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smiles.
    He is tanned; obviously spends time outdoors. His hair is bleached by the sun, almost white. Curly, nearly reaching his shoulders.
    â€˜Turn around and let me put my shorts on,’ he says, and she obliges, lifting one foot then the other on the hot sand.
    â€˜I was heading for the log over there,’ she says, and starts off towards it, a few metres away. She sits down on the log and lifts her feet off the sand as he approaches and sits beside her. He holds out a bottle of water, which she accepts. She had not realised how thirsty she is. The cool water trickles over her chin and drips onto her chest.
    He watches, smiling.
    â€˜Never leave home without your water bottle,’ he says. ‘That, and sunblock. Essential here.’
    He is not a Kiwi. American, perhaps.
    â€˜Oh, I didn’t mean to walk this far,’ she says. ‘I just wanted to get out of the car for a while. But then I started to walk along the sea, and somehow I just carried on . . .’
    He looks out to sea.
    â€˜It’s easy to be carried away here. It sort of feels like you have the world to yourself. As if anything is possible.’
    Now it is her turn to smile. And she nods. Because that is exactly how it feels.
    His name is Michael. That is not how he spells it, but she doesn’t know this yet.
    He is a photographer. From Canada. On a job here.
    What can she tell him? Who is she?
    â€˜My name is Marion,’ she says. She knows that much for certain. ‘Marion Flint. I’m here on a holiday, I suppose it is. A kind of holiday. Or a kind of hiatus. A pause in my life. Between one life and another.’
    â€˜By yourself?’ he asks, and she nods.
    â€˜I just needed some time to myself . . .’ She does not look at him.
    He makes no comment.
    â€˜Do you mind if I take a few shots?’ he asks.
    She laughs self-consciously.
    â€˜Of me?’
    He is already unpacking the camera. It looks expensive and professional.
    She pulls her skirt down over her legs and hugs them.
    â€˜Don’t look at me,’ he says. ‘Forget I’m here. Stay in that world of yours. Watch the sea.’
    All the while he talks about his project. He is at the tail end of a nationwide tour, trying to capture life in the most isolated places along the coast. He hopes his pictures will portray the people who live in the outermost parts of the country, in the most distant places where land and sea meet. Those who live by the untameable sea, and off it.
    â€˜A few years ago, I followed Norwegian trawlers in the North Sea. It’s not the sea I am interested in, it’s the people who have allowed the sea to guide their lives. Who have managed to create a life on the terms of the sea. To me, that’s a little bit like embracing a spiritual or religious faith. A faith in something infinitely bigger than you and completely beyond your control. It takes courage to let go of yourself, accept that you are in the hands of something bigger. They fascinate me, these people. And I try to capture them in my pictures.’
    He lowers the camera with a smile and a shrug.
    â€˜It probably makes no sense.’
    He returns the lens cap and puts the camera back in its bag.
    â€˜Are you hungry?’ he asks, as if to change the topic.
    And she realises she is.
    â€˜Yes, I really should head back to my car,’ she says, and stands up.
    â€˜Mine is probably closer,’ he says. ‘Just up there, beyond the dunes. If you can eat barbecued crayfish with bread and salad, you’re most welcome to share my lunch.’
    They run quickly over the hot sand. The soles of her feet are burning but she feels light, as if carried on the wind.
    â€˜Here, take this,’ he says as they reach his car. He holds out a faded sunhat. The four-wheel drive is parked in the shade of a large tree. ‘You should be careful, the sun is dangerous here. Put it on. And turn around.’
    She does and