Big Fish

Chapter Thirty: A New Start

  “It is a cliché, but this is truly a ‘once in a lifetime’ destination.”

  • • •

  Stuart had never eaten scallops before and he would have been quite content if he was to never eat them again.

  “Are they good?”

  “Fantastic,” said Stuart, trying to disguise his grimace as he swallowed.

  “Have you eaten them before?”

  “Whenever I am in New Zealand.” he answered, half-truthfully.

  Michelle nodded thoughtfully, returning to her own meal.

  “I’ve never met anyone from Luxembourg before,” continued Stuart.

  “No one has,” said Michelle, “There are not very many of us.”

  “And you are visiting friends?”

  “I was. Now I am travelling on my own. They live in Whangarei.” Michelle took another mouthful of her food, at the same time nodding her head upwards, to indicate the town lay north of Auckland. “You know,” she mumbled indistinctly.

  “I have only just arrived,” apologised Stuart.

  “But, whenever you are in New Zealand,” said Michelle, echoing his words. There was an accusing note to her voice, but also a teasing one.

  Stuart spluttered and then laughed, “I’m sorry.”

  Michelle laughed too, “You can leave the scallops if you want as well. They’re disgusting.”

  • • •

  It was a happy week. Auckland had provided a relatively gentle return to normality, and Michelle had proved an increasingly pleasant companion with whom to make the transitionary journey with. Normality. It had once seemed like something to shy away from, now it seemed like it was the only thing that was left of any value. Stuart and Michelle had spent three days in Auckland in their respective accommodations at either end of town. When they had moved on to Rotorua they had managed to agree on the same hotel; by the time they reached Napier, they were sharing the same room. One more destination and Stuart thought his luck might really be in. So much for the romantic idea of the solo traveller; the solitary adventurer who was going to discover virgin territory, stand on unsullied soil: Stuart could count on one hand the days he had spent on his own since his journey began. The threat - real or imaginary - of Norbert and Corrie seemed very distant here; the questions posed by, and anxieties resulting from, his mysterious ‘missing week’ troubled him less; even the mental image of Stefan, lying cold and alone, undiscovered and unmourned beneath several feet of damp sand, diminished daily. In time, Stuart knew it would dim and vanish altogether, until he would not even be able to recall the features of the young German’s face; perhaps, eventually, not even be able to remember his name. The healing process would not have been so easy without Michelle. Stuart was happy to be led by her decisions; relieved to hand over to her the responsibility of arrangements and travel logistics; glad of her conversation; pleased in her company.

  There had been a further stop in Wellington, although not an over-night stay, and then the, now inseparable, couple had made the two hour ferry trip across the Cook Strait, before catching the bus to Kaikoura. It had been cold on the ferry, but the rugged beauty of the approaching coastline of the South Island had ensured that a position on the deck from where to admire the view, could not be cheaply sacrificed for the warmth of the cabin below. Michelle had lent Stuart a multi-coloured, woolly cardigan, which he had not felt any embarrassment about draping around his shoulders. It had kept out the worst of the chill at the time but now, sitting in the air-conditioned coach, he felt as though he was perhaps succumbing to a cold. He sneezed three times in quick succession.

  “You do not have many warm clothes,” observed Michelle, critically.

  “I packed mainly for Polynesia,” explained Stuart. “I didn’t really think about it being winter here.”

  “It will only get colder as we travel further south.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You should buy ...”

  Stuart interrupted his companion’s suggestion, “Hey, I’m on a budget here. I’ll wear lots of layers. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

  Michelle gave him a look which indicated that she thought that she knew better but she refrained from starting an argument. Knowing that he was probably in the wrong, Stuart felt obliged to continue to justify his position, “Besides, I wouldn’t be able to fit anything else into my case. It’s bursting at the seams as it is.”

  “You could ...”

  “Don’t tell me that I should get a rucksack,” broke in Stuart, “I’ve heard it before.”

  Michelle replied evenly, “I was not going to suggest that. I like your suitcase. It has ...”

  “Yes?”

  “Character.”

  “Oh.”

