2022-05-29 - Hiking, Unfiltered

Text #1: So small change of plans -- do you want to come over earlier? And maybe go hiking or kayaking or sailing or some combination of the above? I called in sick to work because there's no way I can lead a tour group like this, so as long as I stay away from places where people from work might see me, I should be ok.

Text #2, shortly thereafter: I did not eat all the cookies, as promised.

It's still morning, though late morning, when Jules sends these follow-up texts to Mikaere. Breakfast, a shower, and a conversation with her housemate have done well by her -- she's looking relatively relaxed as she lounges outside in the garden, clad in jeans and a t-shirt with a blood-red handprint across the front, along with the text #MMIW. Her sandals are kicked off, and she's inspecting the red polish on her toes. So far, so good, no chips. Della really does know her mani/pedi places.

The answer is not immediate, but it's pretty quick: You got it. My afternoon's yours. Be there in a bit.

He arrives on foot, so it's not that short an amount of time between the sending of that text and his arrival, though he equally probably hasn't dropped everything and made a run for it either. It's an easy gait that carries him down the sidewalk of Oak Avenue, no particular sweat-stains on his ever-present t-shirt or in the close-cropped cap of his hair. "You," he says, once he's close enough to get a look at Jules, and to speak without yelling, "look like things went okay. How're you feeling now?"

In the intervening time, Jules has made herself comfortable outside with a sketch pad and a tote bag with other necessary items: water bottle, granola bars, cookie Tupperware. She’s sitting cross-legged in the grass, those red toenails peeking out from under her shins.

“Hey,” she replies when Mikaere appears, looking up from what she’s been working on: a section of the garden, traced in ink. “Yeah, I had a good conversation with Una earlier. She’s not mad after all. She made me breakfast. Always a good sign. I’m okay. Helps to have things to focus on that aren’t fantasizing about bonfires, I think. Ripping up Ava’s plants one by one and tossing them into the flames. I wonder if Veil fruit lets out ungodly little shrieks when it burns. Oops, fantasy activated.” At least Jules has an unrepentant grin to go with it.

"Hey, that looks great," says Mikaere, dropping to a crouch next to Jules, and then leaning in to put his arm around her and give her a quick squeeze (though if she turns his chin up to him, he'll absolutely lean in for a kiss).

Either way, he's not particularly inclined to pull back; maybe in its way, this is his renewed apology for his bringing things out so publicly at the ball. "Good," he adds. "Good. I'm glad. Let's think about something other than arson, maybe, though, as tempting as it is. Focusing our thoughts elsewhere. Are we hiking? Kayaking? Say the word."

“Thanks,” says Jules, who absolutely does tilt her head back to look at Mikaere as he joins her, welcoming that quick kiss.

The question has her attention then. “So, I realized kayaks are probably out because I’d have to drive up to Taholah, because I haven’t brought them down here yet. And as much as I would love a kayaking day today, I’m not sure seeing my grandparents is such a great idea. I can just picture myself saying something terrible, like talking about the ball and how I had really been looking forward to it and then undressing you afterwards because hello, you do clean up nice and know how to wear a suit, aaaand back on topic, the point being that I would rather not say that to my grandparents.” She’s looking sheepish were they in public; here, she just looks wry. “So maybe hiking or sailing? I did like the idea of getting out on the water. But it’s also a gorgeous day for heading up to the Park. I’m currently indecisive. Do you have any preferences?”

Mikaere listens, all apparently seriousness, except-- okay, no, he has to laugh, blurting it out with unhesitating amusement. "No," he agrees. "I'd rather not say something like that in front of my grandparents, either. Or my Ma, more to the point. Best to avoid them for now, yes." He's pleased, though, that smile more than simply amused.

"Let's hike, and then we can steal out onto the boat for the evening? The days are so long, even if we head out early evening we can find somewhere quiet to moor for the night."

