Not exactly what we fantasized, but a fantasy in its own way. Photo: Sean Buckley
Just over a year ago, my partner and I were living in a nice community in a great city with a good group of friends. We both had interesting jobs that we could bike to everyday. I even got to the Pacific and Asia a few times a year for work and I was surfing at least four or five times a month. When I think back on it, life was good.
Still, I kept an eye out for different jobs — a just in case sort of thing. When one came up on a tiny Polynesian island, I toyed with the idea of applying. I’d always wanted to live on a Pacific island and I had grand fantasies of living the lifestyle suggestive of a Thomas Campbell surf film. “By Fist and Fury” and “Electric Eggs” could be the soundtrack to my life. On the other hand, a quick Google search suggested limited surf options and I wasn’t sure I wanted to give up the life we had. My partner seemed less worried, but I’d just turned 31 and maybe it was time to start settling down, get married, buy a house, and have a kid…
Eventually I applied and did a very rushed interview, the experience didn’t leave me with much on which to hang any hopes. It all seemed a bit of a long shot and I don’t think I was fully committed. A few days later we took a flight to the United States to see family and I basically forgot about it. Four weeks later, uncomfortable in a LAX airport terminal and preparing to fly home, I got the job offer.
In the end, I don’t know exactly why we took the job and made the move. I suspect that, for me at least, it was partly to do with the fantasy. A fear that if I didn’t take the job, I might never again get the chance to live on a tropical island with palm trees, warm clear water, and perfect waves.
As it turns out, I’m not living the fantasy.
We earn less here than we did at home in New Zealand; we live in what is effectively a shack perpetually covered in gecko shit; we’ve been robbed; we work harder at our jobs here than we ever have before; last month we both had Zika virus; and the waves aren’t perfect. But I wouldn’t undo the decision.
Our front yard. Photo: Sean Buckley
Our shack is twenty steps from a lagoon. We’ll never live on beachfront property like this again. This time of year I’m starting everyday with a mango and banana smoothie, and I rarely go a week without fresh sashimi. The work is interesting and we’ve made good friends. I wonder if it’s similar to living in Hawaii 60 years ago; there are no high-rise towers anywhere, no crowds of learner surfers or angry locals. The waves aren’t perfect but they can be very good.
The surf here is short, hollow and powerful but over very shallow reef, all of it. There isn’t a time I go out that I don’t feel some level of fear in my gut, that I don’t consider the implications. I’ve left a fair bit of skin on the reef but the waves are still fun and I hope changing my surfing for the better. Ultimately, if I want waves here I have to be patient, commit, stick the steep drops and manage the fear. Maybe that’s why I moved here, not for the surf, but because I surf.
