Gary Hinds, the outspoken lifeguard at one of New Zealand's deadliest beaches.
Thousands of holidaymakers might think of the Coromandel as their summer playground, but for those who live there year-round, it means so much more. In a six-part series this week, reporter Jamie Morton and photographer and videographer Alan Gibson meet some of the champions of the sunny peninsula.
Gary Hinds admits he might still be milking cows at his Whenuakite farm if destiny hadn't lured him to Hot Water Beach.
And for the countless swimmers the gruff, straight-talking lifeguard has hauled from the tourist hot spot's treacherous surf, it's something they should be thankful for.
The beach, a 2km white stretch of the eastern Coromandel coast as deadly as it is beautiful, is hugged by headlands and backed by cliffs and scrub-covered dunes.
The small bay forms nearly a perfect horseshoe, which might be perfect for waves if they weren't broken and disfigured by the reefs and rock formations close to the beach.
Once the surf is pushed on to the beach, the waves can't find their way back out without being sucked into rip holes, creating powerful vacuums.
Just a few metres in front of this tidal trap is one of the country's biggest tourist attractions: hot water beneath the sand that can draw up to 2500 visitors each day over summer, spade in hand.
Standing between them and peril is a thin line of 60 guards, headed by Mr Hinds.
They might be considered the most rescue-hardened in the country: they each rack up more than 150 volunteer hours each season, more than double the hours of those at most other New Zealand beaches.
Last year, they made 79 rescues, the third-highest rate in the country.
No one has drowned, but the close calls have been too many to number and Mr Hinds reckons tragedy is inevitable.
"We've been lucky here at Hot Water Beach because of the sheer number of people coming to the beach, there is normally a nurse or doctor among them ... that's probably been our saving grace until now."
Mr Hinds had had little to do with the beach before he got involved when his daughter, Taimania, then 4 and now 13, started with the junior club.
Growing up, locals knew of the beach's reputation and avoided it.
The surf club had just a dozen members when Mr Hinds signed up a year ago, putting himself through a training regime that even hard years of club rugby hadn't prepared him for.
It was just in time for tourist numbers to skyrocket, the car parks filling but the threat lurking a few metres from the sand never diminishing.
For someone uninitiated in the perils of New Zealand beaches, the horror of falling victim to such a rip couldn't be underestimated, he said.
"Some of the rescues we do are only five or six metres offshore, but they're in a hell of a big hole and they can't get back to shore."
Champions of the Coromandel Lifeguard Gary Hinds. Photo / Alan Gibson
The largest rescue ever mounted involved 17 people and two rips over one hour. The episode that has most haunted Mr Hinds was an 8-year-old boy, who had been caught in the rip with his 10-year-old sister one mid-week afternoon while their parents were getting coffee.
"The look on his face of sheer terror, as I was going back in through the water to get him."
Mr Hinds worries that when the beach has its first drowning, which he's is convinced will happen outside patrol hours, his fiercely proud lifeguards will take it hard.
"They clock up 5500 hours out of 60 guards, and some of them are doing over 200 hours volunteer work to keep this beach safe, and we're not getting the support we need."
A bid for an extra $15,000 to extend patrolling to cover the whole tourist season was recently turned down by the Thames-Coromandel District Council. Mr Hinds has drawn flak for speaking out, but was last year named Lifeguard of the Year, recognising his many hours of service.
