First proper summer day in forever, and the Tora coast turned it on like it was getting paid.

Rolled up at 8:30 (gentleman’s hours, no 3 a.m. nonsense) just as the farmer was bringing the mob in for shearing and weaning. Gave him a wave, slogged over the paddocks, crested the hill, and nearly dropped the fins: 15 metres visibility from the beach. You could map the reefs and guts from dry land. Game on.

Hit the water and went straight for the crays. Every decent hole was packed: harem of berried girls up front, one smug buck cowering in the dark like he had a bodyguard detail. Ten metres away though, rogue males were cruising solo, antennae out, no idea they were about to become Christmas dinner. Easy pickings.

Pāua were thick; just a matter of jamming your arm into cracks and hauling out the XL black gold.

Switched to fish and the place was an aquarium—schools of baby moki, blue moki, tarakihi, the lot. Then the money shot: big red moki in pairs, gliding past, lipstick-bright, looking like they were on a date-night swim. Sat on the bottom and just watched. Magic.

The young legal moki in the weed didn’t even blink when I drifted over; could’ve tickled them under the chin. Massive blue cod in two metres of water though—one look at the flash of a fin and they were gone.

Surfaced after one dive to find the local seal already halfway through my best moki off the float. Gave the fat pirate the fright of his life when I popped up right next to him. He bolted, half a fish hanging out of his gob. Seal tax paid in full.

Loaded up, walked out, and dropped a solid kōha bag of crays and pāua with the farmer on the way past. Keeps the gate open and the yarns flowing.

Hands down one of the best dives of the year. Summer’s finally here, the BBQ’s getting a proper workout, and the esky’s stacked.

Merry Christmas, you beautiful bastards.