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Illustration: Ella Bates-Hermans/Stuff
Illustration: Ella Bates-Hermans/Stuff

SocietyNovember 24, 2022

Welcome to the hyper-ageing nation that is New Zealand

Illustration: Ella Bates-Hermans/Stuff
Illustration: Ella Bates-Hermans/Stuff

New Zealand’s towns and cities are rapidly becoming ‘hyper-aged’, which will have far-reaching consequences for society and the economy. Population projections show it won’t affect all areas equally, and those most impacted will have difficult decisions to make. Charlie Mitchell reports.

This story was first published on Stuff

In the early 1990s, the coastal town of Thames crossed an important threshold. It became “hyper-aged”.

Hyper-aged is an unusual term – and might even sound derogatory – but it’s a technical description for any population where the proportion of people aged-65+ is more than 20%.

When Thames crossed this point, it was forging a path many others would follow. In 1996, the Kāpiti Coast became the first hyper-aged territorial authority (TA). A decade later, it was joined by Horowhenua and Waimate.

In 2018, the hyper-aged ranks swelled to 18. This year, they numbered 34. Projections suggest that, in 2048, only three TAs will not be hyper-aged, and even they will be very close to it.

Thames: More than 20% of its population is aged over 65 (Photo: Christel Yardley / Stuff)

It might seem counter-intuitive.

New Zealand has been one of the faster-growing countries in the developed world. Our population has grown by more than one-third since 1996, and is expected to keep growing for at least another 50 years, likely peaking short of 7 million near the end of the century.

But the spoils of that growth have not been shared equally; much of that growth has been in a handful of cities. It hides a phenomenon affecting many small and medium-sized towns, one that is broadening quickly.

Although New Zealand is still growing, it is structurally ageing. Fertility rates have dropped steadily and humans are living longer. Mathematically, this means the proportion of young people is shrinking, while the proportion of older people is growing.

This is happening in every community in the country. Every TA is structurally ageing; none are going in the other direction.

Structural ageing is – for now – less of an issue in cities like Auckland, Hamilton, and Wellington, where many younger people are concentrated. It is far more problematic in small and medium-sized towns like Thames.

When a population is heavily weighted towards older age groups, natural increase – when there are more births than deaths – slows down, and eventually declines. Once natural decrease sets in, it is almost impossible to reverse, and depopulation usually follows.

“Around the time a population passes 20% aged 65+ years, it shifts from having natural increase to natural decrease,” says Dr Natalie Jackson, an independent demographer and a former professor of demography at Massey University, who has led significant projects on population ageing in New Zealand.

“This shift can happen even earlier, but as a general rule, that’s the inflection point. The issue is simply that older people don’t have children – and once you have 20% over the age of 65 you have relatively low proportions in the childbearing ages.”

Depopulation is not immediate; a community can keep growing, even when it is naturally decreasing. This is happening in Thames, which is still increasing its population. The reason is migration – enough people are moving there that it balances those who are dying or leaving.

It’s a double-edged sword. Most of its migrants are older – Thames is a nice place to retire – so they are adding to the population, but in a way that entrenches the hyper-aged structure.

Once this dynamic is locked in, the future becomes predictable. Population projections suggest that, in 2048, the population of Thames could be nearly 50% retirement-aged. For every person that is born, another three would die. More residents would be older than 85 than younger than 15.

A community with an age structure like this must fundamentally change. In Japan, where many communities are in the grip of hyper-ageing, the result has been ghost towns.

Fewer children mean less need for schools; more retirees mean a higher need for aged care and medical facilities. In shrinking towns, roads are left to become gravel; pipes are ripped up. Houses are left vacant, and businesses have to close. Aotearoa isn’t there yet, but “we’re all tracking the same path”, Jackson says.

“Depopulation will be experienced widely as population ageing progresses,” she says. “New Zealand is no different to Europe, Japan, etc, where depopulation is now widespread both subnationally and nationally.”

Growing cities and shrinking towns

Twenty-five years from now, the shape of our communities is likely to be different. Population projections by Stats NZ to 2048 show what that might look like – and they reinforce the powerful impact of structural ageing.

For the most part, existing cities are expected to become larger through peri-urbanisation: the expansion of the city into areas that were traditionally rural.

Whenuapai in northwest Auckland today has a few thousand residents, but in 2048, it is projected to be more populated than the entire West Coast region. Wairakei, a suburb of Tauranga, would alone be larger than nearly a third of TAs.