The laughter just makes Jules smile all the more. It’s certainly a better reaction than the one she got when offering similar statements the night prior—but then, they know what they’re dealing with now, and the whole point is that Jules isn’t saying it where half of Gray Harbor can overhear.

“Perfect,” she readily agrees. “Okay. I’m gonna go change, because hiking in jeans sucks, even if it’s not a hardcore hike. You wanna check out my trails book while I do? It’s in there; I marked a bunch of pages up when I was figuring out where to go a couple weeks back.” She leans sideways to get at her tote bag, pulling out the book in question and holding it out for Mikaere. Several pages are rabbit eared, corners bent down.

"Good deal," agrees Mikaere, letting Jules out of his embrace and flopping down onto the grass instead, taking Jules' book with him. "Take your time, eh? I'll just stay here and get a better feel for the geography of your fine-- state, I guess? Region? Whatever."

Which is what he'll do, too, keeping himself happily occupied out here on the warm, green grass, with the sun coming down and the birds singing in the trees. The pages get flicked, one to the next, as he studies it, jumping back and forth between sections (and maps) with a studied expression.

Even so, Jules is relatively quick. She hasn’t just changed from jeans, when she returns; she’s got on an athletic tank top, too, and has put her hair up in a pony tail. “So?” she asks, putting one hand on Mikaere’s shoulder and bending down to have a look at whichever page is open. “Find anything that looks appealing?”

Mikaere turns his head as Jules returns so that he can smile back up at her. The book's open to one of the beach hikes but he admits, then, "I don't know enough about any of these areas. You know me, I'll always end up looking at the water, but... is there somewhere you think I should particularly see? Somewhere that's particularly special? Because I imagine what I would want to do, if we were in Auckland, or even with the whānau," FAH-now, "down south, and there would probably be specific things. So. I'm in your hands, really."

When Jules considers, she does so aloud (of course). "At some point, you should see the rainforest and the mountains, though it doesn't have to be today. Temperate rainforests, of course. Do you get those in New Zealand? And the mountains are beautiful, snow year-round. There's the Olympics here, and then the Cascades if you drive inland, though I wouldn't suggest that for today; you'd want to leave a lot earlier in the day. Anyway, nothing wrong with doing a beach hike today. The closest one that's part of the park system is Kalaloch, and that's about an hour and a half away. There's also beaches out by Westport or Ocean Shores, which I haven't been to. Kalaloch is really popular for a reason. For one, it's a wildlife refuge, so there's more to see. Especially versus Westport, since it's the south finger of the bay, and there's all the boat traffic in and out of here. So yeah, I'd probably pick Kalaloch, if you don't mind a longer drive."

Evidently Mikaere is becoming more accustomed to Jules' train-of-thought conversation, because he doesn't even blink, nor make any attempt to interrupt: he just listens, half-turned onto his side, now, so that he can more easily look at up Jules (his sunglasses definitely help with the glare of the sun).

"Okay," he says, after giving this all due consideration (by which we mean, largely agreeing with what Jules has to say and moving on). "Kalaloch it is. We'll do the mountains another time, eh? Because I'd love to see yours, and your rainforests too. If it's an hour and a half, we should get driving, though, I guess?"

Which means he needs to sit up. Stand up, too, but give him a moment.

"Yeah." At least here, Jules can keep her comments short and simple. Or maybe not: "Sandals, then, not hiking boots. There they are." The sandals she's left in the grass. "Do we need to swing back by the marina, first?" she asks while crouching down to put those sandals on; they're her sturdy velcro pair, not slip-ons. "Or are you good to go?" The tote gets slung over her arm, and after a quick look inside, she decides, "Water bottles. We need to bring water and anything else we want to have out there. Cookies and granola bars aren't enough. Sandwiches? Come on, let's go raid the fridge." Into the kitchen, though Jules waits until Mikaere's on his feet instead of ditching him there in the yard.

