FROM THE EDITOR

Years ago, when I used to go sailing in Wellington, we’d clench as we navigated our way out of the harbour, through the narrow channel of jagged teeth, before emerging free and clear into Cook Strait. It’s a spectacular and unpredictable trench of water that surges through that narrow gutter and no matter how vigilant or sensible you are, you can’t predict what will happen out there. When I was on the tiller, pushed along by a steady southerly, I learned not to look back at the rolling swells. They looked as if they were coming for me. They’d rise up, higher than the stern, before heaving under the boat and disappearing, rocking us for a while from underneath, as if we were in a cradle. Then the next one, and the next. A knot of panic would pulse inside me. So instead, I’d focus on what lay ahead, point the bow towards the sea-drowned valleys of Queen Charlotte or Pelorus Sound and look up at the woolies to make sure we were on a clean path. Once, we went out on a clear and beautiful day. The sea was flat. We had to motor, which is the last thing you feel like doing for six to eight hours. The gains seem so small. Then right out in the middle, the giant fin of an orca appeared port side. It dived down and appeared again, this time starboard, alongside the boat. Then it dived and we never saw it again. It was all on its own. I looked out to see if it would rise up again, but it didn’t. And then the storm came. Brutally and violently. We soon forgot about the orca. We would battle, feebly to Pelorus and drop anchor for three days, as the storm raged all around us. It was so miserable and relentless it almost started to feel personal — as if this force of nature was directed straight at us. How do we feel sovereign against an overwhelming sense we are pitch-polling in a giant wave? The only “constant” is change and, right now, a feeling of uncertainty. The other constant, the thing that stops my heart from clenching in fear at that force that has driven us indoors, and inward, without a compass, is love. This week, I feel nothing but love for those who have lost their jobs. Giants, important voices. Words right now seem paltry. But maybe they can also be like pilot boats, steering us to a comfortable port, even if just for a moment, while the storm rages.