THE BAY OF ISLANDS

Straight chillin'—bitch, please.

I peel myself from the window and climb off the bus, bleary-eyed, tired as hell, and a little numb. It’s dark, breezy, and a bit chilly as I make my way to the hostel. The pack is heavy on my waist, dragging at my shoulders.

I check in, climb the stairs to my dorm and find it lights-off, dark, and seemingly empty. Fitting my key into the lock, I step inside and drop my pack. There is a medium-height, dark-looking fellow dressed in shorts, tank top and hat standing in the shadows beside the bunks.

“Hey man.”

“Hey.”

The usual recognition.

I’m starving and he’s headed to the library to use use the free wifi. His name is Robert. He’s from Sweden—very non-expressive, quite. I join him and we walk toward town. He seems lonely.

We pass the ocean, waves crash on the sand, causing a ruckus, and ships are lit—tiny lights in the distant sea. The town smells like salt and humidity, sardines, fresh cut grass, and tomorrow’s breakfast.

We do our thing, grab a burger, walk back, and sleep.

The next morning begins with a cheap cup of coffee, several hours on the beach—swimming, tanning, cruising bikinis, and sharing our enthusiasm for exploration. We grab kabobs, fight off the seagulls, and get to know each other.

There are a lot of Germans.

It’s a chill, relaxed, wonderfully-nothing day.

Around 5:00 we’re headed back, passing the beach, and I hear my name called.

It’s my friend Robert-Jan, grinning, waving, seated beside two women on a towel in the sand.

Awesome—right?

We join him, introductions are made all around, and we shoot-the-shit for an hour or so—joking and shamelessly flirting with the two girls.

Robert-Jan is loud, expressive, perpetually grinning.

Robert is quite, subtly smiling, seemingly reserved.

It’s a Swedish thing, I am to learn.

I flag down a chick with nice legs and a French accent, and we ask her—what's a hip place for drinks? She points us to a spot called the 30 Thirty where some dreadlock hippie is singing from a stool in the lounge, dressed in baggy rags, strumming a cheap guitar.

We agree to meet later.

Something happens and we don’t.

Robert and I enjoy a drink—we can’t find Robert-Jan.

We head back to our dorm—relaxed, chilled, moderately annoyed by our new Australian roommates, who don’t shut-up and are snobs of the highest-feminine order.

As I drift into a coma, images flood my skull—faces, smiles, eyes, and that beautiful blue ocean, glittering beneath the New Zealand sun, populated by innumerable isles, habitats for birds and tropical bugs and beetles.

Beaches.

Straight chillin’—it was a good day.

Robert leaves in the morning. We shake hands, and agree to meet in the South Island the following week.