Mikaere, pulling himself back up to his feet, glances down at himself: cargo shorts, t-shirt, actual hiking sandals and not his much-loved jandals. "Unless you think I need anything else," he says. He has a bucket hat, too, currently tucked into the pocket of his shorts. "Your fridge is inevitably going to have more in it than mine does-- sandwiches is a good idea."

That much, at least, he says on their way inside, following after Jules at an easy distance.

It’s a good thing Jules has not heard that particular piece of slang, especially at this moment, because in addition to cackling á là Ariadne, there would inevitably be some comment along the lines of oh honey, jandals is not a real word and I love it.

“I think you’re good,” says Jules instead, giving Mikaere a once-over that for once is not accompanied by some version of a smirk. “Sandwiches, okay. Lemme see what we have.” Time to rummage through the fridge. “Sliced cheddar, provolone, ham, turkey, I think there’s some fancy mozzarella in here plus basil, tomatoes are on the counter—what sounds good?”

It's a good thing it doesn't come up now, because that is absolutely a fight to the death Mikaere is willing to have: of course it's a real word, and don't you dare mock me for my cultural heritage just because you use some other dumb word for them.

Mikaere doesn't quite strike a pose for Jules' once-over, though he's got a smirk of his own and an ever so lightly raised eyebrow. Still, sandwich-making is more serious business, and though he holds back, hovering over by one of the other counters, he's got firm opinions on the subject. "Ham, tomato, mozzarella and basil. As long as the tomatoes are proper ones, and not the tasteless kind."

Jules pulls out the requisite items and tosses them on the counter with the instructions, “Have at it. Bread’s on the counter. You’ll have to judge the tomatoes for yourself; I can’t guarantee they meet your standards. Will you make me the same, please? Do you want mayo?” Just in case, that jar is plopped on the counter too. While Mikaere is making sandwiches — Jules has given him a task, darn right she has — she’ll be busy filling up water bottles, after giving one a quick wash, and locating a mini cooler.

Excuse me. Chilly bin.

Mikaere is good, at least, at following directions, and sandwiches are well within his culinary repertoire. "No mayonnaise for me, but do you want it?" he wants to know, as he gets to work, testing the tomatoes with a dubious eye but ultimately apparently accepting them, more or less, as passable in the event.

He is almost certainly going to need a reminder to properly clean up after himself, mind, but that's a secondary issue.

(And damn straight that's a chilly bin.)

“Yes please.” Fortunately, Jules is there to provide said reminder, though she’s also quite capable of pitching in, especially when it comes to putting ingredients back in the fridge. She’s the one who knows where things go, after all. “Foil is in the top drawer on your left, and below it there’s Tupperware, take your pick.”

And with that, they’re ready to go. Jules seems happy to hit the road, pulling on her own sunglasses (they live in her car) and not quite peeling away from the curb, but she’s a fast driver. “Can I put on music?” she asks. “Not because I don’t like talking to you, but because a) it’s a long drive, and b) this is an excellent way for me to keep from saying stupid stuff. Though you have probably heard most of my stupid by now anyway.”

Mayo for Jules, no mayo for Mikaere, and both sandwiches go into a Tupperware which, while it will need washing out eventually, at least isn't a single use consumable.

It's still a little weird for Mikaere to be in the passenger seat-that-should-be-the-drivers-seat-in-a-normal-sensible-car, but it's fine: he can deal with Jules' driving, and probably with her music too. "I find the intricacies of your thought processes fascinating, but-- no, no, put on the music. You're right; long drive, there and back, and we don't need to talk the entire time."

“Oh really.” Jules looks amused, smiling beneath her sunglasses. “Fascinating how? My set up is pretty ghetto, but it works.” It’s an old car, after all. An FM transmitter, Bluetooth enabled, lets her stream music from her phone to the car stereo, and an adaptor lets her plug in to save the battery.

Pretty soon, she’s singing along to Beyoncé (shocking). It’s her live album from Coachella, and the show was good, by the sounds of it: snatches of song from all eras, a drumline, interspersed interview, guest appearances by Jay-Z, Destiny’s Child, Solange. Also good: Jules’ voice. Turns out she can sing.

