When the sea remembers how to rise.

The homeward sea rose high and wild — as if it could swallow me whole, and then give me back changed.

The morning we left, the channel was no longer gentle.
Swell stacked upon swell, and the boat lifted like a breath held too long,
then dropped into the hollow blue — a heartbeat between fear and awe.

For a moment, it felt as if the ocean might take me,
folding me into its dark-green pages.
I held the rail and counted the rise and fall:
up — sky and white spray,
down — salt and shadow.

In the noise, I tried to listen for the quiet I’d found on the island:
the fern-breath of the forest, the kingfisher’s clear note,
the bench that said, rest.
Even here, the sea kept teaching:
to yield, to trust, to ride the moving line between letting go and holding on.

Land arrived the way understanding does — slowly, then all at once.
Harbor lights steadied, the hull softened its voice,
and I realized the sea hadn’t tried to swallow me.
It had carried me — and returned me slightly new.

Some journeys end at the shore.
Mine ended in the heart that learned to listen.

Where rain, wind, and wings meet the rhythm of the island.

Through rain and mud, the island revealed its wild pulse — a song of water, wings, and quiet strength.

The day began with the road curving past the heliport near Ryan’s Creek.
Beside the path, a small stream whispered at first,
then grew louder — until its sound filled the air like heavy rain.
Here and there, brief waterfalls flashed through the green,
their voices strong enough to feel almost fierce.

I passed Allan’s Base Camp and kept walking through real rain —
the kind that soaks everything, even thoughts.
And yet, in that wild weather, I met a gift:
a sacred kingfisher, bright as a gem, singing its clear, quick notes.
For a moment, it felt as if the storm itself had stopped to listen.

Later, back near Halfmoon Bay,
I followed the path toward Deep Bay and Ringaringa Beach.
As I approached Evening Cove, something white shimmered
across the rocks — almost ghostlike at first glance.
For a moment, I wondered, “Is that mist… or something else?”
But as I drew closer, I realized —
it was simply the pale stone, salt-washed and beautiful in its own way.

At Ackers Stone House, the wind turned wild,
pushing against me with a force that almost lifted me off my feet.
The sea was magnificent, but unreachable —
so I turned back, carried by the storm’s breath.

Through Harold Bay and back to Halfmoon Bay,
I passed Moana Garden again —
and there, even in the rain, the ferns stood tall,
their leaves shining with joy.
I smiled, remembering: Ferns have always loved the rain.
Perhaps that’s why they thrive here —
in the quiet strength of Stewart Island’s weather,
where even the storms know how to nurture life.

Where every step feels like a conversation with life.

A muddy, winding trail — but every slip, every breath felt like life itself teaching me how to keep walking.

The third day began with a short drive past Little River and Lee Bay,
where I stopped near Māori Beach carpark to see the island’s symbolic sculpture.
From there, I chose the Garden Mound Track —
a modest three-hour loop through forest and coastal air.

The rain from the past two nights had left the trail soft and muddy,
each step a quiet reminder to move carefully.
At times the path was slippery,
but the beauty of the forest — the dense canopy, the earthy scent —
made every climb worth the effort.

The trail rose and dipped like a pulse,
and as I caught my breath on the steeper slopes,
I felt the full rhythm of life — joy and solitude walking beside me.
It wasn’t an easy trail, but it was real,
and in that reality, I found a strange peace.

Halfway through, I reached Māori Beach.
The tide was low, and I crossed the wide sand,
hopping across dark rocks like stepping stones toward the open sea.
Seaweed clung to the stones,
and I imagined abalone shells hidden somewhere beneath the water —
quiet lives unfolding out of sight.

The path curved back into the forest,
and near the middle of the climb, I found a single wooden bench.
It felt like a small gift —
as if the mountain itself was saying,
“You’ve come far enough. Sit. Rest for a while.”

I sat, breathing in the view —
the sky and sea blending in still harmony,
as if peace had quietly reached the height of my heart.

(Where silence learns to breathe again)

In the hush of Ulva Island, I listened not with my ears — but with my heart.

The air of the second morning was wrapped in stillness.
Originally, I planned to walk one of Stewart Island’s long trails,
but the weather shifted — and so did I.

Instead, I joined a small group of six for the Ulva Island Wildlife Tour,
riding across silver water in a little water taxi toward a sanctuary of birds and ancient trees.

Our guide named each bird, one after another —
but their songs stayed with me more than their names.
I wanted to remember everything the guide said,
yet my imagination wandered: soon I was lost in the sound of wings,
the scent of the forest after rain,
and the quiet heartbeat of life beneath the ferns.

Every rustle, every shimmer of light through the leaves
felt like the earth breathing — reminding me to listen, not think.

Perhaps the world doesn’t need us to understand it.
It only needs us to listen.