eager to continue to travel east. I disembark with Tautūrangi, his wife Rangitaka and their followers. We stand with the tide lapping at our legs, Papatūānuku at our backs, the expense of Moana-nui-a-Kiwa in our foreground giving thanks to the creator, for the blessings bestowed on us, our past, our present, our future.    

I am awake. My reality, captured in a single moment. Whakaari behind me, pohutukawa in full bloom on my bow. Seated atop a yellow surf ski, the roar of crashing waves on Waiotahe beach ahead, the continuous salt spray jets around me, the atmosphere of bursting bubbles surge beside me. I lean onto the paddle blade to change my direction slightly, transversing the wave so to catch another rush of a sudden powerful forward and upward movement, the ribbon of the ski sits in the deep blue of the wave. Tangaroa provides excitement, exhilaration and further anticipation. I am in my past, in my present, in my future. 

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