Early bird gets the worm. Make sure you’re the bird with these sleep tricks. Photo: Callum Morse/Saltshots Photography
“Early to bed and early to rise, that’s what is best in the Lord’s eyes!” My catholic grandmother would say this to us whenever we would stay with her. I laugh thinking about it now as I ready my essentials at nearly six am every Sunday morning. The pungent scent of roast coffee waivers outside to the porch. I see the Sunday sun poking its head out. It’s time.
Speedily I pop into the van rushing, speeding begins to turn pink. I don’t want to be late. Stepping out of the van there are only a few others in the Church parking lot. They are just like me; we are all sinners just looking to repent, some of us with Saturday’s poison still flowing through our veins. I check the sky again as the pink turns to a light orange. The sound of the Tui bird cackles, beginning the wakeup call for the rest of choir. I finger through my hair, wrapping it up so it doesn’t get stuck in my towel. Legs first, my bare feet feel the chill of morning pavement; freezing, un-warmed by the New Zealand sun. Sneakily I slip my Sunday’s best over the bottom half of my body. I am the only girl at this morning’s service. Not uncommon, but I don’t want to show any more skin that what I have too. My back facing the great Kariori Summit, I pull my top over my head while simultaneously pushing the neoprene over my shoulders and around my front. Turning back around my bare back seemed to cause a scene as I catch my fellow sinners trying to catch a peak. I smirk, zip up my back with a jump, grab my board and begin my walk down to the service.
Ngarunui beach is just like walking into a church alone. I am new around these parts, unknown to many of the other people around me. Walking down the pathway to the service I get a few stares just like when changing, but I know why I am here. As my feet feel the magnetic, frigid sand, I look down and see it begin to sparkle. It is nearly seven am. It’s time to go to church.
Like many things in life, there are two ways to enter the water. One can tip toe around it, knowing what the feeling will be, yet unsure of if they are ready; or jump in. I tie my leg rope to my ankle and quickly rush in. Another smirk trickles across my face as the rushing tide pushes me back. One hand on my trusted board, I maneuver through white wash until I am waist deep.
The tide is rising, pushing faster and faster forward toward me, now for the duck dive. My heart rushes at the monster of a wave but I cannot hesitate for risking being kicked right out of church. I know what the Lord, the ocean, wants me to do. I comply like second nature. Hands on the rails, knee down, head tucked. One deep breath and, under the wave I go. My body has had the first sprinkling of holy water and is feeling the rush.
I gasp for air and sit, balancing my slippery, wet self in the middle of my board. Gliding past the mess, I finally begin to reach the front row of the church, the lineup. I gasp for air and sit, balancing my slippery, wet self in the middle of my board. Now is the time to listen to the gospel. I close my eyes and feel the misty, salty wind tickle my face. The choir of birds now begins the first verse of the first song. Tui leads, as usual, with the Fantail, and Pukeko bringing in the chorus. I open my eyes and look back around me. Ten other sinners, followers of this religion balance on their trusted steeds as well. We nod and smile to each other, words not needed to express what we all know: the preacher is going to preach some deep things this Sunday morning. The shadows of the swell on the horizon tell that Mother Ocean is going to be pumping.
The first set begins to come through and my congressional companions push themselves off the underbelly of that first wave. I wait, as I am a new convert. I have to let the longtime members of this borderline cult have first grabs at the salvation this Sunday morning. Like any religion, the ocean has its rules.
The first ten sets go by and with a nod one of the elders lets me know that it is ok for me to feel Mother Ocean’s gift to us. I paddle furiously, blinded by the splash of stinging salt water and feel the raising up of my board. I focus; push myself up to my feet and pivot. I felt the rush of love crash over me as I glided across the glorious shore. It was only thirty seconds but it seemed like it lasted forever. I made my way off the large wave and turn. A huge kook grin on my face, I paddle back out and join the elders.
The sky turns from orange to the perfect blue, it is day light now. The congregation and I have been out to sea for over three hours and just now we are seeing the less dedicated members push out. That is our queue to leave. Without saying a word we all know that mass is over, it’s time for some breakie and more coffee.
For the people like me who believe in the ocean, it runs our lives. The locals call it “catching the stoke.” It is like a cult. Once you are in there is no going back. Every day I check the wind. See what the swell is doing, check the cycles of the moon. All of this so I can wash away my sins in the water.
