Raglan: Breaches, Breaks and a Rāhui

Waves, orcas, moments that stop you in your tracks, and sunsets you can’t rush. A short getaway that reminded me why this coast keeps calling back.

Surfing in Raglan, Feb 2024.

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Since my first trip to Raglan in February 2024, I haven’t been able to stay away. If the name rings a bell, it’s probably because Bruce Brown put it on the map in The Endless Summer (1966). Some corners of the internet will tell you the best surf runs from March through to June, but the truth is, Raglan delivers something year-round.

Summer, more often than not, brings medium, crumbling waves - anywhere from 1-5 feet, with the occasional hollow section depending on the tide. The lineup fills with single-fin longboards and a congregation clad in 2mm shorties and boardies or one-pieces. I’ve spent the past few days cruising 2-4 foot waves on my 6’9 fish, the heat sitting delightfully at 26°C plus.

It’s not always gentle. Raglan can, and does, get big. One bay here is a protected reserve and a proving ground for world-class competitions.

There’s been a bit of extra magic in the air lately.

After nearly four hours driving down from the Coromandel, wave-hungry and a little achey, I pulled into one of my favourite spots ready to jump in. Instead, I found the place roped off with flags. No-one in the water. Instead, small groups were gathered on the grass. For a moment I couldn’t place it - competition? Protest? Something else entirely?

Later I learned it was a rāhui: a customary practice in New Zealand Aotearoa that temporarily restricts access to land, water, or resources. But the reason for it was unclear. Eventually the flags came down and someone with a speaker invited people back into the sea. Still, the why lingered.

At 7:06 pm, a clue arrived.

Standing farther along the headland, weighing whether to paddle out (sunset always gives me pause over this way) I saw a massive orca launching clean out of the water. Full breach. At golden hour. Unreal.

I’d never seen one breach before, let alone seen an orca that size. Seconds later, a few more black triangles cut through the surface. I counted four, maybe five in the pod. What struck me most was the calm. Anyone in the water nearby carried on, seemingly unaware (maybe they were). No scrambling. No panic. Just a surreal moment in time.

The next day in the lineup, a small crew told me they’d seen orcas swim by them a few days earlier, roughly fifty metres away. A couple of steady heads had pointed out the fins in a way that kept everyone composed, framing the experience as the rare gift it was.

Thinking back on the rāhui, maybe it was about that and respecting space. Or maybe it was something else. Safety amongst others, perhaps. Raglan gets busy. Party waves stack up. Etiquette matters when the lineup fills. Around New Zealand Aotearoa, you’ll often find information boards at breaks as a reminder about right of way and shared responsibility. I don’t remember seeing that back in the UK. There, it seems to be learned being in the water watching and listening, or later reading online out of curiosity. Here, it feels more considered. Community-minded. 

Beyond the surf, Raglan’s a small town with a strong pulse: picture coffee roasteries, solid food, bars set in a tropical landscape bordered with palm trees by the river, surf shops and small boutiques. Bare feet are the unofficial dress code. There’s plenty happening outdoors, most of it run by locals who so clearly love the place. Maybe next time I’ll branch out, especially if the swell drops out.

And then there are the sunsets. West coast sunsets are magnetic. Evenings get rerouted for them. Cars pull over. Picnics appear. Dinner becomes a hypnotic horizon-watching event. Summer here is idyllic. I’m told winter quiets things down, cools the air, slows the town. That might be reason enough to come back and see it differently. For now, the sun’s out again - and I hear it’s pumping.

Sunset gallery from top to bottom; Raglan Harbour panoramic, 2024, iPhone; Fishing boat returning to the harbour, 2024, iPhone; Cliff-top view of the bays, 2024, 35mm Canon.