Where Sea Meets Sky(104)

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.

She raises her hands out, like she’s about to fly, and tips her head back to the sky, eyes closed and smiling. I can feel the peace radiate from her, like she’s being born anew. It’s stunning.

I love you, I think as my heart seems to expand inside me.

And you’ll hurt me.

You’ll burn me.

You’ll mark me.

But it’s already worth it.

I sit down in the sand and bring out the sketchbook and pastels from the pack. Eventually she comes over to me, glowing even more brightly than the sun.

“Trying out the pastels?” she asks.

I shake my head. “No. You are.”

She frowns and the glow seems to recede like the tide.

“Like before,” I say to her, patting the sand next to me. “Like in Kaikoura. I want you to capture this, but with the pastels.”

She frowns, but to her credit she crouches down beside me. She’s not running away. “Why?”

“Because I think it will be good for you,” I tell her.

She studies me carefully with those dark eyes of hers. “I’m not sure if you know what’s good for me.”

I grin at her. “I do. I’m good for you.” I grab her shoulder and push her down so she falls back on her ass. She glares at me but again, she’s not getting up, she’s not leaving.

I place the box of pastels and the open page of the sketchbook beside her. “You won’t see anything more inspiring than this,” I say, gesturing to the sky, now gold. “Re-create it, capture it. Let it be wild, let it be messy. It’s the first sunrise of many more to come. You can’t screw it up. If you do, there’s always tomorrow.”

I know she’s not the kind of person who looks kindly on the concept of tomorrow, but it seems to work. She chews on her lip for a moment, staring out at the ocean, before she rifles through the pastels and pulls out a goldenrod-colored one. She gingerly touches the pastel to the page and it leaves a waxy imprint. It’s messy. It’s abstract. You can’t be precise. It’s all about feeling and blurred edges and the loss of detail. It’s the perfect medium for her.

She needs to let her soul out, on that page, like an artist. I feel like no one has seen it since her father died, since her art stopped. I understood what she meant by self-preservation. But it was more than that. It was like she had gotten rid of the only outlet she’d known.

I stand up and leave her in peace but she quickly mutters, “No, stay. I don’t want to do this alone.” She’s never sounded so vulnerable.

So I stay. I sit beside her and watch with my own eyes as she re-creates a new version of the world; her version. It’s imperfectly perfect and I’m lucky to be a part of it.

However much in love with her I was a few moments ago, I’m more in love with her now. And with each radiant smudge, each beautiful design, the feeling grows. And grows. And grows.

When she’s done, she has tears rolling down her face. She has created art; gorgeous, heartfelt art. It’s more than a sunrise. It’s capturing a feeling, the right now. And she’s just as proud of herself as I am of her.

I gently kiss her tears off of her face. I kiss her until she smiles.

I kiss her until we’re naked on the sand and she’s riding me and her bronzed body is lit by the morning sun, the pale blue sky behind her. We might be having the first sex of this day to follow that first sunrise. I hope we’re setting an example for the rest of the earth. The sun climbs the sky and tomorrow creeps up in the distance, hiding behind the horizon.

Waiting.



“I should get a tattoo,” Gemma says to me as she drives down the winding road toward Rotorua, dense forest and ferns blanketing either side of us and tossing long shadows across the bus.