Rolleston and Lincoln, west of Christchurch, are projected to have a combined population of 50,000 – enough to be declared a city. Hamilton would be on the cusp of overtaking Wellington as the third-most populated city; one of its suburbs, the today barely populated Peacocke, would be larger than Gore.

Then there is the flip side. Westport would continue its downward trajectory, becoming significantly smaller than it was a century ago. Numerous small towns – Te Kuiti, Taumarunui, Gore, Mataura, Reefton, Patea, Ngapuke, and others – would be shrinking every year.

Many more communities would be stagnating; neither growing nor shrinking, but stuck in a holding pattern, as their population gets older. When that happens, future depopulation becomes a near certainty.

The figures are projections, and projections are not destiny. Future population size is notoriously difficult to estimate: Migration flows are volatile, and add uncertainty to any population projection. The fate of smaller areas, in particular, are highly uncertain.

What is predictable is ageing. Time is linear, after all – every 365 days, every living person ages one year.

How fast are we hyper-ageing?

The trend is happening faster than one might expect.

There’s a measure similar to hyper-ageing called the “elderly-child ratio”. Does a community have more elderly people (65+) than children (0-14)? In 1996, none of the 67 TAs in New Zealand met that criteria. As noted above, today, two-thirds of them do. In another 25 years, all TAs are projected to have more elderly than children.

For an individual community, this rapid shift in age structure can happen in a single generation.

In the late 1970s, children were the largest age group in the small town of Ngatea, on the Hauraki Plains. For every retirement-aged person, there were at least four people younger than 15.

What happened next is a common experience in small-town New Zealand: Age-selective migration. Young people left the town for larger cities, taking their reproductive capacity with them. While some would have come back, and others arrived to fill their place, the number of 15-39 year olds in Ngatea is proportionally lower than it was 40 years ago.

While this happened, older people were moving to Ngatea. It is common for older people to leave cities for medium-sized towns, which – like a double whammy – adds to the ageing impact of younger people going in the opposite direction.

This is why migration, in most cases, makes communities older, not younger. One paper exploring this phenomenon found that, between 1976 and 2013, the vast majority of places in New Zealand were made older by migration, contrary to conventional wisdom.

For Ngatea, the structural ageing trajectory was locked in long ago. In 2003, it became hyper-aged. Soon afterwards, it had more elderly residents than children. Today, deaths are equal to births, meaning natural decline is imminent. In the next couple of decades, Ngatea is projected to be depopulating.

Only a handful of TAs are currently experiencing natural decline, according to population estimates – they are Thames-Coromandel, Horowhenua, Kāpiti Coast, Buller, Timaru, and Gore.

That will change quickly. Projections suggest that number will increase to 22 in the next decade. For the first time, cities will be among them – Napier, Nelson, Dunedin, Invercargill.

In 2048, natural decline is expected to be underway in 45 TAs, including medium and large-sized towns such as Whangārei, Masterton, Whanganui, New Plymouth, and Upper Hutt.

Some communities will be losing hundreds of people every year solely through natural attrition, which will only increase over time. To stave off depopulation, they would need to acquire an increasingly large number of migrants to fill the shortfall.

What can be done?

In most cases, structural ageing cannot be reversed. Once natural decrease sets in, the only way to increase the population is through migration – either national or international.

Research suggests the level of migration required to balance natural decline is unrealistic, and that “even extremely high migration levels would have only minimal impact” on the proportion of the 65+ population.

Another problem is that migrants themselves get older, which adds to structural ageing. Maintaining a balance would require an exponential increase in migrant numbers over time. Councils can try to encourage residents of other areas to relocate, but many communities will be in the same position – they’ll be competing with each other for a dwindling proportion of younger people.

It is more likely that communities dealing with structural ageing will have to face the issue head-on, and accept that growth – economically and population-wise – may no longer happen.

Dr Michael Cameron, an associate professor of economics at the University of Waikato, says there is little a community can do to prevent natural decline. It can try to attract migrants, but that is also a challenge. “Many TAs have economic development agencies that have been set up to try and attract business activity (and population),” he says.

“It isn’t clear how successful those initiatives have been, or whether they are net positive in a cost-benefit sense. However, it is difficult for councils to try and opt-out of this competition, because perhaps it sends the wrong signal that they aren’t trying to develop.”

