Cramped in the cabin of a six-seater plane, soaring over Foveaux Strait with the drone of the engines flooding the cabin, words transform into drowned mumbles.
Communication is near impossible.
Staring out of the port-hole window, I see a never-ending sea of blue. Looking up, nothing but blue; looking down, nothing but blue again.
The water below flows into the distance, uninterrupted until it reaches the misshapen green mass that is Stewart Island.
The closer we get to our destination, the more detail I can make out - the hills coated in native foliage peaking above the barren cliffs and rocky shores running into the water, the water as blue as the local kingfishers.
Just off the coast, scattered through the water at random intervals, are beds of the various seaweeds that are prolific in the area - macrocystis, Durvillia antarctica and undaria breaking the surface of the water and coating the shores, creating whole new ecosystems.
We glide over the western coast of the island, Rakiura.
Our destination comes into view, a large bay.
Sand the colour of gold borders the restless water in a large crescent shape.
Waves capped in a bright, clean white crash upon the sand, rushing towards the dunes, but only making it a fraction of the way before imminent retreat, only to attempt it all over again seconds later.
Looming above the rich golden sand, we see steep dunes covered in tussock grasses like the hairs on some greater being.
These dunes flow back to the indigenous forest a matter of metres from them.
As the plane arcs around to come in for a landing attempt, we start to reduce both speed and altitude at an increasing rate, as if we are being sucked towards the planet.
We slowly sink below the tops of the largest hills around us.
The plane's flight path flattens out and the wheels kiss the coarse sand with a loud squeak as we race across the beach, drastically reducing speed in a very concentrated amount of time.
We soon come to a standstill and the pilot kills the engines, and in an instant my sense of hearing is restored.
I graciously thank the pilot for letting us arrive at our destination alive and in one piece. I then wish him luck for his return to the airport, back across the strait.
As I step out of the plane, my senses are bombarded; first by the smell of salt and the pungent stench of dead and dying seaweed in the air.
Secondly by the feeling of sand being blown around by the cruel blustery wind whipping my legs.
My vision is attacked by the brutal glare of the sun shining off the milk white chassis of the plane and the deep blue water.
Finally my ears are filled with the crashing of waves and thrashing of wind.
Now that I'm standing on the beach, I can see it for what it truly is. From a distance, it looks like paradise, but once on the beach, I realise the harsh truth. Once a haven for wildlife, this place is slowly being destroyed by the destructive nature of humankind.
In a single glance, I can already see large amounts of inorganic waste.
Plastic fish bins in a multitude of bright pastel colours litter this once beautiful shoreline.
Next, I see this place has been tainted by the carelessness of fishermen, obvious from the presence of vast quantities of bright red plastic crayfishing devices. Spread along the beach are grave examples of the consequences of these actions: death, dead seagulls, dead penguins, dead fish.
It makes a once beautiful place almost seem ugly. There is a great and disappointing contrast between my prior expectations and views from the plane at a great distance, versus the sad reality of the situation.
- By Cullan Hare
Year 12
Otago Boys' High School