  “What I was going to suggest was that you threw away some of your light clothes, to make room for new ones. You will not be needing shorts and sandals here.”

  “I know,” said Stuart, his tone more conciliatory again, “but I might need them again if I go on to Australia from here.”

  “It is your decision.” Michelle turned slightly in her seat, presenting a greater expanse of back towards Stuart, at the same time picking up the paperback novel which had been laying, face down, pages spread open, on her lap, and became instantly engrossed in the words on the page. As a conversation stopper it was as effective as Courtney’s “Oh, right. Yeh”. He had asked her about the book earlier. “It is trash,” she had said, “All the women characters are either victims or sex objects. I can’t stand that.” He hadn’t asked her again. It hadn’t stopped her reading either.

  Stuart looked out of the coach window. The road followed the coastline closely, twisting and turning, ever southwards. Rocky cliffs and grey seas. It was beginning to get dark now too. Soon there would be nothing to see at all. He hoped that they would be able to find accommodation in Kaikoura. It couldn’t be that much further now. Not according to the map. He did not know why he always worried about this. They had never had any difficulty finding somewhere to stay up until now. Michelle was very good at that. She did not seem to worry about anything very much. It must be nice. Stuart thought that he worried about everything. At the moment he was worrying about Michelle. They got on so well. He really liked her. He would never have imagined it. He remembered how annoyed he had been with her in the beginning, at the cinema. But the past week had been great. It had been so nice to have someone to share the experience of travel with; the aggravations as well as the benefits. So good to have someone to point out places of interest to; to share meals with, conversations; someone to be there as a support in unfamiliar situations, a crutch; plus, it had completely done away with the acute embarrassment of having to approach complete strangers and ask them to take his photograph in front of a continuously changing backdrop of beautiful scenery and recognisable landmarks. It was just these minor spats that were the worry. They seemed to have them all the time. There was nothing to them and they blew over very quickly; he was sure that Michelle would have forgotten about this latest one already. But it was a worry. He did not want their relationship to function like this. Of course, it was Michelle that initiated them. Wasn’t it? Perhaps he could just learn to not rise to the bait. What had he done with Tessa, when he had found her doing the same thing? He did not know, she had left him before he had had a chance to think of anything. Why did he find himself thinking so much about Tessa again lately? Perhaps it was his problem all along.

  Stuart sneezed again. Outside it had begun to rain. Spots of water struck the windows of the coach obliquely, each tiny droplet being streaked across the greasy surface of the glass. Through the gloom, he could just make out a signpost for Kaikoura and Christchurch ahead, but he could not read the distances. Michelle was right, he should buy himself some warmer clothes. Otherwise, he’d end up catching his death.

  • • •

  Splash.

  And then Stuart was counting again. One, two
, three. Slowly, slowly. Scanning the bobbing horizon. Four, five, six. Watching the water; every buck, every roll, every swell. Seven, eight, nine. Any moment. Where? Where? Ten, eleven, twelve. Yes, and there it was again. Over to the left of the boat and slightly ahead. A vast, dark bulk breaking the surface waves, rising twenty feet into the air, only to disappear again with a resounding crash and a shower of salty white spray and foam.

  Splash.

  And then he was counting again. One, two, three. Counting the rhythmic smack of each wave upon the hull. Four, five, six. Counting the beating of his heart. Seven, eight, nine. Slowly, slowly. Counting breath. Ten, eleven, twelve. And there again. Still to the left of the boat but slightly nearer now. No, much nearer. In a slow motion second, it was possible to see every black contour of its skin; every glistening drop of water fall from its sides; every movement of its body. How long? Thirty feet? Thirty five. Stuart was in the presence of giants.

  Splash.

  And then he was counting again. One, two, three. He had promised himself that he wouldn’t leave New Zealand until he had seen a whale. Four, five, six. Or had it been Michelle’s promise? Perhaps he had just hijacked her wish list, her desires, her thoughts, for his own? Seven, eight, nine. It wasn’t a very attractive thought. But, there he was again, spoiling things with his anxieties, when there was nothing to be anxious about. I mean, how much better could it get than this?

