Few things in life shock me anymore, but when my wife Denise said, ‘While I’m away with Emma for two days, why don’t you take that trip around the East Cape you’ve been talking about,’ my jaw swung low and drool did dribble, such was my astonishment.
“Excuse me? Just tell me what type of demonic possession you’re experiencing. If it’s a sub-demon or worse, I’m outta here!” I said.
She was serious.
The East Cape was a part of New Zealand I’ve been eyeing on maps for some time. It’s the eastern most point in New Zealand and consequently the first place in the world to see the sun – if you dismiss a few offshore islands. The road to and from the cape stretches along the coast for 327 kms, the drive is renowned for its coastal magnificence. Inland the Raukumara Range dominates and encompasses some of the most remote land in the whole of New Zealand. Steep mountains, dense bush, and few trails make forging into the Raukumara a formidable task. Even the native Maori people, after centuries of habitation, still cling to the coastline along this stretch of terrain. It is said there are valleys in the Raukumara that have never seen the footfall of man. There could be a Bigfoot spa and resort nestled in a dale up there and no one would be the wiser.
So when Denise suggested I trip to the cape – by myself without child or wife, my mind went into a freefall. We had talked about going on the drive as a family, but with our one-year-old daughter Emma in tow, it could prove to be our final bow as we exited stage left. To put it mildly, Emma doesn’t take kindly to long drives in the car.
I savored my wife’s proposition and rolled it around in my mind like a succulent morsel of steak.
“Hmmm. Well, I don’t know, I’ll think about it,” I said at length.
I knew instantly I wanted to go, but a wiser part of me toned down the celebration. If I got too excited Denise may get suspicious and rethink her offer. Inside my brain was a flurry of activity. Necessary provisions, required equipment, and expenses we’re already being calculated. Will the barbecue fit in the back of the car? I’ll need to get weather reports, surf reports, and deep-sea buoy reports. A new road atlas is in order since Emma ate the last one. And what else, what else, oh yes, car could use a checkup; left rear tire is a bit low.
When Denise left the house with Emma that afternoon to run some errands, maps flew out of drawers, and guidebooks were removed from dusty shelves. I calculated a five-day trip to, around, and back from the cape. I made note of particular attractions and activities of interest: reputable golf courses, lunch at the Whakatane Oyster Farm, a hedge maze in Rotorua, and New Zealand’s longest pier in Tolaga Bay were a few of the things that made the cut.
I formed some road rules of a sort: lodging would be booked on the fly and no more than $30 a night, my itinerary would be subject to whimsy, and I would spend no more than four hours in the car a day. Everything else would be left to chance.
Denise was taking off with our daughter Emma, three other girlfriends, and their babies for a trip to a holiday home on the beach, a few hours drive north. Four women, four babies, alone for three days, personally I couldn’t imagine a more poorly constructed plan. Dark clouds were probably already gathering over the holiday house, however my support for their getaway bordered on the extreme.
I had to prod Denise from time to time to find out the specifics on her plans, but in such a way as to not sound too excited. A week before Denise’s trip was supposed to take place, I cornered her at the breakfast table.
“What’s the story with your outing with the girls? Still going?” I casually asked.
“So far as I know. Why?” she enquired, head slightly tilted. “Are you still thinking about driving around the cape?”
“I think so. Since you’ll be gone and all, might as well. I think it’s great; you guys all getting away like this, bonding and everything. You’re gonna have a blast.”
“Yea,” Denise said with less enthusiasm, “Just hope we can sleep with four babies around.”
“Nah, they’ll be fine.” I looked at Emma on the floor at my feet, “Won’t you little peanut.” I snatched her off the kitchen floor and she screamed in a peal of excitement.
“We’ll see.”
“Still planning on only going for three days?” I asked nonchalantly, but I was holding my breath. I overheard talk among the girls about extending their trip to four days. Three days was not going to give me enough time to drive around the cape.
