Piha is considered one of our most treacherous beaches, where even good swimmers can be dragged out to the Tasman Sea in seconds by charging rips.
Two Surf Life Saving clubs patrol the beach on Auckland’s west coast but few understand the dangers better than 63-year-old Rob Ferguson, president of United North Piha Surf Lifesaving Club.
“It's a dynamic beach,” he said. “There's a lot of water coming in.”
Dynamic is an understatement for the 2.4 kms of dusky black sand and wild, roaring surf stretching from Lion Rock northwards to Te Waha Point, under the United North Piha’s watch.
In potentially the latest of many tragedies, strong fears remain for a swimmer missing at the beach since last Sunday. And, after more than 50 years as a volunteer lifeguard, Ferguson has lost count of the number of people he’s pulled out of the surf.
“I did 30 in one day back in the old days of jet boat rescues,” he said.
But the one that still haunts him is a rare double drowning in late January last year.
“You've lost someone, you know,” Ferguson sighs and looks away. “It's hard to talk about.”
Saurin Patel and Anshul Shah had driven out to Piha at the end of the day for a dip in the water with friends and family.
“It was that time of the evening when the wind drops away and the beach is just beautiful,” said Ferguson.
The two men walked over the sandhills and straight into the water just north of Lion Rock.
It’s a known danger spot but the lifeguards had packed away the flags and clocked off for the day.
“We always leave someone on the tower just to watch the beach,” Ferguson said. “He's observed some people walking down the beach, and he called straight away. He said this is not going to be good.”
Lifeguards, who were still in the clubrooms packing up, quickly went to warn the men. But it was too late.
Neither man could swim.
Drownings when beaches not patrolled
Drownings have been steadily increasing over the past five years.
Many of these happen when beaches are not patrolled or after guard hours.
“They literally stepped into this hole,” said Ferguson. “They probably went ankle-deep, knee-deep, thigh deep. And they just drowned.”
The first man was pulled out of the water by 25-year-old clubbie Zach Swift in his IRB.
“We got him in the boat and drove up the beach signalling for assistance,” said Swift. “Other lifeguards came down to help me and we dragged him up the beach and checked for signs of life. There was no breathing and we started CPR.”
The second man had been spotted and was pulled out of the surf by the Police Eagle helicopter.
He was also unresponsive.
Ferguson and a group of other lifeguards quickly joined Zach on the beach.
“Zach was doing CPR on the first guy. And I was back with the other patient,” said Ferguson. “You always think you can save them because you don't know how long he might have floated all the way along.”
By now, this part of Piha beach resembled a hospital emergency department.
“We had the Police Eagle helicopter, the Westpac rescue helicopter, we had lifeguards from Piha and Piha North, St John. We had defibrillators, we had oxygen, we had all manner of gear," said Ferguson.
“The family was nearby,” said Swift. “We had people from the surf club talking to them to keep them somewhat distant. It is hard to stay focused when they are watching on, but it is best to not get distracted and just carry on with the job at hand.”
Teams of lifeguards and first responders worked to save the two men for almost an hour.
They didn’t make it.
“We couldn't have done anything more,” said Ferguson. “I couldn't have been prouder of the guys and the girls that ran that rescue.”
But emotionally, a toll was about to be paid.
“As I walked off the beach, I turned and looked back. During the rescue there was stuff everywhere, and now nothing. It was just flat beach. It was really tough.”
They debriefed as clubbies often do, back in the clubrooms, over a few beers and pizzas.
“It's actually quite brutal. Pretty raw. We just sit around, and people talk up, stand up and talk about what happened and what they did or what they could have done better,” Ferguson said.
“I still think about that day,” said Swift, “you get the odd vision in your head about the worst times happening through that moment. But it is part of the job and you just get on with it.”
Except it isn’t a job.
Surf lifeguards are largely volunteers.
Financial and emotional toll on surf lifeguards
They patrol our beaches and save lives in their spare time.
It can cost them financially but also emotionally.
Surf Lifesaving NZ has a counselling service which all clubbies can access at moments like these.
But for Ferguson, a clubbie with half a century under the belt, the breakthrough came when a kaumatua from the local iwi Te Kawerau a Maki held a ceremony to clear the space, to restore it back to normality and a natural state at the beach.
“His belief is we look for signs and, a year on, it’s still tough to talk about.”
Ferguson sighs, his voice wobbles a bit, but he carries on.
“So, the kaumatua says, we always look for signs. We went out the back of the clubrooms and there it was. A rainbow, mate, but it wasn't like a rainbow. It was like a really long, flat rainbow. And he goes here, that's the sign. That's it. That's the sign.”
But the job, which isn't a job, goes on. The figures are stark. By the middle of this week, Surf Lifesavers had spent almost 200,000 hours on patrol so far this summer and had rescued 749 people from beaches across Aotearoa.
See more on this story from Mark Crysell on Sunday, tonight at 7.30pm on TVNZ1 and TVNZ+.
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