  With its very deep waters close offshore Kaikoura had long been a mecca for whale watchers; sperm whales were regularly seen in the coastal waters, as were dolphins and seals. It was inevitable that before long it would become a regular jumping off point on the tourist trail too. There had been six other people on the boat that they had boarded that morning. Michelle had seen the trip advertised. She had assured him that they were the best in the business. They had had a sign saying as much on the dockside. It had seemed like quite a large boat when it was securely anchored to the stone jetty. It had seemed like a tiny, unseaworthy, metal bathtub as soon as they had left the safety of the harbour and hit the first six foot swell. Stuart had tried to sit down, but kept finding that each time he squatted over the hard seat the boat would either plunge down, taking the bench away from him, or worse, rise sharply, resulting in him being smacked unceremoniously on his backside. He had never rated himself as a horseman, and did not think this was going to prove the opportunity to improve his skills. Instead, he clung on to one of the metal rails supporting the superstructure of the vessel, at the same time trying to wedge his feet, such that he was not dislodged by the next whim of the ocean. He looked around his companions. Everyone was peering expectantly out over the wild sea, intent on being the first to catch sight of the telltale plume of water from a blow hole, or to see the leaping arc of a playful dolphin. No one seemed too bothered about the stability of the boat. Several people even had cameras up to their faces. Michelle was looking at him and smiling. She said something but it was lost in the noisy, flapping, plastic folds of the hood of her kagoul.

  One of the crew, wearing a bright blue anorak with the name of the boat emblazoned on the back, carried a rather makeshift-looking implement of unspecified scientific status, which he claimed could pick up the sounds of any cetacean life beneath the surface of the waves. He asked for quiet while he listened. It was a theatrical appeal, since above the roar of the ocean and the howl of the wind, the chattering noise of the assembled seafarers was insignificant. The microphone was lowered into the ocean and a respectful silence was observed. Overhead, a flock of gulls, that had been shadowing the small boat, laughed noisily. They had seen the show before.

  There was an electronic buzz from the loudspeaker, several gurgles, a whirr of static and then silence again. One of the passengers cawed appreciatively as though he had just had a one-to-one conversation with the great undersea beast.

  The sailor shook his head sadly, lifting the device from the water, “Nothing. We’ll try further out.”

  Stuart gulped and pointed towards the still larger waves that threatened to entirely block out the horizon, “Out there?”

  “Yup. All set everyone?”

  If Stuart had been given the opportunity at that moment he would have opted for a swift return to shore, a set of warm, dry clothes, and would have contented himself, for the rest of his life, with getting no closer to a whale than it was possible to get from watching one on the TV in the comfort of his own living room. He was soon to be glad that he was not given any such opportunity. The sperm whale was good, the humpback whale was unforgettable.

  It had taken another twenty minutes of battling body-breaking seas before the listening device picked up “an unmistakable trace”. It had been a further ten minutes before the whale deigned to actually surface, but when it did it was big. And it was close. It did not stay on the surface of the water for long: one blast of water from its blow hole, a geyser of vapour, like a snort of contempt for the oxygen-rich environment above the waves, and then it upended its great body, its huge tail being the last thing to be swallowed up by the sea. A minute at most from first to last sighting, but it had made someone happy. Michelle bounded over to Stuart, clasped him around the neck, squeezing him tight in her excitement, and kissed him.

  “Fantastic,” she exclaimed.

  “Fantastic,” echoed Stuart, surprised by his companion’s spontaneous show of affection. He unconsciously ran his tongue over his lips, savouring the memory of the moist embrace. Sperm whale? Where did the name come from? It was an idle thought, he couldn’t explain why it particularly came to him at that moment.

  “What’s that out there?”

  It was one of the other passengers on the boat. He was almost overbalancing in his excitement to point out something in the distance. “There. Did anyone else see it?” There was a pleading note in his voice. He was desperate not to have been mistaken.

  “What?”

  “Another whale, I think. It leapt right out of the sea. Is that possible?”

  Before anyone could contradict or otherwise, another arm was raised, pointing, and a second shrill cry went up, “There. There.” The hunt was on.

