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.