SATURDAY
Spring has officially arrived. The mossy grass is soft and warm, its damp and earthy smell a memory of a week of rains. Little waves splash softly towards the river bank, slowly edging closer as the tide rolls in. A skylark is singing, high, high above the river. Sun filters through the punga overhead, streaks of heat warm cool skin. Along the river mouth a line of whitebaiters scoop into the incoming waves, the surface glistens as the warm sun shines down on it. Alex is hunting crabs on the river bank below me, stopping every now and then to check his net. The river seems peaceful, the tide is full and the seabirds congregate on the opposite bank. Buckets empty, its time to head home.
SUNDAY
We wake to ominous grey clouds hugging the mountain tops out the window. Not a streak of sunlight brightens the sky. The smell of rain is heavy in the air as we pack up nets and buckets. As we arrive a wind has risen, whipping sand along the empty shoreline. Jeremy drops us at the cliffs, off to get his nets in as we walk along the beach. Tiny raindrops start to fall, we are dressed in heavy layers, jackets and hats a complete opposite to the previous day. The children run into the trees, climbing onto the swings, they swing above the beach for a while before running ahead to the huts along the lagoon. We walk back up to the tiny settlement, Alex stopping to smell all the wet daffodils. The rain begins to fall faster, we run the rest of the way to Jeremy in the truck. Before long the rain is really pouring down, the infamous torrential West Coast rain raising the river in mere minutes. A lone kotuku wades along the lagoon edge, eventually giving up and flying off as we drink hot coffee, the skies grey, the river swollen and the rain thundering down on the truck roof. Another day of empty buckets, its home time again.
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