Communities facing structural ageing would need to make sure they have the right mix of social and built infrastructure for a future, older population. They may also need to reconsider the approach to growth they’ve previously taken.

“One key point, that is only just beginning to be recognised, is that striving for population growth everywhere and at all times may not be the best approach,” Cameron says. “In climate change circles, the idea of ‘managed retreat’ is gaining currency. In local development, the same concept could do with greater attention and consideration.”

Natalie Jackson, the demographer, lives in the Thames-Coromandel District, which is at the forefront of these challenges. The structural ageing process is almost impossible to undo, she says. It is something communities like hers need to accept.

“Reversal’s just not going to happen,” she says. “What does need to happen is to stop thinking this is some sort of temporary issue, and start putting services where the demand is.”

A day in the life of Thames

Nestled between the gold-veined hills of the lower Coromandel and the brackish water of the eponymous firth, is Thames. The historic main drag, Pollen St, is replete with an independent bookshop, a hardware shop and lively eateries with furniture splayed across a double-wide footpath.

The footpath is double-wide for a reason. It is gradually being enlarged to make room for passing mobility scooters – a common sight on Thames streets.

Phil and Joan Hankins say Thames is the best place in the country to live. “It has everything we need, from hospitals to insurance.” The couple that moved south from Auckland says, although the town has a “slack pace” it’s got everything they desire.

Thames residents Phil and Joan Hankins (Photo: Christel Yardley / Stuff)

Outside Carson’s bookshop, Alastair Stevenson is browsing a rack of discounted books. Stevenson moved to the town “literally the day after I retired”.

The former lecturer of marine and mechanical engineering says the town has more or less everything he needs. One crucial missing element, though, is a cinema. There used to be one when Stevenson and partner Hazel first moved to the town, but Covid drew the curtains on the 108-year-old theatre after a downturn in patronage.

“I used to go to the Embassy a lot,” says Hazel, “but I think in the end it just wasn’t patronised sufficiently.”

Part of the problem was the showing times, she thinks. ”Lots of the films were screened too late in the day. Not many people here wanted to come out for them. I suppose too, there aren’t all that many places to get a bite to eat afterwards either.”

Alastair and Hazel Stevenson (Photo: Christel Yardley / Stuff)

Instead, the couple has taken up pickleball. The burgeoning sport, made popular in US retirement communities, has players hitting a wiffle ball over a tennis sized net playing in sets of 11 points.

They play on an alternating basis in Tapu and Te Puru, both only a short drive along the coast from Thames. “Sometimes the grandchildren [of other players] turn up and think they can show us up – but we surprise them,” chuckles Stevenson.

Thames Coromandel mayor, Len Salt, himself a SuperGold cardholder, says his council are keenly aware of its ageing population, and how a transfer of skills, knowledge and experience can take place between the town’s retirees and young people looking for greener pastures. “We are working to improve the contribution elderly people can make to the community. There is a huge potential of skills, experience, capabilities, knowledge and time there waiting to be unlocked.”

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Salt says he and his councillors often ask themselves what they can do to make the sharing of these skills and expertise more seamless. “Things like the use of council facilities, the rallying of volunteers, help with connecting individuals.”

One such project that has blossomed without council help is between Menzshed and Moanataiari School​. The shed members are assisting with the building of a school tree house.

Working with the primary school pupils, members like Tony Winter are passing on their extensive wood working knowledge. “We’re connecting with youth,” says Winter.“Our current one,” he says, pointing to a piece of corflute board with a schematic drawing on it, “is some tree houses. [The pupils] come here once a week to help out.”

Hauraki District mayor, Toby Adams, says many in Ngatea have moved there from elsewhere. (Photo: Christel Yardley / Stuff)

Mayor of neighbouring Hauraki district, home to another hyper-aged community in Ngatea, Toby Adams, says that many of the community’s older residents have migrated to the district to retire. “For the likes of Thames, Whitianga, Ngatea, Paeroa and Waihi, the proximity to where they’ve come from – for some of them it’s Tauranga or Auckland – is a drawcard.”

Selling up in the cities often means they come to town “on fixed retirement incomes… They can sell up, buy a nice modern home, put some money in the bank and start enjoying the later years of life.”

