I doze, I sleep, I dream, my reality. Thirty generations from I. Forward, at, back, to Tautūrangi. Halfway from I, forward, at, back, to our Whakatōhea founder. I am favoured to watch over the newborn. A warrior from the South, returning from the West, scarred as an inheritance from the battles in those lands, Kahungunu, bestowed his defacement of humiliation, the prickled spines of a snapper, to my overwatch – Tūtāmure, pricked by a snapper. Shame is messaged through the fortifications of Peketūtū Pā and Poutōtara and Okāharuru. The belittlement of whānau in the South requires redress. The formidable defences of Maunga-a-kāhia have been penetrated, the Chief of the South asks who is attacking my pā? “Ka rangaranga te muri ka tūtū ngā tūātara o te tāmure. Ko te tangata nāna i noho te whakarua, ko au! ko au! ko Tūtāmure.” (When the sea breeze blows from the north the spines of the snapper stand [and cleave the waters]. It is the man who settled the valley [of Waiaua]. It is I, it I, it is Tūtāmure!)

On realising this was his own nephew, Kahungunu dressed his daughter, Tauhei and sent her to the enemy camp as a peace contribution. Tūtāmure and his brother Tama Taipūnoa were sitting alone on the arrival of Tauhei. Tauhei, not knowing which brother was in command, bowed before the younger brother. Tūtāmure, slighted by the deed, withdrew to the shoreline to calm his wrath. Discovering a pool of clear, still water he reflected his predicament. His mirrored disposition produces an exclamation, “Oh, I am indeed ugly.” This place is known as Te Wai-whakaata-Tūtāmure, the mirror pool of Tūtāmure. With his composure regained, Tūtāmure went back to his brother and granted his marriage to Tauhei under the condition that they would never again gaze upon the vapours emitted from Whakaari.

I am awake. The positioning of my six-metre long surf ski on the wave ensures a euphoric splash. I drop down the face of the wave, my speed accelerates, the subtle shift of body weight creates smooth lines, more speed and the spray from the rails of my ski are uniformly alluring. Tangaroa has had enough. Fingers grab at the back deck of my ski flicking my craft side on to the green door. I can’t kick out. The back door has closed. Oh, this is indeed ugly!

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