“I’m pretty sure it’s going to be three days.”
“Hmmmm…”
“What?”
“I don’t believe I can do the cape in three days…I might need four or five.” My voice was an octave higher than I would have liked. I couldn’t decide whether to look at her or the newspaper on the counter in front of me, my eyes darted back and forth in indecision.
“That’s fine. Just be back by Sunday, we have that picnic to go to that afternoon.”
In the space of a week, once more my jaw dropped involuntarily. Things were more serious than I thought. It looks like my wife before me, but it speaks a foreign tongue.
“Actually, you know, if you can’t make it back by Sunday, don’t worry about the picnic. It’s not a big deal if you miss it,” Denise said.
I’ll have to get a priest in here as soon as possible I thought.
That was about the gist of it. I tried to contain my enthusiasm and act the soul of indifference, but two days to departure I gave my hand away when Denise came into the bedroom. I had two New Zealand travel books, two golf guides, two surfing guides, a bed and breakfast book, Tramping New Zealand book, hotel & motel guide, and pages of notes scattered across the bed. The Battle of Normandy took less planning.
“Where am I going to sleep?” Denise snidely remarked.
“Oh, sorry.” I cleared a patch of bed for her.
“How long are you going to be gone for?” she asked circumspectly.
The demon had departed. I slipped on my mental tap shoes; this was going to take some fancy footwork.
“No more than five days.”
“Five Days!”
“I can do it in four, but just in case something happens I’m telling you five.”
She regarded me through slightly narrowed eyes, as if trying to uncover a deeper scheme, but I was pure as freshly fallen snow on a church steeple.
“You’re not just going to surf and golf the whole time are you?”
“Noooo! I’m going to do heaps of sightseeing, hiking, and other stuff.”
I showed her the itinerary I sketched out, listing all sorts of tramps and points of interest.
She nodded with a small frown, “Just be home by Sunday evening.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, her brow remained slightly furrowed, “trust me,” I added.
I neglected to show her the two notebook pages listing golf courses and surfing locations. The page containing day five activities was also lost in the shuffle of papers on the bed.
***
Wednesday dawned bright. A day of possibilities if ever there was one. I had a class Tuesday night so my packing was left to, surprise surprise, the last minute. My sleep came in fits the night before, but I sprang out of bed in the morning as if refreshed from a winter’s hibernation. Denise’s girlfriend Cathy and her one-year-old son Jack had spent the night at our house so they could get a jump-start on their trip. Denise and Cathy, with the two babies, were driving up together and meeting the their other two friends at the vacation house.
I had big plans to hit on the road by 7am, which turned to mush when Denise asked me to feed and dress Emma. Somehow my argument of having to get an early start for five days of un-tethered freedom didn’t impress. 7, 8, 9, 9:30am saw the women packed, the babies in car seats, and me with tufts of hair in both hands. I finally had an opportunity to load my gear. Surfboard went on top, golf clubs in the trunk. Surf and turf I had it covered. My hastily packed bag went in next. As an afterthought I tossed in a sheet and pillow. You never know what trials the open road will throw your way, but with a comfy pillow at your side, the challenges are more easily met.
It wasn’t exactly a tearful farewell, but I will admit to a slightly raised lump in my throat about the size of a raisin. It remained lodged there until I reached the end of the driveway. I drove down our street and turned left onto the main road out of Devonport.
I flicked the on radio, cranked up the volume. From a place I know not where, an upwelling of raw energy surged forth from deep within my bosom, it worked its way up past my vocal cords where it was given a voice, and out into the world as a roar; the roar transformed into a howl, and eventually subsided to a maniacal laugh.
Copyright 1999 Douglas S. Sassaman
About The Author:
Douglas Sassaman is a freelance writer, aspiring novelist, and self-described humorist (who some think should be self-committed). He writes the humor column, 'Life in the Cosmic-Burp' on the web at http://CosmicBurp.com.
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