Look, there's music to play, and isn't that the perfect excuse for not answering that question? Mikaere allows for an enigmatic smile, chilling back into silence-- at least for the short term.

Is the tall Kiwi a Beyoncé fan? Probably not especially. Has he picked up some of her songs along the way? Yes -- of course he has. Is he willing to sing along where he knows the words, in a deep, strong-if-untutored voice? This, too, of course.

There are worse ways to spend a car trip.

There are reasons Jules loves Beyoncé so much, and she’s quite happy to educate Mikaere with commentary along the way. “This was a really historic concert. First time a black woman headlined this music festival. I don’t care if my taste isn’t that refined—I liked her already, and then her music got woke. Like this one.” It’s “Lift Ev’ry Voice And Sing”, and while Jules doesn’t name the hymn, she does say, “This is the black national anthem.”

Don’t think she’s forgotten the comment and her unanswered question, though. The concert album lasts until Kalaloch, wrapping up with its final bonus tracks right as she’s pulling into the parking lot. “Lunch first?” Jules suggests. It’s that time. “And you never answered my question.”

"Yeah?" Mikaere's not at all disinterested in learning all about Queen Bey and her place in American society, though it's fair to say he approaches it more as an anthropological study for greater understanding than because he's deeply attuned to the music (or the culture). Still; it's interesting to learn.

His laugh, however, answers Jules' reminder. "Caught out," he teases. "I should've known you'd never let it go. Yes-- lunch first." He's eager to be out of the car, not to escape Beyoncé or Jules herself, but because his legs clearly need a good stretch. And, more thoughtfully, "I think what I was getting at was... you're always very you, but when you're like this, I can see how the little pieces fit together. It's a fascinating insight into how people think, that's all. From anyone, not just you, it's just that you're the example I've got in front of me. That's all."

And of course, some of the most recent tracks are quite explicit, which Jules visibly relishes as they drive along, windows down (because she does not have air conditioning). It's neither taunt nor suggestion, because Jules doesn't shoot little sideways looks at Mikaere when she gleefully sings-or-shouts along to lyrics ranging from suck on my balls! pause! to when he fuck me good, I take his ass to Red Lobster -- it's just pure, powerful, willful fun. This, too, has the ring of something cultural about it.

Jules is definitely very Jules.

Hearing that definition has her looking at Mikaere with her eyebrows lifted when she climbs out of the car and pulls the cooler out of the backseat. "Huh." She perches the small, soft-sided cooler on the trunk and pulls out the sandwich Tupperware, handing one over before she bites into her own. "How do you think?" she asks after she's swallowed. "I don't know that I've ever really thought about how I think. It's not something you're usually conscious of, you know? Even if you have a running commentary in your head, it's in the background most of the time. Now I'm actually hearing myself."

It's very cultural. It's not Mikaere's culture, not the white culture and not the brown either, but neither is it in any way a bad thing; Mikaere watches, and he smiles.

He takes his time to actually bite into the sandwich, though he accepts it from Jules with an easy smile of thanks, still pacing a few steps back and forth as he stretches (how this man survived months in his boat we'll never know). "I think-- I think that's the problem, isn't it? We can't really track it, because as soon as we're thinking about what or how we're thinking, we're not exactly thinking the way we might otherwise. Even now, you're hyper-aware of what you're saying, now that you know, and that means it's different, too. You can't help yourself, but you can stop and try and stop yourself, too. It's just... interesting, I guess."

It admittedly isn't Jules' culture either, but she certainly identifies with a good deal of it -- with what it's like to be a BIPOC woman in America, with the historical resonances and solidarities that entails. With reclaiming one's voice, one's power.

