Photo of beach on North Island, New Zealand by Pat Butler
Another day in paradise.
Knowing their Clifftop Cottage was extremely isolated, thecouple looked forward to swimming naked during their stay.
Feeling confident about driving on the left, Chris took the wheel of their rental car. Sally was too nervous to even try. She navigated while he drove all the way from Auckland to Matauri Bay near the top of the North Island. This took about four hours on a two-lane highway, with a generous number of passing lanes on hills.
Unwilling to endure yet another cold, grey February in Canada, the retired seventy something couple chose to live in New Zealand for a month in early 2020. Some Toronto retirees habitually decamp to Florida or Mexico for the winter – they decided to give New Zealand a try.
Sally had never worked outside the home, preferring to take care of their three kids and do the books for Chris’s busy architecture practice. Now that he’d retired, she delighted in their ability to take lengthy
trips abroad.
Clifftop Cottage
After six days in a disappointing condo in central Auckland, they headed north to the Clifftop Cottage that Sally had rented for two weeks. The minute they reached the isolated destination, met the owners, and toured the property they were blown away by its unique beauty. Perched on a cliff about 250 feet above sea level, it exceeded their expectations.
The owners’ expansive house was next door to the tenants’ modest, one-bedroom cottage with its enormous windows facing the sea. They were invited to use the heated pool on the other side of a cement wall anytime. Sally adored swimming before every meal and couldn’t wait to dive in. Chris enjoyed swimming in the nude whenever possible, so was more selective about actually getting wet.
The cottage furnishings were straight out of NZ House& Garden and the view from the deck was spectacular. Two peninsulas marched along the coastline to the west and four jagged uninhabited islands poked up out of the water straight ahead. The property faced north and far below the cliff lay its private beach. Over to the east was a substantial point of land with very few houses or trees. An easy-to-navigate footpath ran along the edge of the cliff in front of both houses, with a gradually sloped section leading to a stairway.
“There are 140 steps down to the beach, so be sure to wear sensible shoes and use hiking poles if you decide to go down,” advised owner Anne during the orientation. “And take drinking water and bug spray.”
Settling Into a Routine
The nearest settlement of any size was Kerikeri, a 40-minute drive away. Beforehand Anne suggested they stock up on groceries there, so Sally had bought easy-to-prepare dinner items. Chris’s culinary skills lay in boiling eggs and pouring pistachios into a bowl.
The two unpacked and organized the kitchen. Then blonde, slender Sally changed into her black one-piece bathing suit. Tall blue-eyed Chris wore his white hair in a thinning brush cut. Putting on red swimming trunks, he was keen to swim several strenuous lengths after sitting in a car all day.
At the pool, they were delighted to find the owners were nowhere to be seen but kept their bathing suits on in case they appeared. When changed for dinner, Chris fixed pre-dinner drinks in plastic glasses.
Later sitting side-by-side at a teak table on the deck, Sally and Chris ate their first meal facing the breathtaking view. Waves crashed below against rocks and sand, birds glided overhead catching bugs on the fly, cicadas chirped in the evening heat, and lights slowly began to come on in the few houses sprinkled around the bay. Thankfully all dwellings were too distant for them to hear any music, conversation, or barking dogs.
They were so thrilled with their new 14-day home that what they ate that evening was irrelevant. They decided to alternate days-out exploring beaches, towns, and other terrain with days-at-home being creative and soaking up the sun. He’d taken up painting after retirement; she’d recently taken a
course in creative writing and was struggling to start her first novel.
The next morning Chris set up his portable easel on the deckand had trouble deciding which view to paint first. When travelling, he worked in watercolours. Sally began the first of lengthy writing sessions, shifting locale whenever the heat became an issue.
Every morning after her early swim, they’d say: “Another day in paradise!” while breakfasting on the deck and marveling at the view. Its beauty was constantly morphing. Waves crashing against the rocks varied with wind strength and tide level; shadows on the sloped vegetation varied as the sun crossed the sky; the tempo of bird and insect chirps varied with time of day. It almost made one dizzy.
Periodically Sally would try reading, reclined on a chaise lounge. She found all the natural changes so distracting that she eventually gave up and just drank in the beauty before falling asleep.
Having the Place to Themselves
On their sixth morning, Anne popped over to explain that she and Don were taking their dog to the vet in town and doing some errands. “We’ll be back about suppertime so just have fun. The pool is yours.”
