We spent several days in Kohukohu over Easter. No tv, no radio, no newspapers; heaven! I spent a lot of time out with my camera, and really enjoyed experimenting with different 
settings, nearly falling in the tide, and capturing the bird life.
On the right: ‘here’s lookin’ at ya kid’.
Fabulous food – two cafes, one a slightly ‘fast food’ type of eating place, the other perhaps a more European establishment, both with a distinctively Kohukohu flavour. Beautifully cooked and beautifully presented. Super people.
Will I go back again? You betcha. When I want peace and serenity, genuine people, history, friendship, yes, I’ll go again.
On the right is Motiti Island – you could hear the terns as they hit the water in a dive, it was that still. The stillness itself was almost audible, an uncanny sensation, and not one that most of us are familiar with.
I can’t resist the gulls – they are so funny. They squabble, they fight, they sit oh so patiently waiting for a tidbit, and they are so graceful when they fly. I’m learning to pan, and spent much time doing that on my break. This really is the best one. So many of my images suggest their own titles: on the right: Catching the Breeze. 
On the left: Washed up with the tide.
I belong to Alpha Writer’s Group. It is online, and a varied group of ability and talent. Each challenge, or competition, is limited to 300 words. Following are two stories I wrote to explore the possibilities of a situation that could possibly be playing out during the time of the Pike River Mine disaster. Such media saturation, the spotlight on so many things. I wondered what might it be like for those dealing with problems that existed before the explosion, and made made worse by the explosion. Entirely fictional, because I don’t know anybody who was part of that, but I do know human behaviour.
“I hate you,” said the woman. She spat the words at the TV screen, where the latest news update on the Pike River Mine disaster flickered.
“We are now a nation in mourning,” the Prime Minister told the news conference. “There has been a second, catastrophic explosion in the Pike River Mine. We hold no hope of being able to rescue our men.”
He brushed away tears, and beside him, the mine company CEO brushed away his own tears. The Police Commander in charge of rescue operations was stony-faced as he dealt with a barrage of mindless questions from the national and international rampage of news reporters.
The woman emptied her bottle of wine and flicked a tea towel over a spill that had puddled on the table. She opened another bottle, her gaze fixed on the current affairs programme that had followed the news update. A mine expert gave his educated opinion that the temperature in the mine at the time of the second explosion would have reached 1250 °C.
“I hate you all,” she screamed, jabbing two fingers at the TV screen. “What the f**k would you know?”
Following the current affairs programme, the weather forecaster claimed that this had been the hottest day in several years. The ghosts of the 29 miners whispered, “Yeah, it was bloody hot down here too.”
The woman curled into the foetal position on the floor and cradled her belly. When the sobbing subsided she whispered softly, as if to herself, “and I hate you.”
And the follow up, written several weeks later.
The Christening Gown
When I picked the parcel up at the post shop, I knew what it contained. I knew it was the christening gown that every baby in our family has worn since forever. My mother is big on tradition, the family that creates its traditions together stays together, that sort of thing.
I didn’t have to unwrap the parcel to remember what the gown looked like. My sister’s baby wore it last and I could still see it as the light from the stained glass window in the church fell across the little group at the font. I could almost feel the lace, see the embroidered rosebuds around the neckline. I could still hear the howl of horror as the priest sprinkled his holy water on the baby’s head and splashed some on the gown as well. Oh no, I didn’t have to unwrap it and I damn well wasn’t going to.
My coffee grew cold as I stared out across the paddocks. I watched cows heading along the farm race for the afternoon milking and I watched the clouds building up in the west, promising a storm that would break before nightfall.
“Honey, I’ll come down and stay with you when the little one is born, and give you a hand,” Mum had said, when I told her I was pregnant. She’d done that for my sister too, for both her babies.
She’d sent the christening gown so I could hang it up and celebrate the coming baby who would wear it. That’s part of the tradition. All the newly pregnant mothers-to-be in our family do it.
Right on Mum. True to form – keeping the family tradition going. I didn’t expect anything less.
But you’re too late. Yesterday I went to the clinic and ended my baby’s life. I killed it, just like that f*****g mine explosion killed its father.