"Hmm." Jules eats as neatly as she can, keeping the sandwich innards from spilling out the sides. "Yeah. Does it sound different than what I was saying when I didn't know? I guess it probably does, especially when I try to redirect or shut up. Seriously though, this better not last long, because it's exhausting being so hyper-aware, and I can't afford to miss work forever. I just started. They're going to think I'm a liability if I can't get my ass in gear."

"A bit," admits Mikaere. "Though it's hard to know, because I wasn't fully paying attention, before you knew, you know? I was aware something was up, and it felt wrong, but I wasn't..." That's a difficult thought to finish, and instead of doing so, he bites into his sandwich, eating in over-sized mouthfuls, though at least he keeps his mouth closed as he chews.

After swallowing: "I was going to try and... see if I could do anything to stop it. Do you want me to try? Now, later? Even if I can't, I promise we're going to get you sorted. You're going to be okay."

The response is immediate: "Yes, please, the sooner the better. Though I guess I haven't said anything too terrible around you today, and I don't plan on showing my face in public, so later would probably be okay too. Whenever. Apparently I'm interesting this way." Jules returns Mikaere's judgment to him with a grin. She's finished her sandwich now, and after brushing her palms together to clear any residual crumbs, takes out her water bottle.

"So yesterday, you weren't what?" Jules is like a terrier -- once she's picked up the scent of something she wants to know about, she'll pursue it doggedly. Exhibit A: how she came back to an unanswered question from an hour and a half prior.

Mikaere may have started his sandwich after Jules, but he's taking big enough bites that it leaves him finishing only a few seconds later. His hands, too, get wiped clean, and all of this before he makes any attempt to reply to either subject.

"Paying enough attention to really notice the details, I guess? I mean, obviously I was paying attention. But until you know what's going on, it's harder to really focus on the little things, I think." Terrier!Jules is not so bad, and really, he doesn't seem unwilling to answer her questions. Perhaps it's just fair play, given she doesn't have much choice at the moment.

"Okay, c'mere. Let's give it a go now. We can always try again later, if it doesn't work." He reaches to take her hands in his and to squeeze them, focusing his mental energies on clearing her head. He can't pull whatever's in her system free, so this probably won't last. But-- maybe it'll help for a little while.

"Well, why would you be?" Jules finds this answer reasonable enough. "We were there to eat and drink and hang out with friends and play blackjack and look mysteriously sexy behind our masks and dance -- this reminds me, I am officially pissed that I never got to dance with you." She scowls to demonstrate.

Jules steps closer, letting her hands rest in Mikaere's. Something happens. She's aware enough of Glimmer to note how it sparks and flows, in addition to her own observation of how her body relaxes oh so subtly in a physical echo of whatever it is that occurs in her mind. Jules doesn't let go. Instead, the residue of her mock-scowl fades into a smile, one where her gaze softens too, where she is at peace. "Thank you," she says, and stretches up on tippy-toes for a kiss.

Sometimes, Mikaere might close his eyes when engaging in an exercise such as this, but not today: today he's watching Jules, studying her expression as much as his mental energies are... well, no, not studying her head, as such, but certainly extending into it. He can't read her mind (doesn't need to; wouldn't want to), but that doesn't mean there's not something wholly, deeply intimate about it either.

"It's my absolute pleasure," he promises, leaning down to meet her for that kiss (and this time, making it a more lingering one than that kiss-of-greeting earlier). Afterwards; "And I promise, we'll get a dance at some point, okay? I regret that missed opportunity too."

Jules looks so happy like this, eyes warm, minus all the little lines of tension that one doesn't fully realize are there until they're gone. She even releases one of the hands she's holding to reach up and curl her palm around the nape of Mikaere's neck, keeping him here, close like this. PDA in the parking lot. "I'm going to remember that," Jules tells him, but it's not really a warning given how she's still smiling.

She's not terribly inclined to step away, but she does let her hand drop at the same time as she sinks back down from the balls of her feet. "Okay. So. Kalaloch. Shall we? Are we bringing the cooler?" It's light and small, with a shoulder strap. "Or just water?" Once these decisions are made and the car locked, it's time to head down to the beach. Of note: Jules does not particularly want to let go of Mikaere's hand.

