On the South Island Seen From the North

In the middle, on the edge, and looking in the mirror

Notes from a night down on Cape Palliser.

The kids asked to take a walk on the beach before bed. The sunset was green. Across the Strait the South Island was purple.

I am on the edge. I am in the middle.

I am in the middle of the map of New Zealand.

There’s that Borges story about a king who draws up a map of his empire that’s the same size as his empire. The map is useless.

Borges never saw the sunset over the South Island.

Could we swim there? the kids ask. The mountains looks so close.

We were there this summer. Kaikoura’s down that way. Over there are the Marlborough Sounds. Remember the ferry ride? The dolphins? The baches by the water, the families waving to us from their private docks?

Down the beach from us, three surfers were building a fire of driftwood. The headlights of their ute shone out over the waves.

In America the beach is most always an edge. But on Cape Palliser—my feet on the North, my eyes on the South—the Strait is a mirror.

Kids, this could be us.

I want a bach in Ngawi, man.

A bach is a family beach house. You say it batch. I’ll never stop translating the word.

If my family had a bach in Ngawi, I would never leave New Zealand.

If my family had a bach in Ngawi, I would have grown up in New Zealand.

My family has no bach in Ngawi. I cannot stay in New Zealand.

I once drove a pickup through the Rio Grande. The river between America and Mexico didn’t cover my tires. A bunch of friends were riding in the back. Two of them later got married and raised kids in Canada.

There’s a bike ride across Iowa every year. Riders dip their back tires in the Missouri, ride five days through the corn, then dip their front tires in the Mississippi.

Just this year a guy rode his bike from Auckland to Wellington in a single day. Started on a street corner, ended on a street corner. Never touched the ocean.

Turns out he’s Australian. A neighbor. Maybe street corners were enough.

Me, I’m out here dreaming of a life-sized map.

The sunset burned out. We said goodnight to the South Island and kicked the sand from our feet. We didn’t need a torch walking down. We needed a torch getting home.

Hours later I woke in the night. The tent was full of moonlight. The cabin next door was having a party. Good music, a whiff of smoke, the snick of opening cans. Three voices, two men and a woman. They sounded happy and at ease. They’d known each other forever. Their talk ran to the big questions. They shared confusions, and they reassured each other. That’s life, bro. I lay awake and listened a long while. One man started wondering about the omnipotence of God. He asked the old riddle: Can God make a rock so heavy that even God can’t lift it?

Jenny was awake now, too. The bass was pretty loud. I gave them til 2:30. When I climbed out of the tent I found the cabin’s sliding door wide open. The music poured out but the table and chairs were empty. The little couch was empty, too. I stuck my head in the door and found the three partiers lying in bed, three in row, fully dressed and cozy under the blankets in the cold night air. I opened my mouth but nothing came out. Just close the door, bro, said the man who’d asked about God.

There was no meanness in his voice, but no contrition either. I mumbled apologies and ducked back out and closed the door. The double-glazing erased all sound. There was just the moon over the Strait and my family’s tent, firmly staked but flapping in the wind. //

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