Twenty minutes after hearing their car wend its way down the steep gravel driveway, Chris stripped off his clothes, put on his sunhat, and headed for the pool. Sally stepped out of her yellow sundress and joined him.
After enjoying tuna sandwiches on the deck, Chris said, “Let’s hike down to that private beach for a swim.”
“Lovely idea!” she answered. “We must be sure to take cold water, snacks, and bug spray.” They added his portable paints, her camera, sunscreen, and towels to expandable backpacks. She slipped her cellphone into an outside pocket, habitually taking it on every outing.
Dressed in bathing suits, sunhats, and sturdy footwear, the couple approached the stairway and opened telescopic trekking poles. The construction of the stairs to the beach was unnervingly primitive.
“Well, honey,” said Sally. “Anne said there are 140 of these steps. This is going to be slow-going.” This chronically impatient woman forced herself be super careful.
The stairs at the top were made of two-foot logs, about six inches in diameter, embedded into the earth. There was no handrail. Chris led the way, planting his poles solidly before taking a step. Sally carefully mimicked this motion. Plant pole, shift weight, take step, she repeated to herself.
About 30 feet down, wooden steps were replaced with used rubber tires positioned horizontally, the central cavity of each filled with earth. A quarter of each tire had been removed, so they were no longer
circular. The cut part was embedded into the slope.
The lower they descended, the louder the sound of waves crashing on the shoreline. They were excited about swimming in the sea. Further down the incline, the grass on either side was studded with outcroppings of rock, gradually getting larger and pointier. Some steps were just flat rocks instead of tires. Once they had a clear view of their beach destination, they picked up the pace a bit. Chris was about 15 feet ahead of his wife.
Accident
Suddenly he stumbled, lost his balance, and careened off the stairway to the right! His right temple landed on a sharp rock, and he yelled out in pain. Sally’s heart flipped and she hurried down to him, petrified that she’d fall too.
“Oh my God! Are you okay?”
He clearly was not. Chris had been knocked unconscious and lay in a heap. Blood gushed out of a cut above his right ear; she grabbed a towel to press against it. Having never taken a course in First Aid, she at least knew about tourniquets, but she couldn’t exactly tie one around his neck! Repeating “Chris, wake up”, she tried to position his head above his body on the grassy slope to stop the profuse bleeding. She poured cool water over his face. There was blood everywhere.
Her mind was racing. What on earth should I do? How do I get help? The owners are away. I’ll call 911. She dialed the number, and nothing happened. Oh, yes. Somewhere I read the emergency number here is 111.
She dialed it and heard, “You’ve reached 111. What is your emergency? “in a broad Kiwi accent.
Words tumbled out as Sally described the accident and Chris’s condition. Naturally, the dispatcher asked her exact location.
“All I can remember is Matauri Bay. We’re staying at a cottage at the left fork in the road after that bay. There’s no sign or street number. The Greens own this place. We’re almost at the beach below the cliff.
Hurry, please hurry!”
She struggled to control her panic, telling herself Chris would survive. Just breathe deeply, Sally, breathe.
The dispatcher said, “Our paramedics are on their way. Let’s just stay on the phone a while and I’ll help you. My name is Deb.”
Giving her advice about applying pressure to the wound and administering water, the dispatcher did a stellar job of calming Sally down. Typically, it was Chris who kept a clear head in an emergency. She’d dissolve into a sniveling mess. Whenever one of their kids had an accident drawing blood, it took hours for her to recover her equilibrium.
"Just hold on a little longer. You can do this. He needs you," she repeated aloud. "You need to save his life."
After the four paramedics arrived and assessed Chris’s injuries, he was still unconscious. They administered First Aid and radioed for a helicopter. Within 20 minutes, two began the process of hauling him up to the top of the cliff in a sling. Accompanied by the other two, Sally clambered up
using her poles, and then leaned over to vomit.
“Slow down, Sally,” said the female paramedic. “You are in a state of shock. Just sit down on a step and rest for a few minutes. The helicopter has just landed in the owners’ field and our guys are attending to
Chris.” She sat down and began to cry.
In lieu of an ambulance ride to Kerikeri, the helicopter delivered the couple to Northland Health Hospital. He received such superb care that a tidy three-inch scar on his scalp is the only evidence of their aborted attempt to skinny-dip at Clifftop Cottage’s private beach.
They never tried it again.