Wk 25 // attunement

5AM doesn't feel as early as it should when I have something to do. Tonight will be a full moon, and while I didn't have high hopes for fishing, I decided nonetheless to set out early. At the very least, it meant getting to watch the sun rise in the quiet of the day, before the city wakes up. Mum's woolly jumper in tow, I made my way to Winston's Cove, a small East Coast beach between Torbay and the outer edge of the Long Bay Regional Park. Walking down a steep concrete path, I hear the beach before I reach it - a steady, rhythmic hush, waves meeting eons of crushed cockle shells and sand; perhaps one and the same thing, I think. In the dark around us, the night is perfectly still.

---

Come Summertime, the fat greedy Snapper will make their way around the coastline, leaving the sanctuary waters of the neighbouring marine reserve to hunt for shellfish in the rough sand of the beach. In the Winter, schools of kahawai can be seen - or at least their presence felt - from a small muddy ledge to the right of the beach. This is where I will go. I carefully balance along the edge of the muddy cliff, reaching for and ducking under the trunk of an impossibly weathered Pōhutukawa tree, to arrive at the fishing ledge. The tide is falling, and the rock is slick with silt and cliff mud. I tread carefully, for my own sake as much as its.

The Pōhutukawa has grown by reaching itself down the shifting cliffside. It stands sideways, frozen mid-tumble, bracing against the rockface and the ledge in a mutual act of support and chance. Many of its large branches stretch down into the sea, and the push and pull of the tide has stripped them of their leaves and bark over time. On a low branch, someone has attached a small wooden plank to form an unsteady, makeshift ladder; on the branch above, a weathered rope hangs, stroking the surface of the water - what remains of a well-worn swing. It has changed since the last time I was here: its improvised seat, a sturdy branch from the tree itself, now gone, presumably carried away on the waves.

I am the only person here, to my knowledge. Some way out across the water the faint lights of a small fishing boat flicker against Rangitoto's dark silhouette. Surprisingly, I spot a kayak, its red safety light blinking just off the headland to the left, skirting the edge of the marine reserve. I recall an article I had read the day prior: "Serial Poacher Receives Fine for "Worst Offending Seen Yet"', after fishing from the protected waters. They're probably just looking to catch their dinner, like me, I hope... Perhaps they have seen me too - for whatever reason, they begin to make their way towards the neighbouring beach before finally ducking out of sight behind the headland, into the reserve. I watch them warily, trying not to assume the worst of people.

There are few lights visible at this time of night. Many of the houses above the cove are holiday homes, vacant or locked in what seems to be a perpetual state of renovation. They roost quietly on the cliff's edge. What little light is visible comes from a small white lantern on a private staircase some one hundred meters away, and the dim amber glow of a nearby street lamp through a row of Norfolk pines to the East. On the horizon, Rangitoto's light house

blinks on watchfully - red, white,... To its right, the LEDs of the city glitter quietly. They seem harsh, tightly packed, oversaturated compared to the scattering of stars visible above the low clouds. Above the glow of the skyline, the Dog Star Sirius watches on.

I tie my own rope to the Pōhutukawa, and from the other end lower a berley bag into the waves over the edge of the cliff. It is still dark, and I forgot to bring a torch. I feel for the eventual shift in tension on the rope and listen for the sound of a different splash against the rockface, to know whether it has made it or not. Squinting in the moonlight, I somehow manage to tie my line, then, careful not to catch myself in the tree, cast out into the darkness.

---

Dawn creeps slowly into the day, a violet glow on the horizon that softens into indigos and blues, the ink of night seeping into the ocean below. I watch as the first seabirds I see glide silently across the water. It is too early for them to fish yet, but I can hear the cries of an impatient chick to my right, unimpressed. Perhaps they are watching, waiting, for light as much as I am. Likely more, to be fair.

As the day grows, my surroundings emerge out of the night. Watching the waves below me, I feel a small twinge of panic. The water is perfectly clear. A rarity so close to the city, especially after rain. And it is beautiful, but there are no fish to be seen. I've come to accept this as normality when fishing, especially in Winter, with the colder weather causing many fish to venture out into deeper waters in search of warmth and shelter. But not even the smallest of sprats, or crabs, or anything else, moves beneath the surface here. It feels unnatural for a place to be so still.

I try to think like a fish, or how I think a fish would think. Would I want to be out in the shallows on such a clear night? When visibility is high and predators have the upper hand?... It was cold, too, not unbearably so but enough to feel grateful for the wool jumper and extra thermals I had donned some hours earlier - just in case. If it was this cold on land, a full moon and little cloud cover couldn't have helped keep much of the warmth of the previous day in... If I was a fish, I probably wouldn't want to be here either... The birds are quiet, which makes me think they too probably know something I don't. I'm still new to all this, still learning how to read.

By a now, the dim sunrise had awoken on the horizon, sun still partially obscured behind a dense layer of purple cloud, a giant celestial yolk. I real in my line, bringing with it a small clump of bull kelp - a mighty catch for the day after all... Gathering my things, I stop to collect the stray silver threads of nylon, now visible and glinting in the morning light, presumably left behind by whoever has been here prior. Then, boots thick with sandstone mud, I carefully retrace my steps. I duck beneath the arch of the Pōhutukawa once more - its weathered trunk smooth as silk against my palm - before descending from shallow cliff-face onto the beach below and into the day.