Out of Christchurch. The final farewell. Goodbye Park City. Early morning and driving against the work traffic. The low-riding Corolla riding low. Packed to the brim and we're off. This is the end. The end of the South Island tour.
This is the morning of the end. And this morning is all instant coffee swigged in the kitchen and the frantic search for the forgotten. It is Anna and Simon seeing us off. The two of them wrapped in towels, stumbling out of their shared room, and squinting through the haze of sleep.
Then the ceremonious ending. The push-start down the driveway at 312 Greers Road. Simon and I side by side. Bent into the back of the car, and his towel slipping. Pop the clutch and give her some gas. I am waving goodbye as I run down the driveway to catch the Corolla. Don't look back. Simon's towel surely on the ground around his feet.
Goodbye. And thank you so much. Goodbye.
Out of the city center. Up Highway 1 North. Once again. Into the golden fields of wine country. Grape vines growing up the wire lattice work roadside. Row upon row indentical and zipping by the window like a farm field flip-book.
And in between the vineyards the sheep grazing and the cows. The sheep, white speckles into the distant hills. The sheep infinate and spread like a net of bleating stars across the land. And the cows. The cows puddled beneath the trees. Seeking shade. Seeking shade from the all-alone sun in the sky.
Queen Anne's Lace in the ditch by the side of the road. Bobbing in the breeze. "Tossing their heads in sprightly dance" to the tune of the whistling wind. The wind that blows us north.
These are the summer days. The mid-January summer days. Two boys in sunglasses and shorts cruising toward the coast. A shared mason jar passed back and forth between them. The mason jar full of a homemade banana milkshake. The sweet dairy deity. Gulp. And: good god it feels good to be moving.
On the road after.
After climbing in the Port Hills on Saturday. Three sport climbs in the dying light of the setting sun. Climbing beneath a glided sky. The Nor'wester cloud fleece tempered metallic so that the folds of the sprawling underbelly glitter silver pink. The sky on fire.
After sleeping restlessly on a stomach full of bananas (the diet having momentarily changed from toasties to the potassium powerhouse because of a stack of FREE BANANAS at the local fruit store). And climbing at the Cave Stream boulders beside Castle Hill. Where--incidentally--both Marky and I take repeated falls from the top of a problem called "Baby Food," and re-injure elbows already throbbing from overuse.
After spending Saturday afternoon at the overcrowded beach-retreat of Taylor's Mistake. All of us planking ourselves into the breakers to surf, horizontal and smiling, toward the shore. Then the fish and chips sitting cross-legged in the sand. Grease. Flocks of seagulls circling endlessly. Ride back into town in the boot of the car for a desert of frozen bananas.
After all of this and the rain sweeps in at the start of the workweek. We are confined for the entirety of Monday and Tuesday to the living room jail-cell of the flat.
And after the rain we are--now--casually cruising through paradise. On the road. The one window of the Corolla that works rolled down. And the sea breeze on the bare skin beneath the blue sky. Drift.
Switch seats in Kaikoura and we're off once again. Drift. Bare feet working the gas and the clutch and--once we reach the road work--the brake as well. The roadwork. The stop and go. And stop. And go. Swing around the slow movers in between work zones. Hold tight through the curves and sling-shot into the straight aways. We arrive with time to spare.
Ice cream in Picton before boarding the Ferry. Sweaty. Unshaved. Unshowered.
The only thing holding us up? The sustenance of our farewell flight? Bananas and ice cream. Hooray!
Headed north. And into the fray.
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