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Sumner Beach from Whitewash Head Road


Sumner Beach from Whitewash Head Road 1933

I hang over the squeaking rail cautiously snapping a photo of the beach. The waves roly-poly onto the sand. The breeze passes over my skin. Seagulls glide over the sea like white kites. Houses are dotted around the village.

Then the weather changes, the wind slaps my limbs, the waves thrash the land and the seagulls squawk and flap. I pull on my woolen knitted jersey.

I jump in the old farm truck and travel towards home on the bumpy road. The rain buckets down.

Sumner Beach from Whitewash Head Road 2019

I lean over the orange barrier fence looking over Sumner beach and take a selfie. Houses are clustered close together, and crawling up the hillside. The waves ride up to the rocks. The Easterly wind blows so I pull my fluffy jacket closed. The seagulls sit in line along the fence with their feathers fluffed up like little penguins.

I scoot down the hill on my scooter and across the smooth new roads. The rain buckets down.

This story is a part of the Beca Christchurch Heritage Festival series, for those pieces of writing created in the workshops sponsored by the Christchurch Heritage Festival and Tūranga.

© Write On: School for Young Writers and the writer, 2019


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