– additional reporting Jonah Franke-Bowell

Keep going!
Sela Jane Hopgood wants to raise awareness on the importance of learning to swim and water safety ahead of summer. (Image: Tina Tiller)
Sela Jane Hopgood wants to raise awareness on the importance of learning to swim and water safety ahead of summer. (Image: Tina Tiller)

SocietyNovember 24, 2022

Learning to swim at 30

Sela Jane Hopgood wants to raise awareness on the importance of learning to swim and water safety ahead of summer. (Image: Tina Tiller)
Sela Jane Hopgood wants to raise awareness on the importance of learning to swim and water safety ahead of summer. (Image: Tina Tiller)

After years of putting it off, Sela Jane Hopgood finally threw herself in the deep end and enrolled in swimming lessons.

There’s a Sealord commercial on television where the father takes his daughter to the pools to learn how to swim. She’s nervous, and so the father decides to cook battered fish for dinner, telling her that eating this fish will make her swim fast. 

As the daughter gains confidence, it’s revealed that her dad can’t swim either. 

I am that dad right now.

April 2022

My four-year-old son Viliami tells my husband and I that he wants to learn how to swim so I look up our local swimming school, Swimtastic, for lessons. While browsing through the classes for preschoolers, where there are different names to indicate the child’s swimming capabilities, there’s a thought lingering at the back of my mind that I can’t shake off.

I select tadpoles for Viliami as he’s new to lessons, nervous about the water and isn’t at the stage of independently submerging and propelling.

The mother-checklist mode kicks in and I make a list of things he needs before his first lesson. I realise Viliami has outgrown his toddler swimsuit, so new togs make the top of the list. As the list grows – goggles, swim cap, reusable swim nappy – the elephant in the room continues to stare me down.

Out of curiosity, I go back to the Swimtastic website and browse classes for adults. “Adult Learn-To Swim (LTS), designed for all swimmers over the age of 16” it reads. There are two levels on offer – adult LTS beginner and adult LTS advanced. The beginner level explains that it’s for people who have never experienced swimming before or have limited swimming ability/experience. “Sounds like me,” I think. 

I tell myself I won’t have time for it, yet the lesson duration says it’s 30 minutes and the commute to and from the pool is an easy 10 minutes altogether. 

“Vili, you’re all booked for your first swimming lesson this Sunday,” I say. “Yayyy” he replies. 

Seeing his excitement reminds me that when I gave birth to him, I told myself I would learn to swim for our family’s safety. Yet every year I’ve put it off. 

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I’m anxious and afraid of the water. I’m embarrassed at the thought of being in a class with teenagers. I convince myself that I don’t need to learn how to swim as I have no intention of swimming in the pools or at the beach; that I am content being a spectator… until my husband asks me what will happen if a child of ours is drowning and I’m the only adult present?

I enrol in the beginner class, with my first lesson the following Wednesday night.

Full disclosure – I’m a tall, voluptuous, brown woman and I’m self-conscious with my body and how others will look at it, especially when wearing a one-piece swimsuit. This is also partly because I grew up in a culturally conservative culture, where we are taught to cover up and not wear shorts around our brothers. The inner thoughts I have to battle through leading up to Wednesday are draining, but I only have to look at my son to remind me of the bigger picture.

April 6, 2022

My class starts at 6.45pm, but my husband and I arrive early to get a good parking spot, allow myself time to get changed and to not be in a rush. I’m feeling nervous as it is, I don’t want time pressure to add to that. My husband knew how anxious I’d be and wanted to come support.

I walk over to the lane my class is going to be in. Three other adults have already hopped into the pool, waiting for our teacher Tess. I also notice that the lane is shallow. I sit on the edge of the pool, ready to jump into what feel like a deep ocean. Being 180cm tall, the water comes up to my thighs when I stand up.

“OK, this isn’t too bad, Sela,” I try to reassure myself.

I walk over to the instructor. “I’m Sela, it’s my first lesson,” I say to Tess as she takes down the attendance of the swimmers on her waterproof clipboard. “Welcome,” she responds. “How confident are you in the water?”

“Zero confidence. I’ve never had swimming lessons before and I don’t know how to float,” I tell her honestly. 

Immediately she senses my nervousness, and we start chatting away about how these lessons will help with making me not scared of the water. She gets me to submerge my head underwater and blow bubbles. I immediately freeze like a deer in headlights. Thoughts start racing through my head – will it hurt if I put my head underwater? How do you blow bubbles? Will I drown? I ask Tess, “how exactly do I do that?” realising seconds later that her instructions were straightforward and that my nerves were taking over my thought process.

