Aramoana Beach

KATIE HAWKINS Year 11, Queen’s High School

MY feet are engulfed in the warm comfort of golden sand as I walk down the overpopulated beach.

Children swiftly swerve around me, screaming as they scramble up sand dunes.

Close behind, waves chase them, nipping at their ankles but eventually retreating, stealing remains of the children’s carefully built sand castles instead.

Walking down to the water, rays of sun stream through the haze of the clouds, their reflections making the water glisten and shimmer.

A small white fishing boat wallows upon the ocean and is softly swayed by the waves.

The same waves surge towards me, collapse and crash on to the sand, swamping my feet in a cold rush of water.

Birds soar beneath the silk of the sky, squawking and scavenging for leftover sandwiches.

Watching the birds drift away, I carefully pull out my lunch.

The soft breeze sweeps speckles of sand into my food, creating a salty crunch.

Gazing out into the distance, the immense ocean sinks into horizon.

On either side, vibrant green hills seem to roll into the sea.

They act like a paua shell; surrounding the beach, protecting us from anything harmful.

Inside holds a treasure only seen by the people who find it.

Aramoana beach in the sum mer is the jewel. But that was last summer. Now it’s a different story.

Walking down the deserted beach, silence seeps in.

I can hear minuscule grains of sand crunching like sugar underneath my shoes and shells clashing as waves sweep them from the beach.

The sand is untouched . . . no trailing footprints, and no sign of life to be seen or heard.

The ocean is swamped in lifeless hues of grey, with giant red container boats floating aimlessly.

Clouds of vapour escape into the air as I exhale, floating upwards making my vision blurry.

Glancing above, dark clouds sprawl across the sky, blinding any hint of summer.

The sea starts to churn sending vigorous waves crashing on to the frosted sand.

Wailing howls begin bellowing down the beach as gales of wind heave through sand dunes.

The beach grass whips viciously, threatening to slash my legs.

Quickening my pace I pull down the black hood of my jacket for shelter.

I begin to hike against the forceful winds back to the car.

As I gasp for breath, the taste of salt blasts into my mouth.

I squint as speckles of sand hurl towards me and carve into my bare skin like miniature knives.

Ultimately I reach the frozen wooden stairs to the empty car park.

Scrambling up them, my shoes slide on the ice and I topple on to the gravel.

Aramoana in winter is a paua shell covered in barnacles.