‘Twas the night before Christmas in Gisborne, NZ,
With Nevis and Sam and just-surfed-up me.
Our boards were all waxed by the shoreline with cheer,
With hope that the swell wouldn’t get gnarly this year.
The ocean was pumping, the vibes were elite,
We paddled out smiling, cheeks flushed from the heat.
When out on a wave there arose such a crack –
Not thunder, not reef… just a fin to my back.
Well, not quite my back – it connected with head,
And suddenly Christmas was seeing bright red.
I floated and blinked as my vision went hazy,
And I mumbled, “Well shoot… this is festive but crazy.”
To hospital we went, no surf glory won,
Where staples went click and my ego was done.
The doctor was merry, efficient, and fast,
And crowned me with hardware: metallic, high-class.
Then off to a dinner my parents had paid –
We missed the whole service… but still had it made.
The kitchen was closed, but the bar saved the day,
We ordered everything there on display.
With parm fries and red wine and laughter instead,
We toasted to Christmas (and me not being dead).
Now Nevis laughed hard, Sam raised up her glass,
I sat there all stapled – but still having a blast.
So here’s to good surf trips and mishaps gone wrong,
To stitches and staples and dinners run long.
Merry Christmas to all – from the sea to the shed,
And please watch your fins when you’ve got a soft head!
Despite a salty wipeout in the waves and a dramatic sprint to the local hospital the evening prior, the next day was pure magic. It was Christmas morning, and somehow – thanks to staples in my head and fries in my belly – I slept like a baby.
Sunlight streamed into the campground’s communal kitchen as we assembled our picnic lunch. Nevis lined up the oranges, methodically juicing what would later become mimosas. Once the feast was packed into the car and we felt sufficiently organized, we set off on our adventure.
First item on the itinerary: coffee.
Finding coffee on Christmas, it turns out, is not for the faint of heart. New Zealand’s commitment to work-life balance is admirable – until you’re caffeine-deprived and staring down a nation of closed cafés. Salvation appeared in the form of a very long McDonald’s drive-through line, and we joined it without hesitation or dignity.
Caffeinated at last, we slipped into morning service at a small Presbyterian church in Gisborne. We were equally charmed by the pews, the hymns, the pipe organ, and the elderly congregation who seemed like they’d been there forever – in the best possible way. It felt like a gentle return to our childhood roots and the churches we grew up in. On our way out, the greeter clocked the surfboards strapped to our car across the street and, with a conspiratorial wink, announced she’d later be drinking gin on the beach and joining us for a paddle.
Our destination: Wainui Beach. Nevis and Sam dove into their wetsuits and charged straight into the break, while me and my head-full-of-staples took the scenic route – a long, thoughtful beach walk that mostly involved testing whether my head still worked. By the time I returned, it was officially feast o’clock: the kind of meal that made you briefly wonder if the picnic basket had secretly acquired a magical, bottomless dimension.
We scouted out a proper fort down the beach and plopped into its shady refuge, our feet a crunchy mess of sand and our hair windswept and salty. We faced the bright blue ocean like three pirates preparing to unpack a treasure chest – except this treasure was a slightly over-the-top spread of deliciousness and joy.
First, champagne and orange juice made their grand debut. Then came the coconut chocolate squares – little bites of delight that paired rightfully well with bubbly. Aged cheeses, baguette rolls, and truffle duck pâté were sliced and artfully arranged alongside grape tomatoes, pears, juicy red apples, and melon. Honey, almond butter, and chocolate chip cookies completed the ensemble, pushing our picnic well past reasonable expectations.
Sandwiches vanished in a matter of seconds, the cookies mysteriously disappeared as if by magic, and the champagne was poured like we were sipping on liquid gold. Someone (me) spilled orange juice on the blanket, but honestly, it felt fitting – pirates aren’t exactly known for their table manners.
We were living the dream.
The feast worked its magic on Nevis, lulling him into a deep, contented sleep, while I escaped for a quick summit hike nearby. The sun was relentless, turning me into a sweaty mess, and I was very much looking forward to a swim in the ocean. But on my way back down, I was greeted with cheeky grins and the kind of childlike excitement you usually only see around Christmas trees.
“It’s time for presents!” Sam announced.
We settled on soft clover beneath towering trees in a sun-dappled glade, our gifts laid out before us like a little woodland market: brown and cream packages wrapped with cotton string and twisted twine, adorned with twigs, Norfolk pine leaves, and delicate wildflowers – nature’s perfect gift wrap.
For an hour, we were kids again: tearing paper, laughing freely, hugging often.
After gathering our precious loot, we retreated to the campground for some much-needed shade, water, and a FaceTime catch-up with Mom and Dad. It was their famous sourdough-crust pizza night, and as we chatted with them from their kitchen on the other side of the world, a wave of nostalgia hit me. The fire crackled from the woodburning stove. Snowflakes floated lazily beyond the window. The dog snored contentedly. Pizza sizzled in the oven. I could imagine it filling the air with that familiar, cozy aroma. Home.
The call ended, and just like that, we were snapped back into the spirit of summer.
Next move? Cracking open the second bottle of champagne for a tipsy surfkate session – because why not? If we were kids, we’d skate all night and roll home to magically-prepared dinner. As adults, we create our own magic.
So we did.
The BBQ roared to life as Nevis slapped on venison steaks and button mushrooms, while Sam and I applied ourselves very diligently to the broccoli, kumara, and corn on the cob. Supper unfolded with a bottle of shiraz and a sunset so aggressively orange and violet it felt like the sky was showing off. The whole thing felt far more cinematic than a normal dinner had any right to be.
When the dishes were washed and darkness had fully clocked in, it was time.
Beach fire.
We piled into the car and tore off toward the coast, pulling into our favourite secluded spot. A hole was dug, sand cleared, driftwood gathered, blankets laid – all of it unfolding with quiet efficiency. Flames sprang to life, sparks dancing toward the stars.
I suggested a skinny dip. No one paused to think about it, which felt like the correct response. Clothes were abandoned and we ran straight into the lapping waves.
I have never experienced anything quite like being in the ocean at night. It incites a deep, profound calm, nudging you into a flow state where thought feels impossible. There’s nothing to do but pause, breathe, soften to the cool dark water encompassing you, and subtly adjust your footing as the swell moves beneath.
After several minutes, we retreated to the warmth of the flames. Nevis and Sam settled in with ease, faces glowing. I, however, spent a prolonged and increasingly irritated stretch circling the fire, apparently chosen as the night’s official smoke magnet. Wherever I stood was precisely where the smoke most wanted to be. Left, right, two steps back, a hopeful crouch – each adjustment only strengthened its commitment to me.
Eventually, after watching this for some time, Nevis calmly told me to relax and close my eyes. Stop fighting it. Surrender to the moment.
So I laid down on the sand, and something remarkable happened.
Curled up on my side in an oversized hoodie, I finally slipped beneath the smoke. Sparks popped overhead. The wind brushed softly against my face. The gentle slosh of the shore sang a lullaby. Down there, low to the sand, I found rest.
We breathed to the rhythm of the ocean, time slipping by.
In that moment, nothing else mattered.
Throughout life, we’re faced with challenges. Things break. Mistakes happen. Bodies get hurt. Phones drown. Boards crack. Sometimes we need to be stitched back together. And yet, through it all, everything is okay. We dust ourselves off and keep going, because that is simply part of the adventure of living.
And through it all, we have each other – and stories to tell. Stories to pass down for generations.
This one I’ll never forget.
‘Twas a very merry Kiwi Christmas.