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I close my eyes tightly and slowly put my head down and quickly blow bubbles for two seconds before my head bobbles up to the surface out of fear. “Wait, that wasn’t too bad?” I think. “Let me do that again.” And so I do, each attempt lasting a few seconds longer than the last. I close my eyes again and confidently submerge myself until Tess stops me midway. “Try with your eyes open, Sela.” 

“Wait, you can open your eyes underwater?” I ask. “Yeah, definitely” she reassures me, “but maybe next time you can bring goggles to make it easier.”

I bravely trust her suggestion to keep my eyes open and as I submerge and marvel at being underwater, I blow my bubbles in amazement. “I’m actually doing it,” I say to myself in my head. For many years, I didn’t believe it was possible to have your eyes open underwater. When I would see characters in movies do so, I assumed it was some CGI effect that was placed on them to open their eyes underwater.

For the whole 30 minutes I practised ducking underwater, eyes open, blowing bubbles, and walking up and down the shallow swimming lane. I come out of that lesson feeling confident that I can actually do – one swim at a time.

Sela Jane Hopgood in Auckland and her son Viliami learning to swim in New Plymouth (Photo: Sela Jane Hopgood)

Flashback to March, 2021

After the summer season, the Surf Life Saving New Zealand’s Beach and Coastal Safety Report comes out and on most occasions Pasifika people are over-represented in the drowning figures. At work I’m assigned to write about the report. It’s confronting as I don’t know how to swim, and it’s a good reminder of why I should learn.

I interview Sāmoan lifeguard John Tuia and we exchange stories about why a huge number of our people are enrolling into swimming lessons and the barriers we face day-to-day that hinder the opportunity to learn water safety. 

Tuia tells me that for many Pacific families, swimming lessons are not a priority because many parents and grandparents from the islands would swim in shallow water in the Pacific. He says the idea of lessons for water safety isn’t common in the islands.

This rings true for my upbringing. I come from a family of seven, where my dad was the sole income earner and my mum stayed home to look after us all. Trying to afford weekly swimming lessons for seven children was never a consideration because of all the other weekly expenses. Also, my mother would tell us that she learned how to “swim” on her own when she would go with her dad fishing and living close to the water.

Growing up, we lived a 10-minute drive to the nearest aquatic centre and a 30-minute drive to the nearest beach. Going swimming was not something I got to experience as a kid, so in all honesty, I didn’t think I was missing out on much with lessons.

April 13, 2022

I approach my swimming lessons with the mentality that I will make sure I am confident in each step before moving on to the next, so for the first 15 minutes of this lesson I walk back and forth in the lane with my head submerged, blowing bubbles. This time with goggles.

Life-changing.

It has taken me 30 years to experience life underwater, let me have my moment.

Tess sees me having so much fun and gives me a kickboard to help me float while I continue to blow bubbles. I hesitate and slowly take the board from her, while watching the other swimmers in my class. After studying them for a minute, I imitate them, realising immediately how easy it is.

April 27, 2022

Remembering how much fun I had in the last lesson, I excitedly grab a kickboard and spend the whole lesson with my arms stretched out with the board, head beneath the water blowing bubbles and feet kicking away.

Even though I physically am able to complete this step easily, what I really want to do is build my confidence in the water.

This is the first lesson where Viliami has joined my husband in supporting me in swimming. Funnily enough after doing one lap, Viliami walks over to me and when I think he would be amazed to see his mum swimming, he says, “You’re not swimming deep enough, Mum” and walks away unimpressed. I chuckle as I go back to my lesson.

Sela Jane Hopgood wanting to raise awareness on water safety and learning to swim for the Pasifika community. (Photo: Sela Jane Hopgood)

May 4, 2022

When I started my lessons, there was another mother in the same boat as me. I notice tonight that she is freestyling without a kickboard, lasting three strokes before stopping. I’m impressed.

I also know that I’m not ready to part with my kickboard and so I remind myself that it’s not a race to learn the fastest and I carry on repeating the same motions as I did last week. Tess approaches me, noticing the massive shift in confidence I have being in the water. She challenges me to try bringing one hand at a time to my shoulder, imitating the motions of a freestyle.

“That means letting go of the kickboard for a moment,” I say. “Yes, Sela,” Tess says.

For once I’m not suddenly nervous about the new step I’m about to take. “Go Sela, go!” Tess exclaims, as I make my way down the lane, letting go of the board, one hand at a time.

May 18, 2022

I missed out last week’s lesson, so I’m slightly worried, wondering if I’ll struggle getting back into it.

