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On Easter Sunday 2001, I was in the Catlins region down near the south of our South Island, where the sea rolls in from Antarctica, across the Southern Ocean. I had decided to rise early to visit a yellow-eyed penguin colony, hoping to see some of these special penguins as they headed out to sea.

I rose shortly after 5am, being careful not to wake my room-mate in the back-packer's hostel. I then drove for 45 minutes over windy gravel roads, in the dark, towards Roaring Bay, (so named as the ocean roars into this bay from the wild south.)

It was cold when I parked the car, so mittens, gloves and jacket came out of the boot. So did my torch, but I soon found I did not need it to light my way on the path down to the beach: the moon with its Easter fullness lit my way.

Yellow-eyed penguins (hoiho in Maori) are a threatened species, and various methods have been used at this beach to ensure that humans do not disturb them: at the end of a path was a "hide" from where you could watch them.

These penguins typically nest up amongst low scrubby bushes and flax on hillsides. They stay hidden there unless they are going out to sea in the morning, or returning from the sea in the afternoon. At the local tourist information office they had been able to tell me that the penguins came in to shore after 3pm, but nobody seemed exactly sure what time they left in the morning, except that it was "very early." Obviously it was not a common thing to watch them in the morning, and I hoped I was early enough.

The stars were still visible in the sky, including the "Southern Cross", right overhead. The surf roared, seabird noises screeched above, and I waited to see if I would see any penguins.

While it was still dark, I was finally able to distinguish the dark back of one penguin as it crossed a lighter stretch of sand and entered the sea. Maybe this was how early "very early" was, and perhaps in the dark I had already missed seeing other penguins. Perhaps I would see only that one penguin in the dim light. I waited, but nothing else happened and time passed.

The sky was beginning to lighten and I was nearly ready to go, thinking that I had been too late and would see no more penguins, when I spotted movement. Two more birds were heading down the hill. They reached the bottom and stood on the dark rocks for quite some time, watching, before darting over the lighter sand and into the sea.

As the sky grew slightly pink, and the sunlight began to hit the top of the hill surrounding the opposite side of the bay, the morning "rush hour" began. In all, I saw at least 27 birds go down the same hill path and across the rocks and sand to the sea. The biggest surprise for me was to see how these birds, who nest in quite a "solitary family" fashion, secretively hidden amongst their bushes, waited for each other. I saw a group of 11 penguins gather together before going down the hill together.

This was an Easter morning to remember. A special early rising that was blessed with the privilege of seeing these birds. I had spent time in the cathedral of this wild bay as the dawn rose, and felt in perfect tune with creation.