Mānuka and kānuka are those scrubby, tough-as-nails plants that cover the hills, colonise the cutover land, and produce the honey that the world has gone mad for. They are survivors, colonisers, plants that thrive where nothing else will grow. But there was once a tea tree that lived where even mānuka struggled – the exposed coast, the wind-scoured headland, the shifting sand dune. It was low-growing, sprawling, almost prostrate. Its leaves were thick and leathery, its flowers were small but abundant, its roots held the sand together. It was the lost coastal heath, and it is gone. Extreme adaptation made it special. The coastal heath lived in the most hostile environment in New Zealand – the salt spray zone, where wind never stops blowing, where sand shifts underfoot, where freshwater is scarce and the sun is relentless. Its leaves were covered in a thick waxy cuticle, reducing water loss. Its roots spread wide and shallow, grabbing onto unstable sand. Its branches grew low and sprawling, avoiding the worst of the wind. It was a plant designed to survive where most plants would die. It held the coast together. Its matted roots stabilised the sand dunes, preventing erosion. Its low-growing branches provided shelter for small insects, lizards, and ground-nesting birds. Its flowers – masses of small white blooms – provided nectar for native bees, moths, and flies. It was the foundation of the coastal heath ecosystem, the plant that made it possible for other species to survive. It flowered prolifically, producing large quantities of seed. The seeds were small, light, and easily dispersed by wind. They could lie dormant in the sand for years, waiting for the right conditions to germinate. That strategy works when the coast is stable. It fails when the coast is developed. Coastal development and dune stabilisation destroyed it. When Europeans arrived, they cleared the coastal heath for housing, farms, and holiday parks. They planted marram grass to stabilise the dunes – an aggressive introduced grass that outcompeted the native vegetation. They suppressed fire, which the coastal heath may have needed for regeneration. They built roads and seawalls, fragmenting the remaining habitat. The introduced plants – marram grass, ice plant, gorse – were faster-growing, more aggressive, and better at colonising disturbed ground. The coastal heath could not compete. It was pushed to the margins, then over the edge. By the 1920s, it was gone. The last specimens were collected by a botanist who had no idea he was holding the final individual. He pressed them, labelled them, put them in a drawer. And the coastal heath fell silent. The smaller tea trees survived. Mānuka and kānuka are adaptable, able to grow in a wide range of conditions. They are the survivors, the pioneers, the plants that take over after disturbance. But the lost coastal heath is extinct. A few pressed specimens in a herbarium, a few fragments of wood in a sand dune, and the memory of a plant that used to hold the edge. We cleared its world. Then we wondered why the coast felt so bare.