“It’s like you were never away,” Tess reassures me as she watches me confidently pace back and forth, switching hands on the kickboard. I stay on this step throughout the whole lesson. Viliami cheers me on: “Go mummy!”

After the lesson, Viliami shares that I have the same kickboard as he does in his class. I say that I’m learning to swim just like him. “Wow Mum, that’s great because we don’t want the sharks to eat you,” he says.

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May 25, 2022

Tess is away tonight so we have two instructors helping us out as the class has doubled in size since last week. I have this game plan mapped out in my head that I’m going to do more kickboard hand switching to build trust in my arms to one day freestyle. Instead, the instructors want to teach us something different – swimming on our back.

I watch the instructor demonstrate it with the kickboard and I give it a try. “Wow, I’ve never appreciated the lighting in this building,” I think as I kick my feet vigorously, push my tummy up and hold onto my board.

June 1, 2022

Tess has returned after being away sick and she checks in with me asking what I’d like to try out tonight.

“Rotating up to the surface to breathe while swimming, please” I say. Tess shows me how it’s done and then breaks it down for me, emphasising that my head should turn and lie across my outstretched arm.

However, the next few minutes I struggle. I swim a few metres and then turn and lose my balance or lift my head rather than rotate. I watch the other swimmers to try and mimic their movements, but I continue to lose momentum.

July 6, 2022

In the past month, I’ve managed to swim and rotate to catch a breath and then continue on. I’m now able to part ways with my beloved kickboard and am given two water toys to hold, to help me shape my hands for when I do each stroke.

After 20 minutes of practising with my new toys, I decide to give freestyling a go without any floating devices to help.

I kick off and start swimming, making it halfway down the lane before stopping. I manage to swim more than 10 metres without any help. I’m ecstatic! I continue on for the next 10 minutes.

August 2022

My family and I have relocated to New Plymouth temporarily for my husband’s work, which means Viliami and I have to pause our swimming lessons in Auckland. I look into local swimming classes in the coastal city and find an academy for children that’s a three-minute drive from the house we’re staying in. I enrol Viliami immediately.

Part of the enrolment process is to book in a 30-minute New Swimmer Assessment with an instructor to work out what level the child would be best suited for, ranging from beginners to the more advanced. 

Viliami’s session is on August 18, and I make plans that once Viliami is sorted with his lessons, I’ll look into my own.

September 2022

It’s the end of September and Viliami has had six lessons so far in his new swim academy. His confidence levels have massively improved since April where he would tell me, “I’m not sure about this, mummy.” 

Now he walks ahead of me to his lane, waves goodbye and is able to submerge, kick, float without fear. 

We have made trips to the local pools during the weekend for Viliami to continue building his friendship with the water and I, too, have joined in swimming in the pool.

October 2022

Two months fly by quickly for us here in New Plymouth and I realise I’ve put off finding swimming lessons for myself far too long. 

With everything going on, moving cities, adapting to new work environments and travelling to the other side of the world earlier in the month, I decide to hold off on lessons until we return to Auckland in a couple of months.

On the last weekend of October, we head to Todd Energy Aquatic Centre.

While Viliami is splashing with dad in the shallow part of the indoor wave pool, I grab a kickboard and go kicking around the deeper end. It feels so good to be back in the water, moving peacefully.

Suddenly the wave motions start to get vigorous and by this stage I’m so far in the deep part that I can’t touch the ground. I hesitate for a second before calmly refocusing on my arm strokes and kicking motions to get me back to the shallow end. I know the Sela from six months ago would have panicked immediately. 

I submerge my head, blowing bubbles, holding the kickboard in front, arms outstretched and kicking through the waves. Every time the wave pushes me, I feel a bit nervous as to whether I’d need help getting out, but I kick on. The closest safe point for me is the wall of the pool, so I make a beeline for it.

I reach the tiled wall and grab the edge of the pool quickly before a wave catches me. I’m breathing heavily at this point, shocked at what has just happened and then amazed that I was able to get myself out of a situation that I would’ve struggled in not long ago.

November 2022

With summer around the corner, I’m looking forward to heading to the beach and this time not just as a spectator. What I’m more excited about is being able to confidently go down a water slide with my son and splash with him in the pools. 

I’m proud of what I’ve achieved so far and already have a goal for 2023: To move out of the shallow lane.

This is Public Interest Journalism funded through NZ On Air.

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