Flying into Queenstown, we could see the chaos beneath us from the air above. Even at great heights, those whitecaps stood out—churning, relentless, wild. We hadn’t quite expected the ocean to look like that. Immediately after getting off the flight, we sprinted the entire two and a half hours down to the regional community called Bluff at the southernmost tip of New Zealand. We were in hot pursuit of a ferry that would take us to the ultimate frontier: Stewart Island. And that meant an hour-long crossing through those very same chaotic waters.
The hull of the ferry launched off the waves, only to slam back down with a force that rattled our bones. The sensation was eerily familiar—a fleeting moment of weightlessness, where your stomach sinks and the adrenaline takes over. We thought that this must be why so few people make this journey each year from the mainland to Stewart Island. Rainbows popped in and out of sight amidst the sea spray as the boat cut through the water, massive kelp fronds drifting past us while seabirds circled above in droves.
And as we inched closer to this island of an island, we watched the world transform into something far more raw and untamed. We were en route to a destination that would make even the mainland of New Zealand appear domestic and plain. The ferry was sprinkled with either adventuring hikers, outfitted as if they were about to summit Everest, or the few rare locals who call this island home. Meanwhile, we emptied our bags and put on nearly everything we had to combat the cold, and notably, we were the only ones in sandals.
Endless trails lead into the island’s dense, uninhabited bush. But this isn’t the kind of place you arrive at to just wing it. You have to be prepared. And judging by the ferry crowd, some of these travelers appeared to have been gearing up for this place for years. By contrast, we looked like we’d made the decision minutes ago. However, looks can be deceiving, as we had planned this stop on expedition far in advance. By the time our tumultuous ferry ride had finished, it became clear that the ride in and of itself was enough of a deterrent to keep away most curious travelers. But obviously, it was not enough of a deterrent for us!
Stepping foot onto Stewart Island, we didn’t realize that this one week would forge such closeness with Roy and Rachel Thompson. Despite being twenty years our senior, the couple had so many similarities to Adam and I that watching their dynamic felt a bit like looking into our future. After years of marriage, raising two kids, and purchasing the land at Mamaku Point—which spans 400 acres on a remote peninsula—they were now fully immersed in their next big chapter: rewilding. Roy, after a lifetime in finance, was determined to pay it forward, and their ambitious conservation efforts reminded us of dreams we might chase someday.
For now, we were taking in the whole of their world—a sprawling, predator-controlled sanctuary enclosed by a Zealandia-style fence. Mamaku Point is one of the few places in New Zealand where native flora and fauna have a real chance to thrive without the constant threat of invasive species like rats, possums, and feral cats. Inside the reserve, the understory of the forest is regenerating, allowing rare birds like the beloved kiwi and kākā parrot to flourish. Their long-term vision is not just to protect what remains but to actively restore what’s been lost—reintroducing species, rebuilding ecosystems, and providing a place for further wilderness and conservation education. Though their project was still relatively new, Roy and Rachel were fully committed, tackling an endless list of initiatives with an inspiring mix of passion and execution.
At first, they seemed unsure if we’d be spending much time together or if we’d venture off on our own to shoot content for the expedition. But it quickly became clear that our shared meals—lunches and dinners cooked by either Roy or Rachel—were something too enjoyable to pass up. We ended up exploring Stewart Island together, getting a firsthand look at the places where Roy had spent his childhood, be it spearfishing or simply just navigating this wild, remote wonderland.
Stewart Island is actually the closest inhabited island in Oceania to our southernmost continent, only 2,000 to 3,000 km away from its edge, depending on the season. We layered up, wearing everything we’d brought, armed with red-light torches to search for baby kiwis on the Thompson’s conservation land. We didn’t have to go far. They were everywhere—darting through the bush at dusk, eager to peck at our feet with their long beaks. Roy liked to remind us that we were some of the few people seeing kiwis in this way, as many New Zealanders have never actually even seen this iconic bird. Afterward, we crashed in the camp-style bunk beds, waking up early to start it all over again.
By day, we wandered the beaches lining their property, a true biodiversity hotspot for seaweed. The rock pools were bursting with life—pāua (abalone), kina (urchins), and an array of marine species I had never seen before. Rachel had a sharp eye for the small details, the overlooked flora most would walk past without a second glance. Roy, on the other hand, was scanning for the big stuff—sea lions, the rare (but possible) sighting of a leopard seal. And, of course, there were the penguins.
Mamaku Point is one of the last remaining strongholds for the sacred hoiho (yellow-eyed penguin)—a symbol of New Zealand that teeters on the edge of extinction. To some, especially those who work closely with the species, that fate feels inevitable. As we’d soon learn on our longer overland journey from south to north, their struggle is one of the most pressing climate stories in the country.
Alongside the Yellow-Eyed Penguin Trust, Roy and Rachel run a rehabilitation center, caring for injured penguins and releasing them back into the wild as quickly as possible. We didn’t spot any during our time at the reserve, but soon enough, we’d see them up close—both in care and in the wild—once we touched down back on the mainland.