  Stuart was reminded of books and TV and films, this could not be real; of the wildness in Captain Ahab’s eye as he gazes from the deck of The Pequod upon his grail, Moby Dick; of Greenpeace dinghies riding in the wake of vast whaling hulks; and of natural history programs in his youth. Whales of fantasy and fiction. Reality returned upon a large wave, a violent lurch of the small tub and a deluge of stinging salt water.

  Ten, eleven, twelve. The regular notion of time blurs a little and instead is replaced by the count of twelve. Every twelfth stroke the whale would reappear, perform some new party trick, and then vanish again with Cinderella-like rapidity before the clock had completed its stroke. Back flips. Twists and rolls. Dives to the left. Dives to the right. Large splashes. Small splashes. Stuart forgot how many times he counted to twelve. What was the whale jumping for? He hoped that, like himself at that moment, it leapt for joy.

  Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Fifteen? And then he was counting again. Sixteen, seventeen. Quickly, quickly. Scanning the bobbing horizon. Eighteen, nineteen. Watching the water; every buck, every roll, every swell. Twenty. Any moment. When? Where?

  Show over.

  • • •

  Seafood chowder. There was nothing to beat it.

  “Are you getting the sensation back in your legs again?”

  Stuart walked his legs back and forth, experimentally, underneath the table, whilst still remaining firmly seated. “I think so. Slowly. How about you?”

  Michelle did not answer immediately, a look of concentration on her face as she performed the same tentative exercises that Stuart had just tried out, “Yes. They are not so wobbly now. You could hardly walk when you stepped off the boat.” She laughed.

  “Oh, and you could?”

  They were both in
high spirits. It had been a memorable morning; the earlier fears of peril at sea replaced by the exhilaration of having survived the voyage. If a person is the sum of their experiences, both Stuart and Michelle’s account had been boosted into credit.

  “Did you ever think you would see anything like that?” Stuart asked, at the same time spooning in another mouthful of the reviving broth.

  “Incredible wasn’t it.”

  “Did you take many photos?”

  Michelle slipped the strap of her camera case from over her shoulder and peered critically at the dial on top of the camera. “Sixteen. Plus there were a couple on the end of the other film. I think most of them will be rather boring, though. Just empty ocean, you know, particularly the pictures of the dolphins. They were just too quick.”

  “How about the humpback?”

  “Yes, I think I got at least one good shot of him. It was hard, trying to hang on to the boat at the same time.”

  “I’d like to see them when you get them developed.”

  “Of course, I’ll send you a set.”

  It had not been quite what Stuart meant. Michelle’s words suggested a parting, not necessarily imminent, but nevertheless inevitable. It was not something that Stuart wanted to have to consider at the moment. He tried to sound more cheerful than he suddenly felt, bringing the conversation back to the morning’s entertainment. “Thanks. I don’t think any of this will seem real without having a photograph to remind me.”

  Michelle put her camera up to her eye, pointing it directly at Stuart immediately in front of her, across the table, and clicked the shutter before he had time to object, or put his hand up in front of his face in a display of modesty. “There,” she said, “now you know that you are real too.”

  • • •

  There were tiny spotted cowrie shells on the beach and large upturned abalone in the rock pools, the inside of their shell an oily rainbow of colours, shining through the salt water that collected in their bowl. There were no notices warning you not to go near to the seals, but Stuart was being cautious.

  “I read somewhere,” he said to Michelle, “about a chap, went right up to a sleeping seal, only for it to turn on him, and bite him right ...” He placed one hand protectively over his groin, grimacing at the same time, “there.”

  “Painful.”

  “Very.”

  “Don’t worry. I don’t want to get that close. Just near enough to take some pictures.”

  There were several grey hulks stretched out on the rocks, basking in the weak rays of the afternoon sun, seemingly oblivious to the human intruders. Stuart watched Michelle as she picked a path between the boulders at the ocean’s edge, taking care to avoid the most slippery looking rocks and the pools of standing water, every now and then stopping to photograph the slumbering mammals from a variety of different viewpoints. She had very fine, blonde hair, which blew in straggly wisps across her face, causing her to constantly stop to remove some of the long strands from where they had blown into her mouth and in front of the viewfinder of her camera. She pushed the whole weight of hair back from her face, exposing her forehead, stroking the silky mass across to the side, where it remained for a mere few moments before being restyled by the wind once again. She flashed a smile of resignation in Stuart’s direction, before continuing to approach ever closer to the sea’s edge. Eventually, she returned to his side.

