Editorial: Here is the news I love the beach

Traditional baches are a celebration of everything we can do without.

It's an adage I love.

And although I spent the better part of last week swimming in the briny at Aramoana Beach, I failed dismally to adhere to it.

Hopes of austerity vanished while we feasted on gourmet food, sipped cold lager, listened to tunes on an iPod, had the use of every appliance bar a washing machine and TV, and downed a few golden shots of single-malt whisky.

But there was one thing we had no choice but to leave behind - news. The beach house had no cellphone reception and no land-line. Television coverage didn't exist. And to boot, our radio signal was weak. (Why is it that when you're out in the sticks, the only station you can pick up is an inane horse-racing channel?)

Being in the news industry, I found my headline-less week amazingly tough. As much as I tried to leave news behind when on holiday, I craved it. I'm not sure whether that means I never really leave the newsdesk or whether I'm just curious to know the globe still turns when I'm at the beach.

Secretly, I think it's because us Kiwis don't do the relaxing thing well. We like the idea of sliding into a vegetative state under canvas next to a gas cooker but, in fact, we're as engaged as we are on any given working week.

Earlier this month while interviewing someone at a campground in Waimarama, I saw a handful of males with toilet-bags in hand head into the ablutions blocks to shave emerging stubble as soon as it arrives - no doubt the same they do before work.

And while I'm a stranger to the razor, I'll admit I too can't completely switch off.

But that's why I'll hang on to the highlights.

Notably this year, the fat paua my brothers and I managed to flick off the rocks as the sea drew back its defences. We later minced them and threw in handfuls of coriander and chilli to make the best fritters I've ever tasted.

And because it's become an annual holiday spot, my kids can be measured in yearly increments. They get braver in the waves every year. In 2009, they waded in no further than the knees. Last year, it was up to the waist while just last week I had to scold my eldest son for wading in over his chest. (Despite being secretly proud).

Sleep too was hard to find. But if there's ever anywhere to be sleepless, it's in a room close to the coast, where the rumble of the tide enters through an open window.

I can do without many things, including true relaxation, so long as I can take these snippets home.