Where Sea Meets Sky(105)
I raise my brows and give her a look. “Really?”
It’s been three days since that sunrise at the East Cape and we’ve managed to cram a whole lot of nothing into them. As we rounded the cape heading west along the soft curve of the Bay of Plenty, we stayed for a few nights on Ōhope Beach outside the town of Whakatane, renting a beach house for a few days. (Yes, pronouncing “F” instead of “Wh” still makes me laugh.)
We were right on the beach, and when we weren’t relaxing on the balcony and enjoying the ocean view, we were eating, fucking, swimming—you know, all the good things. Though one of the days I managed to convince Gemma to stop being too cool for school and to come dolphin swimming with me.
That was definitely a highlight, getting into wet suits and going out on the open seas between the sandy shore and the steaming volcano of White Island, chasing down dolphin pods. The boat would get in front of the incoming pods and everyone would have to get in the water quickly. It was up to the dolphins to decide if they wanted to check us out or not.
One decided it liked Gemma a lot—it kept swimming around her and she kept humming a tune that sounded suspiciously like Pink Floyd to keep it interested. When we climbed back on the boat, she looked so elated I thought she was going to float away.
We’re heading to Rotorua because it’s apparently a really stinky place. Okay, well, there’s supposed to be really cool volcanic remnants and hot springs and that kind of stuff, but from what I’ve learned it apparently smells. We’re there for a night at a holiday park then over to Auckland, through the city and up into the Northland to other places I don’t remember and on to her grandfather’s place for New Year’s Eve.
Time is flying and Gemma’s statement about the tattoo has thrown me off a little.
“Where do you want to get it done?” I ask. “What were you thinking of getting?”
She purses her lips. “I’ll know it when I see it.” She turns her attention to me, staring at the tats on my forearms. “What are your tattoos supposed to be?”
I shrug. “A little bit of this and that. It’s not so much what they are . . . most are just patterns I like. It’s about what they represent.”
“And what’s that?”
“Moments in time. Tattoos are time stamps. That’s why I don’t believe in regrettable tattoos. I mean, shit, I’ve seen some pretty ugly ones and I’m glad I don’t have any of those. But, really, as long as your tattoo looks nice and is aesthetically pleasing, then why regret it? It symbolizes a moment in your life in a world where everything passes us by in the blink of an eye. I think it’s good to have these reminders to bring you back. Make you remember, reflect. Make sense?”
She nods. “Makes sense. That’s kind of what I was thinking, too. I want something to represent this. Us.”
I raise my brow and look at her in surprise. I can’t help it. “Us?”
She swallows uneasily and looks back to the road. “The trip, everything.”
But it’s too late. She said “us.” She wants a permanent reminder of us, something that I always assumed was temporary in her eyes.
Maybe I’ve been wrong about the whole thing.
Maybe I have something to work with here.
“So,” I say, skirting over it in case she gets defensive. “Did you want to do it in Rotorua? Auckland? ’Cause I will totally get one, too. Not matching, of course.”
She scrunches up her nose. “Hell no, not matching.” But she’s smiling. “How about Lake Taupo? They’ll probably have better artists to choose from anyway.”
“So we’re going to Lake Taupo after this?”
“Guess so,” she says with a smirk.
We decide to bypass Rotorua altogether (which, luckily, means I don’t have to do something called “Zorbing”—being pushed down a hill in a giant hamster ball—and head straight to Lake Taupo, stopping at a few of the better volcanic hot spots like Craters of the Moon, complete with dangerous steam venting from the earth and bubbling, boiling mud.
It’s late when we finally pull into the slick holiday park but the next day we’re up bright and early and trying to hunt down the best tattoo shop that will take us on short notice. There’s one in the center of town, among hostels and cafés and kiosks advertising skydiving and jet-boating and all those other ways to kill yourself. The lanky-looking dude in the shop is friendly and professional, and soon I’m being led to my chair. I take off my shirt and lie down. I’ve opted for a black-inked Canadian maple leaf but done in the Maori tribal style on an area of my shoulder blades that will fit in well with the existing tattoo there.