Spray coats the deck of the Manaia as we dance across the vast empty ocean. The electrifying thrill of jumping and thudding rhythmically across the restless waves delights and enlivens my senses, as the pale early morning rays' slice through the clouds above me. Tasked with surveying last night's storm damage, I explore the rugged outcrops and bays that surround our island home.
Typical of the tropical cyclones that now repeatedly lash Te Waipounamu during the warm summer months, the storm had hit hard, with huge seas and devastating winds battering our small community.
Leaning over the side I slip my hand into the murky ocean allowing the water to engulf it as I feel its warmth. The year is now 2125, and our world has rapidly changed. We live side by side with the effects of what previous generations before us called ‘Climate Change’. They chose not to act and now those of us left must live with the consequences of history’s actions.
Sighing dramatically, I cast my subconscious mind across the dappled sea. I imagine clear waters thriving with fish, teeming forests filled with birds, and glaciers rolling down Ka Tiritiri-o-te-Moana – curiosities I once discovered while foraging through pictures in Grandma Tui’s dusty library.
Abruptly a thought shattering blow reverberates through the boat's fibro-plastic hull, locking the steering and catapulting the bow into a sudden wallowing stall. The instant deceleration pounds my chest into the control panel, punching the air from my lungs and causing my legs to stagger and buckle beneath my torso.
Sudden silence breaks through the pain, alerting me to my predicament. Alarmed at being powerless to reach the coast and the safety of home, a terrifying sense of hopelessness threatens to envelop me. Clumsily leaning over the stern of the Manaia, I watch the water lapping quietly against the electric PowerDrive.
Scared, trembling and disorientated, I cautiously push the ignition hoping, against hope, for the engine to respond. Bleakly, I gaze towards home noting the plastic littered seascape, as my second and third attempts fail to breathe life back into the motor.
With this amount of pollution, I realise the likely cause of my predicament is a blocked intake valve. Securing the life preserving bungy firmly under my armpits and wordlessly reciting a karakia to Tangaroa I cautiously lower myself down the rear of the hull, wincing in distress at the flares of pain threatening to tear my body in two. Holding my breath, I drop gently, the murky water engulfing me with its warmth.
Surfacing through the opaque water I risk a wary glance at the Manaia before sculling gently sideways to wrap my fingers around a warped and twisted piece of driftwood, sauntering just outside my grasp. Using it as a hand float I submerge my focus underwater to identify the intake valve.
I'm confronted by a ghostly scene that bewilders and confuses my senses. Foggy shapes are suspended everywhere in static formation. Horrified, I surface coughing awkwardly. Squishy foreign blobs are now drifting on the surface around me. I fight my instinct to panic, realising I’m surrounded not by plastic, but a bloom of jellyfish.
A burning, prickling feeling creeps up my arm paralysing it in pain. The intolerable sensation surges rapidly through my body. I thrash out wildly as searing heat penetrates my left leg. I squint through the blurry tears down towards my arm. A fine trail of tentacles is woven around my right wrist and hand.
Sobbing in agony, I hear a crying wail, just loud enough to seize my attention. Not comprehending, I hear it again, a disturbed sharp snorting yelp echoing across the water. Alert now, I begin to search the surrounding ocean, looking for the ‘someone or something’ that’s creating the noise.
I seek it, as it cries out again - a high-pitched chirp. I stop moving, abruptly calming my tortured body. Then I see it. Does it know I’m here? My hands threaten to shake as I nervously reach out amazed and curious.
It’s a little blue penguin – a Korora, a bird that hasn’t been sighted in decades and is now believed to be one of the many on the ever-expanding list of extinct species. I’d read about extinct New Zealand birds with Grandma Tui, and the Korora had always been one of my favourites in her ancient wildlife books.
Baffled I gasp in shock, and wonder if my mind and the pain I’m experiencing is twisting my sense of reality. It’s clear though that the little Korora’s tangled in plastic and struggling to propel itself. The panicked creature gives another wailing cry before submerging itself underwater. It pops up again right next to me and I momentarily forget my own plight. Slowly and gently, I let my hands stroke the suffering penguin's feathers hoping to calm the distressed creature, to give me time to remove the plastic that's suffocating it and pulling its wing out of place.
Slipping my fingers beneath the strangling tie I carefully lever the debris over the Korora’s neck and free the wing from its constriction. In relief the bird disappears from view but returns seconds later snorting and chirping. The gravity of my situation rapidly hits home and the pain tearing through my body focuses my survival instincts. Not only do I need to return to my skiff, but I must find a way to rescue my new companion.
Determination flares within me, as fresh tears spring from my eyes. Sucking in what could be my final breath I haul on the safety bungy and drag myself the short distance to the stern. Toxic tentacles fiercely torment my exposed limbs and without consideration I thrust the little penguin onto the deck, and in a mixture of anger and terror I scramble and heave my way back aboard. My awareness fades as my surroundings blur and shimmer into unconsciousness.
- - - -
Merekara’s initial recovery was impressive. With skilful veterinary help and regular meals, she regained her condition and strutted around our small village with a proud glint in her eye. My own strength also returned quickly; however, it took weeks for me to fill in the many gaps in my memory, and even with medical attention the intense pain and scarring caused by the jellyfish bloom barely subsided.
Mr. Beleno, the ancient mariner from two bays over, had been observing the ocean following the storm through his binoculars hoping to spot something worth salvaging. At first, he hadn’t paid my small skiff any attention, but when he noticed my boat drifting quietly on the tide, he became curious and wanted to explore further.
Finding my body facedown, sunburnt and unconscious, Mr Beleno hadn’t initially spotted the young Korora. Instead, checking my vital signs, he’d covered my exposed skin and made me as comfortable as possible, he’d then attached a salvage hook to the bow of the Manaia, and marine radioed ahead to shore.
Help wasn’t long arriving. The village doctor recognized the severity of my injuries and chose to maintain my unconscious state, in an effort to give my body an opportunity to overcome the toxic jellyfish stings.
Experience was a hard lesson, but a good teacher. Intertwined lightning scars from where the tentacles had been lifted from my skin covered my arms, lower legs and neck. The pain in my muscles reducing over time to a dull ache. Merekara’s spirited bravado as she hopped and chirruped around helped me bounce back. Each morning she would head out to sea and return at dusk to a burrow under our deck.
Six months after the incident little Merekara left one morning and didn’t return. Two weeks passed and one evening a commotion on the beach brought people out onto their balconies to stare. Hopping and strutting up the beach were seven small shapes calling and snorting shrilly at each other.
A burning lamp of hope flared. Hope from seeing how another species had adapted and learned to live through the environmental catastrophe humans had caused. Hope that we can learn to survive in our devastated world, and hope that with the help of caring whanau, friends and neighbours that one day we will learn to respect our planet so that it can thrive once more.