Where Sea Meets Sky

“How are you two?” he asks.

“Been better,” says Gemma.

He, like Gemma, looks great, even healthy, though I know I saw him throwing back shots of what can only be considered Satan’s homebrew last night.

Within minutes, Gemma has thrown together a sandwich consisting of potato chips stuck between two pieces of bread smeared with brown stuff.

I start laughing and then laugh even more when she starts to eat it.

“That is the most white-trash thing I’ve ever seen,” I tell her.

Her grandfather chuckles from the TV room, though Gemma only glares. “Hey,” she says between mouthfuls, “the bread is to soak up the alcohol; the chips are for crunchy, greasy tastiness, and also for soaking up the alcohol; and the marmite is all B vitamins. It’ll cure you right up.”

I turn my head toward the TV room and yell, “Is this true, Pops?”

“It’s worth a shot if you’re that hard up, mate,” he answers.

Gemma smiles sweetly and pushes the sandwich in my face. “Trust me.”

I take it from her, not really sure if I do trust her or not. But I eat it anyway. It’s actually pretty good, though the marmite has this strong, concentrated soy-saucey beer taste going on.

We take our plates and sit down on the couch across from her grandfather.

“So where you two off to next?” he asks, shutting off the TV and giving us his full attention.

Gemma opens her mouth but immediately shuts it. She takes a bite of her sandwich and then says, “I don’t know. It’s up to Josh.”

They both look at me. I shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Well, start looking at the guidebooks, boy,” he says. “How many days do you have left here?”

I swallow hard. “Ten.”

“Then make them count, aye?” He leans back in his chair and taps his fingers on the arm. He’s got tattoos on them, too. “If I were you, I’d go up to Cape Reinga.”

“Is that the northernmost part?” I ask, recalling its place on our travel maps.

“Sure is. Where the Tasman Sea meets the Pacific Ocean. Our ancestors believed it was a very spiritual place, where the spirits jump off from this world to the next. No matter what you believe, it’s very special, very important. Tapu.”

“Tapu,” I repeat.

“Sacred,” he says, with a grave look in his eyes. “There is a very, very old pōhutukawa tree there at the end. The roots are where the souls slide down into the afterworld.”

I nod, wanting to say “cool” but figuring that’s too glib of a statement for something that sounds so serious. “Sounds like we have to go,” I say, meaningfully.

He nods. I feel like his dark eyes are trying to tell me something else but then he abruptly turns back to the TV and clicks the remote to turn it back on.

In the end, we decide to stay only one more night at the Henares’ place. The clock is ticking and Gemma and I don’t have much time together. I’m trying to think of some way out of this, some way to lengthen my stay, to return, to take her with me, to do anything rather than let the two of us part ways. I know if we do, I’ll lose her forever.

Our plan—well, actually, my plan, for once—is to take Mr. Orange to the Karikari Peninsula, a place that looks amazing for a few nights’ stay, all white sand coves, clear blue tropical water, and lots of privacy, then we’ll motor up to Cape Reinga, as far as you can possibly go in New Zealand, then on the way back stop by a ninety-mile beach to do some sandboarding on their massive sand dunes. We’ll come back here on the way back, drop off Mr. Orange, and then get the next bus back down to Auckland.

It’s a lot packed into a short amount of time, but like Pops Henare said, we have to make it count.

Even though we know we’ll be seeing them all again in a week, it’s almost an emotional farewell between us, Pops, Robbie, and Shelley. Once again I’m feeling that pang of losing family in the long run.

The ride up to Maitai Bay on the Karikari Peninsula is markedly different from our other ones. We’re silent. Free blares on the stereo, but after a while Gemma slips in Pink Floyd. When “Comfortably Numb” comes on and she starts staring out the window, mouthing the lyrics, I wonder if she derives any comfort from the song at all, or if it’s an anthem of sorts.

There’s a heavy tension in the air between us. It’s not necessarily bad, it’s just that we both seem to be caught in our minds, our own little worlds. My fears are of losing this world, of losing her. There’s much left to explore—here, in her. I feel like I’ll be leaving when things are only getting started.

I wonder how badly I scared her last night by telling her I loved her. The look in her eyes wasn’t of rejection; it was fear. And I don’t have much time to help her overcome it.

I don’t have much time.

When we pull down the unsealed road and into the campground, Gemma’s spirits seem to lift. The spot is beautiful—but what hasn’t been beautiful in this country? There are a few other campervans around but it’s not too busy and we’re able to secure a spot.

We park Mr. Orange and start getting ready for dinner. I want to stay here for at least two nights, just to really feel like I’m here, so we make ourselves at home, airing out clothes that we laundered at her grandpa’s and setting up the table and camping chairs.

She’s so beautiful here, her face turned to the sun. Sometimes I see her reach for the pastels. She usually just holds them, thinking about the scene, thinking about what she wants to do, but she rarely puts them to use. I think she’s still afraid to create, to open herself up, to put her soul on paper for others—for me—to see. That’s okay, though. That’s a start.