Paua poachers are robbing us of more than food, writes Mark Story.
Paua poachers are robbing us of more than food, writes Mark Story.
Everyone needs a happy place.
My school teacher advised this during a 5th form class in 1988. She was right; it doesn't take much effort to conjure up a life station (real or imagined) to visit mentally or physically when you're not feeling too chipper.
I have a few suchplaces, but the primary bolthole is Central Hawke's Bay's Aramoana Beach. As a pale-skinned Celt my young shoulders burned and blistered during every summer camp there. To boot, my father has strong ties to the area and a good friend was raised in the settlement, so it resonates.
Last weekend I drove there with my daughter for a dive at low tide. The water was clear, the surf settled and a strong sun provided great underwater visibility. Crayfish was the aspirational target - paua was the probable target.
I slid off the edge of the shelf and into a palette of blues, greens, yellows and browns. Once one's body adjusts to the cold and one's fear abates, the weightlessness, quiet and visual shimmer makes for my all-time happy place.
How humans can feel so at peace in an environment where we can't breathe, stay warm, see, speak or defend ourselves is more than intriguing. Maybe it lends weight to the theory we all came from the sea. There's something primal, foetal and nurturing about the briny predicament.
In aforementioned conditions it's rare to leave empty-handed. But after 20 minutes of duck diving I failed to spot a single paua bigger than a business card. I've never seen the kelpy shelves so depleted of the delicacy.
A few days later a headline appeared stating Aramoana's neighbour, Blackhead Beach, was hit by poachers who pilfered 485 of the shellfish. Police apparently came across about three sacks and, out of that number, all bar two were undersized.
