Love te taiao, trapped in the city? Go freediving — it's free.

By Marlena Chambers

It’s 1 pm on a Friday arvo. I’m pulling thick neoprene on, balancing on a chipped boulder on the south coast. A steady but gentle swell rolls in, barely a whisper from Tawhirimatea. It’s the perfect day for a dive.  

As a country chick, I’ve always been a bit sceptical of city living. But Wellies has its hidden charms. The moment I slipped beneath the surface and met the world of Hinemoana, I knew I could hack it. There’s something about it, maybe it’s that you can’t Google Maps it. No directions, no street-view, and no one who’s not a marine biologist knows names for half the things out there. Some questions haven’t been answered, and mysteries keep arising out of the deep. It’s an alien world, more exquisite than anything the animators of Avatar could dream up. Like a parallel universe—living, growing, reflecting ours. An incredibly complex ecosystem, just meters away.  

In addition to exploring a foreign world, being underwater is also an experiment in self-discovery. World record freediver, Natalia Molchanova once said,  “... It's not only a sport, it’s a way to understand who we are.”  

I’ve strapped my weight belt on. It’s heavy enough to counter the buoyancy of my wetsuit, so I’m just floating. Once I dive below five or six metres, the water pressure increases, compressing the air in my lungs. Around that point, I lose buoyancy and begin to sink. It's like being in an antigravity chamber (not that I’ve ever).  

Humans have what's called the mammalian dive reflex, first studied in whales and dolphins. It's like an automatic power-saving mode for the body. When your face is immersed in cold water, your heart rate slows, conserving oxygen. This phenomenon, combined with the free-fall effect, is how divers reach incredible depths. In 2023, Alyssia Zecchini reached 123 meters, claiming the world record for the deepest freedive for women. Her documentary shows stunning footage of her sinking into the blue. 

Once you’ve entered the freefall zone, it takes no effort to exist down there. At six meters, I’m beginning to feel it. All I have to do is be. All I am is movement. The underwater world draws me outward—curiosity flows, the murky edges of my vision field call to me. I am out of my depth in every sense of the phrase.  

My identity, my role in society, my anxieties about the world—all of it gets  soaked up by the ocean. Some say it’s the last quiet place on earth; maybe they mean the last place they can find peace of mind. Where the ocean ends and I begin becomes unclear. Irrelevant, even. Only when the burn of carbon dioxide pulls me back to the surface do I remember. 

When divers are under water for long periods, the inert nitrogen gas in their body is forced into their bloodstream by the water pressure. It affects the brain, causing a change of consciousness dubbed “rapture of the deep.” The narcotic effects include confusion, euphoria, and sometimes hallucinations. It’s common below 70 meters, but even shallow dives can also get you narced. I’m always out there with a buddy; I don’t push my limits. 

Kicking up to the surface, I fill my lungs with air and feel the oxygen infuse my blood like a high. I breathe up and curve back down into the blue. The ocean lends me a grace that doesn’t exist on land.  

For anyone who’s been fully immersed in a foreign language, it’s a similar experience to diving. The intimacy is intense—bizarre, sometimes terrifyingly beautiful. To engage, to comprehend anything at all, you have to be fully present. Fully alive. 

A kelp plant sways to the silent sound of swell. 

This world is on our doorstep, yet we barely know it.  

Meanwhile, the upper world, the yang of the yin, pours sediment into the rivers that flow into the harbour. This clogs the water, blocking sunlight essential for seaweed growth, and pollutes the water that fish breathe through their delicate gills. Sewage outlets discharge along the harbour mouth—not to mention the unaccounted-for waste lost in Wellington’s ageing, bundy sewage system. Greywater drains funnel  unfiltered junk directly into the harbour. 

Plastic pollution, introduced seaweed species, rising acidity, agricultural runoff, and commercial fishing all impact the health of the sea. Higher acidity makes it harder for crustaceans to grow shells—the calcium they rely on dissolves faster—slowing growth rates for species that are well-loved kaimoana. 

According to the Department of Conservation, 22 percent of marine mammals are at risk of extinction, and a disquieting 90 percent of seabirds face the same threat.  

Above and below are interconnected in a complex dance. Our waterways flow between these dual worlds, and they are home to unique and threatened species. Wetlands, including estuaries, support the greatest concentration of wildlife of any habitat in Aotearoa.  

We are destroying what we’ve barely encountered.  

After a diving mission on Great Barrier Island, part of a community-led marine survey, I had a yarn with a local marine biologist. He tells me about the days when he used to pull meter-meter-long crays out of the Hauraki Gulf for Kellie Tarlton’s aquarium. There’s a tender hopefulness in his eyes as he speaks of what could be. Stories of crays being so plentiful that kids would pick them up on their way home from school make me believe that there’s still a long way to go. 

We’ve learnt a hard lesson on our lack of kaitiakitanga. It is time to take responsibility for that.  

As I get to know the Wellington coastline, I notice a marked difference between the Taputeranga Marine Reserve (Owhiro, Houghton, and Island Bays) and the unprotected areas, like Makara or Breaker Bay. Inside the reserve, you’ll find koura, who along with tāmure (snapper), are natural predators of kina. These species play a vital role in preventing kina from decimating entire kelp forests, leaving zones of barren rock faces in their wake. 

Koura are considered functionally extinct, meaning they no longer perform their ecological role—a major factor in kina takeover. But snorkelling through the reserve, I’m surrounded by lush seaweed forests hiding giant pāua. The water’s cleaner. The fish look you in the eye. The mauri feels good. This is what our coasts could be like. 

At the marine reserve off Goat Island in the Hauraki Gulf, big crays are breeding again after just ten years of protection. Reserves also benefit local fishers, becoming breeding grounds for large fish species, an insurance of continuity and kaimoana.  

What seems obvious to me is that these two worlds— these parallel realities—have so much to offer one another. In the dynamic, delicate relationship between sea and shore, humans undoubtedly play a part. In our lack of understanding, we’re damaging something that has potential to lead us to a deeper appreciation for te taiao. 

The invitation to step beyond our world, beyond our comfort zone, is there every day in the gentle lapping of the waves. Sometimes, it’s there in the raging of Tangaroa, seeking us out.