If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea
Stampede. Riversdale Beach, 2025.
This morning I woke before the dawn, and found myself grabbing my camera and tripod, and marching through the tussock and up to the crest of the dune, to witness the rising sun. I didn’t plan to do that today - in fact, I’m pretty tired, and was anticipating a leisurely start. Our family have come to Riversdale Beach, courtesy of my friend Anna who just knows how to care for me. Her family bach sits right tucked against the dunes, and every time I come here, I wake spontaneously and visit the sea.
I think this happens for a few reasons. We live in Pōneke on the western side of Te Ahumairangi, a very tall hill that flanks the CBD. We’re almost in the valley, and so although we enjoy wonderful afternoon sun, and plenty of satisfying sunset light, we don’t get to experience the first light until later in the morning. Watching the sun rise is inherently contemplative, and generally solitary. I always do it when I’m here at Riversdale. Another motivator for this early pyjama-clad pilgrimage, is that I grew up in Paekakariki, in a cottage that is now a castle, that looks out over the ocean. I’m drawn to be near the sea in ways that are often subconscious. I’ll drive the long way around the bays to get to a photoshoot in Miramar or a meeting in Lyall Bay, even though the most direct route is through the city. I choose the scenic route beyond Oriental Bay to get to the airport. Those choices are made without actively considering the extra time or petrol, but instinctively, because … water.
There’s something terrifyingly enticing about the endlessness of the sea. I saw an instagram post the other day that showed a ‘rare view of the Earth’ that was basically a photograph of the Pacific Ocean, with Aotearoa tucked at the lower left curve, and very little else but the vast and deep blue. Today we’re on the east coast of the North Island, and we’re looking out to that very view, with its unbroken horizon. I can choose to be afraid of that wide open yonder, or to find it marvelous and full of potential. There aren’t many opportunities for me to look at this easterly emptiness. My Paekakariki childhood faced the setting sun, the end of the busiest days. This Riversdale coast is a different thing.
This piece of moving image is some evidence that my Master’s degree development has infiltrated my leisure time. I was going to just take some photographs, but I was instead utterly captivated by those stampeding horses of tumbling water. I always think of the scene in The Fellowship of the Ring, with Arwen crossing the Bruinen, and her chant that raises the river. Peter Jackson’s representation of the torrent of water as horses has coloured my imagination ever since I saw it probably 25 years ago. I was compelled to record the backlit surf, and reflect on the ceaseless rhythm of swell and crest, rather than arrest the motion with a still frame, (or even, rather than just sit and appreciate it with my eyes!). I wanted to remember this.
The title of this post comes from Psalm 139, and it’s one of my favourites. ‘If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.’ I’ve never been secretive about my faith, but I don’t generally bring it into every conversation. It feels worthy in this moment by the sea, looking out to the sun rising so far to the East. I’m comforted by my belief that I’m never adrift.