Where Sea Meets Sky

But something is different now. I feel this great link to the land here, to them, to their lives. I don’t want to say goodbye. I’ve grown accustomed to having them around me, having them take care of me, and I’ve never liked or wanted that before.

Being home felt nice. Being home felt like . . . home.

It doesn’t help that my mother has somewhat opened up to me. Or maybe, maybe, it’s that I’ve opened up to her. Maybe we’re meeting halfway now. Either way, I climb into the passenger seat with heavy shoulders. I roll down the window and wave to them as they stand in the driveway. They wave back and I think to myself, I love them.

Then I shake it off and slap the outside of the van door through the rolled-down window, signaling for Josh to drive on. We motor down the road, ready to resume our adventure, just the two of us.

The drive up the East Cape is easy for the first part. We pass through farms and orchards and sunny fields, the highway skirting the endless blue ocean. Just outside of the Mahia Peninsula, we pull off the highway and have lunch sitting by a river. We devour a baguette sliced open and topped with brie and fresh tomatoes sprinkled with sea salt. It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten, the sun beating on our backs, cool water at our feet.

We laze about, lying in the grass at the river’s edge, kissing sweetly and passionately. Sometimes we are full on making out and other times just staring at each other. His hands and eyes are always on me, touching me, roving over me, and I succumb each time, feeling prized and wanted in a way I haven’t before.

This is so physical that it’s beyond the physical.

Somewhere before the town of Gisborne, we fill up with petrol at a small, down-at-its-heels station, complete with rusted pumps. Josh goes inside to pay and when he comes back out, he’s grinning, waving something in his hand.

“What?” I ask as he hops in the driver’s seat.

He proudly displays it in his palm. It’s a cassette tape of the best of Free.

“They had cassettes?” I ask.

“It was either this or Maori chants or Reba McEntire, so I picked this. Who doesn’t love Paul Rodgers and Free? Now we can have new music for this part of the trip.”

“The Josh and Gemma journey?”

“That has a very nice ring to it,” he says. “In fact, it’s all right now.” He slides in the cassette and stares at it expectantly, figuring the song will start playing.

Of course “All Right Now” isn’t the first song that plays, it’s the Hendrix-like “I’m a Mover,” but we’re happy to have something new to listen to.

Later we stop to have dinner in Gisborne, which is a sort of smaller, quainter version of Napier, then keep chugging on. I’m thinking that we’ll find a holiday park soon but Josh scares the shit out of me by suddenly slamming on the brakes and taking Mr. Orange off the highway and onto a corridor of grass bordering the long but isolated Makorori Beach.

We bounce along over the uneven ground and just before he reaches the sand and I’m about to cry out, he turns to the right and takes the bus along the grass until we reach a long patch of trees and shrub. Once Mr. Orange is hidden from the road by all the brush, he puts it into park and switches off the engine.

He turns to look at me triumphantly. “Voilà, we have a whole beach to ourselves.”

I give him a wry look and push back the swoop of hair that has fallen across his forehead from the bumpy voyage. “You know, you can’t just camp wherever you like.”

“Sure we can,” he says with a grin and tries to fake-bite my hand. “No one is here, no one can see our car.”

I sigh and point behind me. “Sure, no one coming down the hill over there can see this giant orange bus.”

“Live a little,” he says.

“Fine,” I tell him, pointing a threatening finger at him. “But if we get busted by the Department of Conservation, you’re getting us out of it.”

We get out of the bus and I’m immediately glad he was so impulsive. Makorori Beach is a long sweeping expanse of off-white sand, bordered by sand and shrub along the highway and bookended by two green hills that jut out into the ocean. At this time of day there’s no one around, there are barely any cars on the highway, and there are only a few baches in the area, hidden from sight. The air smells salty and sunbaked.

While Josh gets the camping stove and chairs set up for dinner, I decide to go for a barefoot run. I scurry down to the soft white sand and go slow but steady from one end of the beach to the other, just as the sun dips behind the low hills. When I get back, Free is blaring from the speakers and Josh has gone through a beer or two.

“There you are,” he says, getting to his feet. “Daughter of Fire and Water.”

“Huh?” I ask, wiping away the sweat from my brow. He comes over to me and puts his arms around me. “What are you doing? I’m all gross.”

He grins and kisses my neck. “I like it. You’re perfect.” He starts to move back and forth, dancing with me, and it’s only then that I realize the song playing is called “Fire and Water.”

I try to pull away to towel off but he holds me in place, still swaying, rocking back and forth. The ocean breeze is stronger now, cooling the sweat on my skin, but inside I’m heating up.

“You’ve got what it takes to make a poor man’s heart break,” he sings in my ear, his voice low and melodic enough to send shivers down my spine. I take in a deep breath and rest my head on his shoulder and we just dance in the purple dusk. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">