THE BAY OF PLENTY

Baked Bananas.

Who would have thought?

Jonas and I are seated outdoors in a light drizzle, finishing our breakfast. I’ve ordered an omelet with salmon, spinach, and cheese. The spinach puzzles Jonas. Apparently, it’s an abnormal breakfast selection—in Belgium, at least. He’s wolfing down a pile of French toast with baked bananas and several thick slabs of bacon, maple glazed, glistening deliciously on his plate.

We finish eating and pay the thick-waisted Maori waitress. She grins and hands us our change and we head toward the car. Jonas is concerned about the timing. The tide after 10:00 am may affect the surf, he’s not sure, but he’s hoping for good session.

I load my pack beside his surfboard and squeeze into the small rental car. We drive in silence, passing through a more barren terrain. Raindrops fleck the windshield. We’re listening to Bon Jovi on the radio—Living On A Prayer—and all of 15 minutes later the scenery bursts into radiant beauty. The trees are diverse—a floral New York of plants and palms and tropical flowers, budding, blooming, and exploding into vivid life along side the road.

We find a parking place a block or so from the beach and he’s climbing into his wet suit from the trunk, waxing his board. A tree reaches its trunk and bizarre limbs, like tentacles, toward us—growing from a rock imbedded in the hillside.

Jonas hands me the car-keys—please do not steal my car, he asks—and I realize in that moment, that here we are, halfway around the world, two relative strangers from separate countries, and there is a bonding, a human trust. It’s an honor, eye opening—I feel so human.

I tuck the keys into my leather-satchel and we agree to meet on the beach in two hours.

There is one hill—grassy, unique, gorgeous—two small islands—one of which is assessable via a pathway leading from the beach over rocks, while the other is an overgrown, over-rip fruit, floating in the distance—and one true Mountain, Mount Maunganui, which stands, very abrupt, jutting from the ocean toward the heavens. It’s still drizzling and the top of the mountain is lost within a cloud, looking mysterious and pagan.

I head to the accessible of the two islands and enjoy myself for an hour exploring the marvelous paths and hidden-places. The surf splashes my ankles as I cross giant rocks to inlets and partially submerged caves—feeling like a long-haired Indian Jones, seeking treasures and lost cultures.

After that I bought a specialty-coffee, espresso over ice-cream, and enjoyed the beach. Jonas emerged from the sea, he changed his clothes, and we got lunch.

We climbed the Mountain then.

How can I possibly express this experience to you?

It’s a long hike—our shirts are sticking to our backs its so hot and humid—climbing the stone steps and entering the jungle. The whole thing is surreal, within a cloud, sweating, shirts tucked into our pockets as the plants shift with birds and bunnies and bleed fog, tropical, lush and brilliant.

We make it to the top, starring into the blind void, lost in the grey, as if there is nothing beyond the mist and the hazy paths and the damp floral life.

This is an amazing, eye-opening, jaw-dropping, bladder-twitching, awe-inducing moment.

I feel the hand of God on my shoulder and I think—what writer?

What artist?