Adventures of a Skittish Traveler

Rural towns are not often known for their roaring nightlife. Porangahau was no exception; the wildest thing I’d witnessed so far was a man lighting a cigarette off the fireplace and drunkenly proclaiming that he’d burnt his nostril hairs. I decided to give the local a miss this night, instead walking down to the water - there were only so many games of darts I could take.

To my left, hills dotted with pines; to my right, marble-like rock face. I finally understood the appeal of ‘long walks on the beach’ advocated on online dating profiles. I checked my phone (no reception, naturally): 5pm.

6pm. I had become aware of two things; the water was not as warm as anticipated, and the sun that had cast chiaroscuro shades across the sky was worryingly low. No matter; I was determined to have a moment. By the cliff face now, I hobbled around the jutting corner of rock, into a tiny enclosed bay. The endless plodding was worth it; I’d found my own private beach, albeit a nippy one. I climbed a mound of rock protruding from the cliff base, and sat astride it, triumphant. Precarious bliss, watching the sky dim, feeling the unchallenged waves lash just below me. Wait; just below me? Breaking away from the view for the first time in – I checked my phone – 30 minutes, I looked down, and my stomach turned; I was now perched like a crow above the water.

Oh, shit. This is exactly how castaway movies start. I’d be swept away, left to fend for myself in the Pacific Ocean, and I don’t even like fish. I brought out my phone – no reception. This was the end. They never mention this on dating profiles.

Carefully, I stood up, scouring the rock face with the light of my phone. Yes. A thin path spiraling upwards towards the tussock. I adopted a sort of crab-walk. The absurd thought occurred to me that I might be infringing on private property – shut up Emma, it’s this or a life on the high seas. I walked along, still precariously, the land gradually sloping downwards and morphing into farmland. Then I stumbled upon it; a driftwood swing, hanging lopsidedly from a tree. Despite knowing that lone swing-sets are a sure sign of orphaned ghost children, I parked myself on it.

And sat there. And sat there. Softly swinging, barely able to see a metre in before me but watching the moon cast a path across the heaving sea, the sound of the waves rhythmic. On top of the world, with the few lights of the township winking below me. Now this was a moment.