It’s paradise at Teatree Bay, my favourite place in the world, where most of my childhood weekends unfolded. I can still feel the thrill of holding a tiny shark trapped between two rocks with my brother, or the rush of my dad pushing me into the second set of waves breaking close to shore. I nudged the rocks under my feet, trying to move them gently. Now I paddle out over the glassy water, chasing that same joy – though it’s never quite the same as in childhood.

I grew up in a sandy shack overlooking the beach, where the town dropped off boards for Dad to fix. Plastered with old surf mags, it reflected his life as a well-known NZ champion – but to me, he was just Dad. He became a surf star naturally, without force, much like the essence he carried in life. My dad had role models but never tried to be like anyone else. He just showed up as himself – steady, genuine, calm, unwavering. We learned as we went. He always put us first, shaping our life and memories.

All early memories of my dad involve water. Some of the earliest are of him pushing me on waves, paddling out into the surf, holding the leash, in my brother’s old wetsuit, with a buzzcut, saltwater stinging my eyes. Whether I was a boy or a girl, I was just a replica of my brother – raised by a solo dad. Always by the sea, whether eating sausages and salad at the local beach or paddling out the back as a teenager – not to catch anything, but to be seen, close to my brother, part of our intimate team. Our bond was always built on saltwater.

On weekends with waves, we went to Noosa. ...