Graeme Lay: Coastlines, part 2

Opinion

Part-two of Coastlines, a five-part serial by Graeme Lay. The story so far: Biographer Oliver Norton has come to Logan Bay, an idyllic spot with a troubled past, to interview a famous resident. But for Oliver, returning to the bay brings back treasured memories

Oliver Norton had not come to beautiful Logan Bay for a holiday. He had come to interview German mountaineer Werner Weiss, who had retired to Logan Bay. Weiss had not only climbed the highest peaks on all seven continents, he had also run marathons on them all, Antarctica included. Oliver's publisher friend, Robert Walker, thought that a biography of Weiss, famous throughout the climbing world, could have international appeal. Oliver had not yet met Weiss; their communications to date had all been by email. Aware that the interviews would take at least a week, Oliver had rented a house on the hill above Logan Bay from an Auckland lawyer friend. His first meeting with Weiss had been arranged for late afternoon on the day of Oliver's arrival.

After unpacking his belongings, Oliver took the track that zig-zagged down the hill from the house to the beach, pausing at the top of the track to admire the view of Logan Bay, an expanse of beach about a kilometre long, capped by a steep-sided headland which had been home to the Ngati Waiau people before they were massacred by a war party of Ngati Kaha in 1822. There were several rocky islands in the bay, and more, larger and undulating, out on the hazy horizon. Oliver made his way down the track, which passed through a grove of ancient rata and pohutukawa trees before emerging at the beach.

Up close, the beach was even lovelier. About 50m wide, the white sand sloped down to where the waves reared abruptly, broke heavily and slid up the beach towards him. There was not another soul on the beach, although a runabout was speeding across the bay, the drone of its engine reaching him. Oliver paused to scoop up a handful of sand. Among the white and silver grains were some of a pinkish colour, weathered, he assumed, from the volcanic cliffs at each end of the bay. Knowing he still had an hour before meeting Weiss, Oliver walked on along the beach, towards the headland in the distance, the onshore wind cool on the face.

As he walked, Oliver remembered the one time he had come here with his late wife, Louise. The early '80s it must have been, he thought, before their daughter was born. Yes, that was right, he decided, because Melanie was born in February '82. So it was winter when he and Louise had come. The details returned, like a focusing photo. They had stayed at Bensons Beach, further up the peninsula, right beside the sea. On the beach they made a fire from driftwood and ate fish and chips beside it. Oliver blinked away tears. Louise. Next month it would be a year since her death in the car crash. Well-meaning friends told him time would help. They were wrong. Time did nothing. What did help was work. Work on his research and writing. Like this assignment on Werner Weiss.

The features of the cliffs, the headland and the pa site which crowned it became clearer. The cliff was sheer, plummeting to the rocks at its base. Swells surged against the rocks. Above them the cliff was pitted and studded with round rocks, like cobblestones, and near the top of the cliff the bent boughs of pohutukawa trees reached out into the air. A stream flowed across the sand and into the bay near the base of the headland, and 20m beyond the waves, a few small boats bobbed at their buoy moorings.

As he approached the end of the beach, Oliver heard the noise of an engine, yet he could see no vehicle. The steepness of the foreshore precluded cars or trucks from gaining access to the beach, yet what he could hear was unmistakably an engine. A minute later, he saw the source of the sound. A blue tractor, rounding the bend at the end of the beach, beside the stream, then driving along the sand towards him. Oliver kept walking, and as he and the tractor converged he could see that the man driving it was wearing a black singlet and blue jeans, and that sticking up from the tractor's engine cover was a pole, with some sort of flag atop it.

As the tractor came closer, the man saw Oliver. He rose in his seat, like a jockey, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. Oliver kept walking, but changed direction slightly to move out of the tractor's path. As he did so the tractor altered course too, and Oliver saw the driver reach down and adjust the throttle. The tractor's engine roared even louder as its speed increased, and Oliver could now see that it was headed straight for him. He stopped, but the tractor didn't alter its course.

Now Oliver could see that the man was in his mid-20s, that his face was flushed and that he was grinning madly. Seconds later the tractor was almost upon him. At the very moment that Oliver dived hard to his left, the driver swerved the tractor away to the right, its big rear wheels sliding in the soft sand. At the same time the driver clenched his right hand, raised it and let out a series of whooping, jeering cries.

"Bastard!" Oliver called after him as he scrambled to his feet.

The driver was now back in the seat and driving at speed down the beach. Then the tractor swerved to the left and vanished through a gap in the sand dunes. Oliver cursed him again. He could have been seriously injured.

He'd report the incident to the police, wherever the nearest police station was. He tried to commit the driver's appearance to memory. About 25, longish brown hair, broad shoulders, flushed face. Then he remembered something else - the flag attached to the pole on the tractor. The flag had had a red and black motif. Oliver knew what it was.

The flag of Maori sovereignty.

Tomorrow: Oliver stares down the barrel of a gun.

* Graeme Lay is an Auckland novelist and writer.