Wating for a wave

My Great Uncle Jock was born in Clairville, a small south Wairarapa town in the house his father Charlie had built in the late 1800's. A home from which he went to school, met and married his childhood sweetheart, took over the small family farm, raised his children, played with his grandkids and where he finally died: all within a few hundred meters of the house he was born in.

He was a Wairarapa man. He know who he was and where he belonged.

I on the other hand , was born of depression parents eager to take every opportunity that presented itself, no matter where. By the time was 10 I had lived in 6 houses and attended 4 primary schools. Just as I was beginning to fit in and make friends I moved on. By my very early 20's the number had grown to 7 schools,10 houses and I had visited more than 12 countries. By 60 it was more than 50 countries.

I knew where I was born, but unlike Gt Uncle Jock, I had no real sense of where I came from or where I belonged.

One of the most settled periods in my early life were my teenage years which I spent in Otaki and where I learned to surf during the summers of 59-63. As a surfer I would spend hours sitting, often alone, just beyond the breaker line, watching the swell and waiting for 'the' wave. I learned very quickly that waiting for the right wave, as opposed to taking the first wave, vastly improved my level of success and my enjoyment of the ride. I would watch as the waves began to form a few hundred meters away from me and try to pick the one that would be capable of taking me up in its swell and delivering me all the way to the shore. Timing was everything and when the right wave showed up I would paddle furiously, and If I had chosen correctly, the ride would be worth the wait. All waves were not created equal, and more ride for less paddle was my aim.

Like my youth, Otaki became a diminishing speck in the rear view mirror and lost in the blurr of life. But the sense of timing I learned surfing had become part of me and the analogy of 'waiting for wave' became one I resorted to often, even when my surfing days had long since ended. I would often describe my situation as waiting for a wave'; a wave of energy, a wave of inspiration, a wave of enthusiasm, support or what ever. Waiting for the right moment seemed to shorten the odds and meet my criteria of more ride for less paddle: but there was a price to pay. Because of this approach I spent more time on the outside of life looking in than on the inside of life looking out: and I spent much of today waiting for the right wave I knew would come tomorrow.

I had become very adept at sitting just beyond the breaker line of life, often alone, waiting for a wave. It had become a way of life. The paten continued and I became very good as spotting the potential in a situation, often long before others did, and in knowing how and when to paddle in time to catch the natural swell that would ensure I could ride it , , , right to the shore. Im not complaining, the 'talent' I had developed allowed me to do more things than most people would ever dream of doing. I was supremely happy, but unlike Jock I didn't really know where I belonged . . . except possibly in a place called 'mid life crisis.'

I was emotionally stateless, just an elderly surfer waiting for yet another wave.

The Otaki school reunion last October turned out to be a bigger wave than I expected, in fact, I hardly noticed the 'swell' that just visiting old haunts and meeting old friends had begun. But a swell it was, and I noticed bits of my identity floating all around me. There was no cohesion, no clear sense of anything like Jock's identity with his place of origin, but slowly over the last several months, I've watched the 'swell' gathering together the fragments of my whakapapa (?): I am John, I come from Otaki. my people are those I knew and grew up with in the late 50's and early 60's, my whenau are my wife, my children and grandchildren, my mountain is Hector and my river the Otaki.

It's not as strong ad Jock's identity, but its a beginning, an anchoring point, a point from which I can begin to grow.

It may have taken sixty something years but I now know who I am - and where I'm from.