Into the sound country. And this is my vacation from my vacation.
There was the early morning work in the garden. The job: to backhoe the upper tier. And I am a gravel slinger, I am a weed killer. The elliptic blade humming and I am death dressed in black stubbies. Rake up this world of destruction and how crisp the rock beds rise from the tilled gravel.
This the deed done and rewarded with a massive cheeseburger feed on a bun of fresh-baked bread. Yum. The backpack packed and a plastic grocery bag full of fresh food from the garden. Robin’s Room empty and awaiting her return. But not now. No. Not now.
There was the ride out of the Wairoa Gorge. Through the gate. Now ousted from Eden. Over the concrete bridge, through the tree tunnel, and past the building bees buzzing. Around Richmond and through Nelson for the drop-off at the pull-out by the side of the highway.
There was the hug and the kiss and the promise to call. And the Toyota Land Cruiser speeding away. And then there was competition on the roadside in the form of a petite hippie-chick with brown shoulders and dreadlocks hanging in ropes down her back. But this is the thumb-song sing-a-long and the two of us ride together through a series of strange cars and trucks to the Picton Port.
There were the four rides given as gifts and all of us nameless along the way.
There was the walk through the sweating town wearing black jeans and a slippery jersey of perspiration. There was the knock knock knock at 95 Waikawa Road. And the re-greeting of old friends on a brand new vacation. Friends bound for the Marlborough Sounds. There was.
And now there is. There is the late afternoon sunlight filtered through the tree leaves. There is the lying beneath the umbrella green. We in hammocks strung between trunks and looking up at the blue patches between the branches. The song of cicadas singing and the sound. The water of the sound reflecting the sun and a breeze off the water blowing beneath the trees. The water ripple. With no stones thrown and the sway of the hammock in the salt breeze.
This is what is. After a morning hike down the Queen Charlotte track to a rise above Mistletoe Bay. The hike after coffee and poached egg sandwiches. And after the hike a swim in the sound off the jetty. And now we are pupa in rainbow cocoons, quarter mooned in the curl between trees.
A vacation from vacation. A week working for Carolyn and now the supine swing in another paradise picture. Lounging in the New Zealand post card land. Lounging in the afternoon of the day that followed the night. The night and the night of all nights. The eye-opening, soul-quenching dark descent of the night. And it was the night. And it was the night. And it was the night of revelation.
First I walked through Picton. Through the one street town and around the harbor. Over the steep bridge and on and on to 95 Waikawa Road. And then we—that is Robin and I—and then we ran the errands that we needed to run in town. Picton, Picton let us run through. Picton. And the run slows to a jog—the power outage in the grocery store. And the jog slows to a walk—the credit card machine shot-to-hell and the cashiers adding frantically the sums of the shoppers’ groceries. And the walk slows to a tip-toeing over egg shells as we pull into Subway and Robin “runs in” to grab supper—the one worker working in the international chain, cashier, sandwich-maker, bread-baker, etc.—and Robin emerges half an hour after entering. She shaking her head. No. No. No.
In her absence I’ve eaten a dozen oranges, and the rinds roll bright on the asphalt. A semicircle around the open car door. Let’s go. And go.
On to the Queen Charlotte drive. And drive. Whip the whip around corners blind. The winding road winding into shining curves where the anticipation rises as soon as the bright patch appears ahead on the road. And then? Blindness. All of a sudden total blindness in the sun-star shining.
But we make it safe to the Anakiwa Backpackers Hostel. And we’re on the wooden dock jetty for the neon sunset to the west. And thus begins the night. And the night of revelation.
And in the aftermath of that night there are poached egg sandwiches and the Queen Charlotte hike and the lounging in hammocks. And later a game of chess beneath the sunset while sipping white wine out of wine glasses. While sipping white wine and waiting on the pumpkin and the potato and the kumara to cook in the communal hostel oven.
And then the meal eaten and more wine poured into the wine glasses and the walk down to the wooden jetty. Not because we chose to do so, but because we had to. Just as we had to tell everyone in the hostel about our night of revelation. Just as we had to encourage the lot of them to get out on this night—the night after—and experience it for themselves.
But there are no takers. As we walk alone. Alone onto the wooden slats and walking to the end to find the magic water.
And we leave intermittently to fill up our glasses—to finish the wine bottle—only to return with a guitar. To sing songs on the dock until the clouds clear and we can see the lyrics of last night written in the infinite points pin-pricking the firmament.
And there is sleep and there is even the next day. The breakfast of left-overs and instant coffee. The packing up of belongings and the mid-morning kayak trip through the aqua-marine water of the sound. The paddle blades cutting through the silicon-soul of a sprawling jelly-fish school. The jelly-fish translucent and bobbing through the water like so many flap-jack souls submerged.
There is the diving off of the dock and the drive back down the Queen Charlotte Drive where we—that is Robin and I—talk about poetry and the south and tattoos. And there is even the afternoon in Picton. Spent in the shade of palm trees. And there is whatever is to come after the afternoon. But…
No matter what is to come, no matter how complicated the addition of the aftermath, the weekend will be remembered on account of that first night. That first night that was the night. And the night of revelation.
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