Tangaroa, Atua of the Ocean

Tāwhirimātea, Atua of the Weather

With the crashing of the waves, I hear your voice

The breeze against my face, I feel your whispers

My feet in the sand, I walk the beach you rest on

The droplets of rain, I feel your tears

I dive into the surf, we embrace each other fast

The sun on my back, I feel your arm over my shoulders

The sandcastles make, we build our lives together

The clouds above, mirror our same movement below

The creatures of the sea, our pets we swim alongside

The mist that surrounds me, is the cloak that protects us

Tangaroa and Tāwhirimatea ensure we are together always

I was born within the cultural boundaries of Te Whakatōhea in the township on the east coast of the North Island of Aotearoa, the picturesque town of Ōpōtiki.

My teenage years saw me leave Ōpōtiki for the ancestral lands of Tainui-Waikato in the pursuit of secondary and tertiary education.

This is migration as we know it.

An educational career offered the opportunities for me to travel to other land outside of Aotearoa visiting and living on many Indigenous ancestral lands including Denmark, on the homelands of the Sámi people; on the motherlands of the Indigenous Indians of San Diego County; in Singapore alongside the inheritors and practitioners of Asian cultures; on the ancestral homelands of Auckland, Ngati Whatua, Whakatane, Ngati Awa and now here on the banks of the Whanganui awa, our home located on the shores of Castlecliff beach on the tribal lands of Te Atihaunui a Pāpārangi.

This is migration as we know it.

Overseas experiences, possibilities of financial sustainability and bright lights draw me to the overseas cities of Europe, Asia and the United States. My family and I would made the point to return to Te Whakatohea to be with our whānau who lived within the our tribal boundaries and to specifically gather on our marae to attend birthdays, weddings, tangihanga, holidays, and other whānau events spending periods of time connecting and reconnecting with our huge, extended, loud, wonderful whānau. My migrational escapades are not mine alone. Some of my whānau remained on our tribal lands, however, many, like me, built new homes somewhere else, some never to return.

This is migration as we know it.

I am a whānau member of Ngā Uri o Patumoana and Raikete Amoamo. A large proportion of my whānau; children, grandchildren, aunties, uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews live away from our tribal homeland of Te Whakatōhea. In fact 83% of our whānau living outside our tribal boundaries of Te Whakatōhea; with 24% of our whānau members living outside Aotearoa.

This is migration as we know it.

My Whānau and I have a unique physical, political and moral status as Māori, as tangatawhenua. This positioning ties us to our iwi, te Whakatōhea and our hapū, Ngati Rua. This institutional standing provides my Whānau and I the potential to support and maintain our Māori identity as descendants of Tūtāmure. My Whānau and me that live outside te Whakatōhea boundaries but inside the seaboards of Aotearoa have the distinct openings to remain connected with ease of access to ‘home’ and local whānau communities in the areas we are living. My Whānau who live in Australia also have a the geographical proximity to Aotearoa which again provides opportunities to retain connections, both through the ease of access to ‘home’ (when covid allows) and with Whānau and Māori communities living in Australia. However, I do worry about my Whānau living in Europe. I will need to talk with my cousin and ask how he and his family feel about their physical, political and moral status as Māori.

This is migration as we know it.

I doze, I sleep, I dream, my reality. I have been tasked to accompany Hine-i-Kauīa, the daughter of Muriwai. Our destination, Ōpōtiki-mai-tawhiti. A position of control is destined, bone through matrimony. The whakapapa now explains the relatedness uniting the descendants of ngā waka Nukutere and Mātaatua. Ōmarūmutu marae, elevated above Te Moana-nui-a-Kiwi with Whakaari cradled on the horizon; with panoramic views to the south of the Rāhui Valley and up to Kapuārango in the interior of the Waiaua Valley to the south-west, and within the landscape icons of Mākeo, the impressive coned shaped fortress and the meandering river of the Waiaua; sees established the seat of power of Tūtātmure and Hineikauīa and signifying the tribal aphorism:

Ko Mākeo to maunga, ko Waiaua to awa, ko Tūtāmure raua ko Hine-i-Kauīa nga tangata.

I am awake. I take my place on the surf club control tower. My eyes peel to the east where I imagine Tārawa and his companions rollicking, reposed at the mouth of the Waioeka and Otara rivers and further along the coastline to Hukawai and Tirohanga where Omarumutu holds its position. To the fore Whakaari, White Island stands proud on the horizon, gentle puffs of volcanic vapour egress the island’s vertex. To the west, I pick up the silhouette of Moutohora, Whale Island that watches over the whānau of Muriwai. Tangaroa connects Nukutere and Mātaatua.

Picture source: The Journal of the Polynesian Society

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!

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. 

Ko ahau te moana. Ko te moana ko ahau

I am the sea. The sea is me. 

I doze, I sleep, I dream, my reality. My brothers have left, I lie awake wondering what new adventures they are up to across the vast ocean of Te Moana-nui-a-Kiwa. I have made that journey numerous times before, and I long to relive that excitement. I find myself swimming alongside my two companions, my two pet tānahanaha. We ride the waves together. We are one with Kiwa riding the back of the waves, playing the curl of the waves, flying the crest of the waves. We are the waves; the waves are us. Bystanders watch from under the brilliant display of red. The bleached sands covered in driftwood beckons the waveriders, calling my companions and me to the shore. We rest, a spring supports and soothes our exhausted bodies, ngā tānahanaha are at home, the spring is their home, the spring of  Ōpōtiki-mai-tawhiti. Tihei mauri ora!   

I am awake. The early morning sun teases with anticipation of the day. I share a car ride back to Ōpōtiki, back for a day on the beach with my local surf club mates. The pohutukawa are in full bloom, and it’s only early season. The spray glistens off the one-metre brake, forming a perfect line, must be one hundred metres offshore. A lone rider sits upon.ski, facing the gentle puffs of Whakaari sitting on the horizon, not looking for a wave but being with the wave.

My connection home is Tangaroa. I paddle the ebbs and flows of a hundred taniwha which binds me to the soul-prints of my tūpuna who stood amongst the coastal resources of my tribal homeland. I sit astride my surf ski in the soothing waters of Te Moana-nui-a-Kiwa looking at the ridge from where Tārawa was first sighted afloat his pae rātā, home in Ōpōtiki-mai-tawhiti.

Tihei mauri ora