1 Marine Parade South, Piha, Auckland
Piha Lagoon
By James Littlewood
It was the day before lockdown, so we got in the car and headed out to nearby Piha. We joined a handful of others cautiously wandering the dunes, keeping their distance, wandering around and wondering aloud about what the next month would bring. A lone, pot-bellied surfer waddled towards the raging sea. He was grinning under a furrowed brow, clearly unsure if this was the best time for rubbing shoulders with Tangaroa, Poseidon or Davy Jones.
We ignored him and headed south. Everything looked different, and not just because of the few people and the weirded-out vibe. The geography itself had changed. Despite being low tide, we recalled that on previous journeys we’d clambered over rocks when the tide was high. Now, the cliff plunged almost straight into the sea. There used to be a reef extending into the south end of the beach. Now just a couple of rocks poked out of the sand. It occured to me that if the tide came in, we might be slightly fucked. Or was the sand so high as to form an all tides beach? If the worst comes to the worst, I thought, we can always get back via the inland track.
We carried on. There’s a low-tide expanse of sandy desert to traverse here, with the Waitakere ranges - the mighty forest of Tiriwa - rising inland, and a colossal rock - Taitomo - on the seaward side, its sheer cliff faces towering overhead. The distances seem vast, and the scenery otherworldly, possibly divine if you’re into all that, reducing the human scale to an indivisible miniature.
Eventually, there’s a perfect little lagoon, a circular sandy bay, whose rocky headlands descend to a tightly aggressive aperture. Facing the prevailing westerly wind and swell, these rocks cop a fair old battering. At the time we were there, the surf exploded and surged dramatically over them, puddling on the sand at our feet.
Possibly due to rough blanket of mussels carpeting the rocks, or possibly due to the constitution of the water itself, or maybe both, the pool at our feet formed the most delightful layer of scum, an aerated mousse like the crema on a perfect espresso.
We were admiring this frothy treat, slathering it over our feet, imagining it as a tidal manifestation of the ensuing viral plague, when I heard my name. A friend was standing not far away. I instinctively stepped towards him and reached out my hand, only to immediately recoil at the same time he did, an early, clumsy attempt at social distancing. We admired the view for a while, and then looked up. A large jet was heading south east towards Mangere airport, and we meditated briefly on how rare such sights had already become.
The giant rocky headland has a cave that punctures it from side to side. The tide surges right through this cave, guttering through the vast sandy expanse across to the lagoon. As we walked home, we could view - through the cave - the blazing sun setting over Nga tai whakatu a Kupe, the sea named by more recent locals for the murderous merchant navy man, Able Tasman.
Since then, level 4 means we’ve left Piha to the locals.
Image Credits: James Littlewood
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