The wind gusts did not deter us from getting off the bus. We had been driving for at least two hours, heading steadily towards the coast. At last, the ocean broke into view, grayish green and frothing against the shore. The beach was relatively narrow, hemmed in by a bank of dark green bushes and a wide grassy expanse.
This was the west coast of New Zealand’s South Island: wet and full of “native bush,” not overrun with European-imported flora and farmland like other parts of the country. A tangle of trees, ferns, and shrubs created a wall on our right while the ocean was steadily in view on the left. Overhead, the sky was swathed in grayish-white clouds.
We tripped out of the mini-bus and headed for the beach, where driftwood lay scattered over the dunes. A two-story wooden lookout tower on the edge of the shore gave a clear view up and down the misty coast. The sand gave way to a seam of small rocks, buffeted smooth by the tumbling surf.
Wind whipped my hair in all directions. The wind did not, however, diminish our pleasure at seeing, at last, the mighty Tasman Sea. Out of our pockets came cameras and phones for photos. Into our pockets went stones and seashells to take home as mementos. Two members of our group even snagged a large, gnarled piece of driftwood to take home—provided they could get it through Customs. (Later: It was so bulky and oddly shaped that they left it behind.)
At last we headed back to the bus, pockets slightly heavier and spirits significantly lighter. Like so many before us, we had sought rejuvenation and energy from the ocean, and like so many, we had found it.
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