Where Sea Meets Sky

She seems to consider that for a moment. “I guess I’d consider myself more pākehā just because of my upbringing. But I don’t really think about it. I can pass for either to everyone else, and no one really cares. I mean, I think one day everyone in New Zealand will have Maori blood in them, if they don’t already. It’s a good thing. I think it keeps people rooted, like they belong somewhere. The tribes, the iwi, around the country are all about family and your family beyond your family. I kind of like that.”

I nod. I like that idea, too, it just doesn’t apply to my own life whatsoever. My family may be tied through blood but the ties are weak and constantly unravelling. Suddenly, I think of Vera and can’t blame her in the slightest for wanting to form her ties elsewhere.

I look over at Gemma, studying her. Her eyes are focused on the road but are bright, clear, and sparkling. A few freckles have sprouted across her nose this last week. She looks healthy, content, happy. I wonder if I’m the reason. I wonder if she feels any ties to me. I wonder if she’ll let me keep my ties to her.

It’s a long, winding drive through tiny little settlements, overgrown forests, and encroaching bush, with clay cliffs rising up from the blue water. We take our time. I want to paint everything. I want to make a New Zealand superhero and call her Gemma, Daughter of Fire and Water. I’ll give her a heart of ice and loins of fire and she’ll sleep at the bottom of the ocean.

When we finally reach the turnoff for the lighthouse, it’s growing dark. We drive along a narrow gravel road for what seems like for fucking ever, ocean on one side, a cliff on the other, and that terrible sense of loneliness hits me again. This is the easternmost point in the whole country. This is the edge of nothing. Out there, on the ocean, there’s nothing.

There’s nothing but me and Gemma. It feels like we’re the only people left in the world. And it scares me, because she’s all I have to hold on to. I can’t be sure she won’t let go.

There’s no official camping at the lighthouse, so Gemma takes the bus off-roading, much like we did yesterday, and we come to a stop in a small valley in the middle of a field of cows. They all swivel their heads to stare at us with dark, inquisitive eyes. There’s a small house up on the hill but we can barely see it. Horses graze on the hill’s terraced grooves.

Beyond the hills, there’s nothing but ocean. I breathe in deep, feeling strangely nervous and shaky. I don’t think it’s just about being on the edge of nothing, though.

I think it’s that I’m on the edge of something.

We go to bed early, our alarms set for the early morning hour, predawn. Even though the ocean looks to be about a ten-minute walk, I pack a bag with my camera, my phone, my sketchbook, and the pastels.

I can’t get enough of her. Our lovemaking is slow and lazy but necessary. Being inside her feels like being home, it feels like being in love, it feels like everything sweet and beautiful and nice in the world. Every time I come in her I hope I’m making a home for myself, a place where I belong.

The alarm on my phone goes off way too early. In my sleepy stupor I nearly turn it off but Gemma is patting my arm, then punching my arm, telling me to get up. The world around us vibrates with the sound of mooing cows and I wonder how the hell I slept through them.

Even though the days are hot, the mornings by the ocean are cold, and I can barely get on my jeans and hoodie in time. Armed with the pack and flashlights, we jump out of the van. The air snaps at us as if we’re windblown flags.

Hundreds of cattle spread out in all directions, bound by the green hills to the south and the lighthouse to the north. I look east, to where the hills part and the sky is a paler shade of dawn. It seems to be growing lighter by the second, and our chances of catching the sunrise are dwindling.

We take off toward the light, cautiously creeping under barbed wire fences and avoiding the epic cow pies dotting the land. The cows, for the most part, seem to be ignoring us, but their piles of shit are like hidden land mines in the dim light. A meandering, narrow stream cuts across us and we have to head up into the terraced hills where wary horses eye us. I get the feeling that we’ve chosen the most difficult route to see the sunrise, and from our vantage point I can’t even see the lighthouse anymore.

Just as the sky seems to grow frighteningly light, we reach the crest of the hill and I nearly collapse, out of breath from the quick, steep hike. A lone filly bolts at the sight of us.

Below us lies an empty beach, laid out like a sheet of velvet. Aside from the occasional hoofprint and driftwood, it looks totally undisturbed, like it has been waiting for us all this time. The South Pacific is spread out at the horizon’s feet, a royal blue tinged with saffron edges. The sun is not up yet. We still have time.

We run down the hill and I nearly eat shit, several times, my shoes slipping on the dew-slicked grass, until sand sinks beneath my feet. I grab Gemma’s hand and we run over to the water’s edge just as the sun peeks its glowing crown over the wavering line.

I look at her and smile. We made it. We’re standing on the easternmost point in the easternmost habitable country. We might even be the first people on this whole fucking earth to see this fiery sunrise. Only thousands of miles of rolling water lies between us and the southwest coast of Chile.

And yesterday.

Gemma lets go of my hand and lets out a whoop of joy and starts running up and down the beach like a horse that’s been set free. I watch her, then take out my camera and start snapping pictures of her, of the beach, of the sunrise.