  “The light is fading, perhaps we should head back?”

  “Ready to eat?”

  “Yes, I think so. How about you?”

  “Yes, sounds good. Look.” Stuart pointed out to sea, where a long, thin, white cloud stretched the length of the horizon, like a corrected line of type on a page. “Kaikoura. It means…”

  “I know,” said Michelle. She took his hand and they stood, silent, watching the water, until the cloud had completely dispersed.

  • • •

  “I bought you something.”

  “Oh, what?”

  Michelle fished around briefly in her shoulder bag and withdrew a small package, loosely wrapped up in thin, brown paper. “Here. It’s nothing very much.”

  “What is it?” Stuart asked, taking the object. He weighed it in his hand. It felt quite heavy for such a tiny parcel.

  “Open it.”

  Stuart unfolded the layers of paper to reveal a small, carved pendant made from a smooth, green stone. It was roughly circular in shape, with two irregular shaped holes incorporated in the design. Scores across the surface of the stone were such as to suggest a crude representation of a human.

  “Jade?”

  “Greenstone. Well, yes, I guess they are the same thing,” said Michelle. “Do you like it?” she asked, anxiously.

  Stuart turned the pendant over in his hand. It felt cold and hard, but the green mineral shone with a cool beauty. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  “It’s a Tiki.”

  “I’ve seen some in the shops.”

  “They are all different. Well, the good ones are. They are a Maori symbol. They are meant to represent an ancestor.”

  Stuart re-examined the image of the squat figure. “I did have an old aunt who looked a bit like this,” he laughed.

  “No, really. It’s serious. It will bring you luck.”

  “I’m sorry. I like it a lot,” said Stuart, “I’ll make sure I always wear it.”

  “You’ll have to buy a chain of some sort first,” said Michelle. “I meant to look for one, but I didn’t have the time.”

  “That’s OK. Thank you. I haven’t got anything for you, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s OK.”

  • • •

  There was nothing more to do in Kaikoura and yet Stuart felt no compulsion to leave. They had been resident in the small coastal town for six days: they had followed the path along the beach for as far as they could go in either direction; they had taken the obligatory whale-watching trip, and had rejected the option of taking a second one; they had sat and watched the ocean, they had sat and watched the hills. The owner of the café at the far end of the high street, the one that sold the superior seafood chowder and the freshest snapper, knew them by name. Even the landlady at the backpacker hostel eyed them with suspicion each time they returned, inquiring in amazed tones, “Another night?”

  “What will you do when you go back home?” Michelle asked.

  They were in their room in the hostel, each sitting on their own bed. Stuart had been rearranging things in his suitcase. He had finally succumbed to buying a warm, blue-checked, all-wool bushshirt and was trying to decide how best it would fit in the limited confines of his luggage. “What?”

  “Home. What will you do?”

  “I don’t know. I hadn’t even thought about it.”

  “But you must have thought about it sometimes?”

  “I don’t know. There doesn’t seem much to go back for.”

  “I suppose you are lucky.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, you are travelling for so long. Perhaps, well, you know, it is like a different life. I do not know. For me, it is different.” Michelle chopped her hands up and down to illustrate the distinction that she alluded to. “I am at home. I travel. Travel ends. I go home again. Simple. No?”

  Stuart sounded worried, “But you have never said just when you must go home again. How long are you actually travelling for?”

  At the mention of time, Michelle looked at her watch instinctively. “What is the date today?” She did not wait for Stuart’s reply, before answering his question, “I must be on a flight leaving Christchurch the day after tomorrow.”

  “What!”

  “The day after tomorrow.”

  “You never said.”

  “You never asked.”

  “I…” Stuart was speechless. “I…” It was not about him.