One morning, Roy took me out for a freedive off the point—just the two of us. He was fishing for dinner, and I was photographing giant and bull kelp, finally able to see the latter up close for the first time. It was peaceful, both of us just happy to be out there. The water was ice-cold, so I borrowed Rachel’s 7mm freediving suit—better than nothing, but still no match for the sub-Antarctic chill that seeped in. Surrounded by this miracle algae, I was in heaven. Within five minutes of dropping his line, Roy had caught our dinner: butterfish and blue cod. But we weren’t the only ones eyeing the catch. Massive albatross swarmed us, trying to steal our meal straight from the line.
The ocean was quiet—no boats, no other divers—just the two of us in a vast, hunter-green marine expanse. But the stillness didn’t bring comfort. This was great white territory. Even with Roy’s eyes on me, I kept glancing over my shoulder, wondering what was watching from below. I’d heard about the cage-diving operations off Bluff, the closest mainland town, where boats take thrill-seekers into the Stewart Island chain to see great whites up close. It’s controversial, to say the least. Locals say the semi-baiting of sharks has increased their presence—or, more accurately, our awareness of their presence. Fishermen who have worked these waters for decades say that while sharks have always been here, sightings were once rare. Now? Different story. They’re seen regularly.
We met Zane Smith while on Stewart Island—a 13th-generation Rakiura local, pāua diver, and commercial cray fisherman whose entire life has been shaped by these waters. He’s spent more time at sea than most could fathom, and his perspective on the changing ocean is one few others could offer. He shared stories of the island, the fishery, and, most hauntingly, the great whites.
Years ago, Zane pulled up his net to find a great white tangled in the four-inch mesh—likely trying to snatch an easy meal. Alone on the water, he had no choice but to euthanise it. As the shark’s body sank, something strange was happening around his vessel. Other great whites appeared, circling the lifeless shark in what looked like a ritual. The water shifted. The energy changed. And then, just like that, they were gone.
Later, Zane learned from famed local marine biologists, Malcolm Francis and Clinton Duffy, that when a great white dies, the entire local population—around 200 sharks found here—somehow knows. Within hours, they disappear, avoiding the area for months, sometimes years. No one understands how they communicate, but Zane witnessed a version of it firsthand. He emphasized over and over that there’s so much we don’t know about the ocean and that one thing’s for sure—these sharks are far more intelligent than we could imagine.
That said, these waters, although stunning, carried an eerie weight. The cold, the silence, the unrivaled marine life—all of it is mesmerizing, but it’s impossible to forget what else might be lurking. Some of the largest great whites in the world are found here. And they see us long before we ever see them when in the water. But those thoughts of great whites quickly faded as I got lost in the kelp forests around me, frond by frond, framing each shot through my underwater lens. As I surfaced, a flash of movement caught my eye—ten little blue penguins darting past. From the boat, Roy shouted that we’d finally found “the big stuff” after all.
A recent storm had swept through just days before our arrival, leaving the beaches covered in an endless spread of shells. I wandered slowly, lost in my thoughts, taking photos of shell after shell. An hour passed, and I had barely moved a few meters. Roy eventually had to summon me off the beach so we could move on.
We trekked further, met more of the locals, and deepened our understanding of New Zealand’s predator crisis—an unfolding emergency with no easy fix. The more time we spent with Roy and Rachel, the more we settled into their rhythm, slipping into a pace of life that felt effortless, far removed from the intensity of our usual expedition work. But no matter how remote Stewart Island felt, one truth became impossible to ignore: you can’t outrun the climate crisis.
Even here, on these seemingly untouched shores, the tides were shifting—both literally and figuratively. The stories people shared, especially Zane’s, weren’t distant warnings; they were lived realities. It was the same patterns we’d seen before—extreme weather, rising sea levels, warming waters, and shifting marine life. None of it was surprising. And yet, seeing it unfold in a place this far removed hit differently.
Flying in, we had watched the ocean churn beneath us—unpredictable and relentless. Now, as we prepared to leave, that same energy lingered, not just in the sea but in everything we had experienced here. Stewart Island wasn’t frozen in time as we thought it might be. It actually was adapting, evolving, shifting in ways both seen and unseen. Our time had been full of adventure—diving through kelp forests, tracking kiwis at night, scanning the shores for penguins—but also a stiff reminder that change is constant, and survival requires resilience. Stewart Island was a reflection of what we’ve seen everywhere: where there’s beauty, there’s chaos. And in the face of a changing world, the only choice is to move with it.
To be continued …
The rich text element allows you to create and format headings, paragraphs, blockquotes, images, and video all in one place instead of having to add and format them individually. Just double-click and easily create content.
A rich text element can be used with static or dynamic content. For static content, just drop it into any page and begin editing. For dynamic content, add a rich text field to any collection and then connect a rich text element to that field in the settings panel. Voila!
Headings, paragraphs, blockquotes, figures, images, and figure captions can all be styled after a class is added to the rich text element using the "When inside of" nested selector system.
