July 29, 2010
Almost done. The home stretch is in front of me. All that is left is Taranaki—the unnaturally round peninsula at the elbow of the North Island—and the small stretch of land between Taranaki and Hamilton. What makes Taranaki unnatural is how perfectly round it is. On maps, it looks like it was drawn in by some lazy European cartographer who knew his work would never come under scrutiny. Driving into the region the key to the peninsula becomes obvious. Mt. Taranaki dominates the rolling green foothills around it. Standing like the platonic ideal of a snow-capped volcano, one can’t help but stare at it and take redundant photos. It looks like a child drew it, or rather, like a Hershey’s Kiss dipped in white chocolate. Also known as Mt. Egmont, the volcano stands 2,500 meters above sea level—high enough to influence local weather patterns. This, combined with the shape of the peninsula, guarantees that there is offshore wind at a surf break somewhere. To the south, Opunake is the surf hub. To the north is New Plymouth, the largest city in the region. In between is motorway 45, the “Surf Highway” which circumnavigates the peninsula half way between the volcano and the beach. Roads intersect the motorway like radiating spokes. Almost all of these narrow roads lead out to the coast and a handful of rocky reef and point breaks.
At the west end of the peninsula, down one of these roads is the most famous surf spot in the ‘Naki: Stent Road. I arrived on a Thursday afternoon, driving up to the de facto parking lot where a dozen or so cars were haphazardly arranged on a muddy plateau, facing the water. The surf was over head, ledgy and hollow at the take-off, and peeling quickly down the line in long, steep walls. The break looked like an abbreviated but punchier version of Swamis in Encinitas. I quickly suited up, danced over the shallow rocky bottom and paddled out. Not 30 seconds after reaching the outer peak I was confronted by a beefy Maori local who wanted to put me in my place. “Hey bro, where you goin’? Wait ya turn, son.” I gave him a cocky, but friendly laugh and waited through 2 sets. When the third set rolled through, I deferred the first wave to him and caught the second one. I made the drop, linked some nice turns and kicked out 100m down the line. On the paddle back out, I caught up to the guy and started chatting with him. His tough “locals only” demeanor softened quickly when it was clear that I wasn’t a kook and I respected the locals. We compared wetsuits and boards. Arriving back in the lineup with the enforcer probably placated the rest of the locals and I had no further issues.
I surfed until dark before retreating to the beach. It was my brother Chris’ birthday and I was determined to call him. The 9 hour time difference was accounted for, I just needed to find a cell phone signal. Instead of heading back south where I came from I drove north. 20 minutes later I was in Oakura. It was good to catch up with my brother. We haven’t seen each other in a year and the best case scenario for getting together is Thanksgiving. His ticket is booked for San Diego but my plans are still up in the air. It’s a question of time off from the job I don’t yet have.
After the phone call I was in a really good mood. The local pub across the street was crowded with young surfer types and I decided to treat myself to good meal. A Flintstone’s sized lamb chop, heaping dish of mashed potatoes, a handful of roasted veggies and a pint of beer and I was a happy camper. When dinner was done I stood up and prepared to leave when a warm couple started chatting with me. They asked where I came from, how I got to Oakura and where I was headed. We talked about travel for a few minutes before they offered me their guest house for the evening. I gladly accepted.
Ton (short for Antonius) and Mary Deken are a bright and gracious couple. Social and independent, they playfully push each others’ buttons with one hand while being exceptionally considerate with the other. They are in their 50s, and parents of 3 kids who are in various stages of leaving the nest. Mary often laughed and pointed out the similarities between her oldest son, Simon and myself. Beautiful, stylish and patient—Mary, not me—she was quick to invite me to dinner every night and always insisted that I eat a second helping. Ton is a barrel-chested man with boundless energy. He shared stories of his surf travels, tipped his local knowledge of the breaks and surf conditions and was happy to talk rugby with me while we watched the All Blacks matches on tv. They made it clear that the invitation to stay was indefinite and one night turned to a week before I extricated myself from the guest house. Their horse ranch offered incredible views of the mountain, the hills and the ocean. Every day was a sleepless combination of World Cup matches in the middle of the night, mid-day surf, afternoon internet access at the library and then dinner with Ton, Mary, their daughter Abbey or some of the neighbors. One night they roasted a whole lamb leg for the 3 of us. It easily could have fed 10. I tried to repay their generosity by making chicken fajitas and a fresh pico de gallo another night. Regardless of the meal we always enjoyed a few drinks and some lively conversation. They created such a warm and comfortable environment that by the second night they felt like old familiar friends. On the third night, Mary insisted that I was like family so I should just show up around 6 and expect dinner. The Deken Family join the Pantheon of wonderful families who have always opened their doors to me. Like the Wus, Learneds, Rajcics, Sheas, Craigs, Carlsons, Corvans and McKiels before them, it’s a great feeling to know that there’s always a place at their table for me.