Mikaere barely knows anyone in this country: he doesn't mind a little PDA, particularly when it means staring down at a happy Jules. It makes such a difference, too. Truthfully, he can't seem to stop smiling himself.

Still, she's right, and they do need to separate, though he's very happy to let her keep hold of his hand, and to squeeze it back. The chilly bin gets dutifully swung over his shoulder (multi-purpose Mikaere!) and then he's more than happy to let her lead the way down towards the beach. "So," he says. "Kalaloch. 'A good place to land'-- wait."

Wait, wait, wait. "Is that right? Is that what it means? Where did that come from?"

"Mmhmm."

Jules wouldn't give it a second thought but for the fact that Mikaere does. She tips her head to look up at him curiously before returning her attention to the path down to the beach. It's a relatively steep descent, though the park service also maintains the trail well, and wooden trestles create steps. She does have to let go of Mikaere's hand to navigate these. "That's right. It's Quinault. You probably heard it from me at some point. Or Ravn, when he was nerding out the other day and translating Humptulips instead of just letting us snicker about it. Look, bald eagle!"

There's one just overhead, easily identifiable given its white head.

This is a better explanation than 'suddenly I can understand languages I don't know', and for now, better is simpler and thus... well, better, right? Mikaere lets the thought go, especially because: look, bald eagle!

"Oh!" He says, pausing in his descent of those stairs to watch. "I thought they were rare-- but not that rare, I guess? That's one thing we definitely don't have back home."

The eagle wheels above them, either on the hunt or simply enjoying the freedom of the skies. Jules shades her eyes while watching it a minute more, then starts down the stairs again. "They're not too rare out here, though it's still fun to spot them. This is one of the parts of the country where they live year-round, all up and down the coast. They like fishing. They did almost get wiped out back in the '60s, thanks to pesticides."

The beach isn't too far, now. "I should have asked if you wanted to do the nature trail loop at the creek," Jules continues, "but I figured you might want to just head straight for the water. This is Beach 1. We're at the southernmost part of Kalaloch, right above the Quinault res." Driftwood piles up high along the uppermost part of the beach, interspersed with smooth, circular rocks. Beyond that, it's sand, with the gnarled burls of coastal spruces reigning all along the ridgeline they've just descended.

"Huh," says Mikaere. "Okay." More points for the local, passing on valuable knowledge. He's a little slower to get moving again, pausing to pull his bucket hat out of his pocket and put it on. Then he has a few more long strides to catch up before he's just a step or two behind, staring out over the beach with a look of utter satisfaction.

"You know me well," he says, with a little laugh. "It's beautiful. It's a different kind of a beach to the ones I'm used to, but... it'll always be about the sand and the sea, for me. The beaches are numbered? I admit, I'd quite like to walk into the surf a little, while we're here. It just-- it's the same ocean. Not that oceans are anything but arbitrary designations, really, because they're all connected, but... there's something to it, too."

"Some of them." Jules glances away from the view of sand and surf just for a moment, long enough to look at Mikaere and absorb his expression. It makes her smile, and her own contentment lingers as she crouches down to pick up the sandals she's just taken off. "So let's walk in the surf," she amiably agrees. "Careful, there's some shells and rocks until we get down closer to the water. Barnacles in the tide pools, and you don't want to cut your foot on those suckers."

The tide's out, leaving behind a glistening stretch of cold, wet sand. There's a rocky tidal zone midway between them and where the surf has receded. This beach, for all Jules' talk about Kalaloch's popularity, is relatively empty. A family with children, playing a ways to the north and investigating the tide pools. Even further north, in the distance, there's a set of tall sea stacks that can just be made out in the haze off the ocean.

"So how is it different than your beaches?" Jules wants to know. "Colder? Rockier? More cliffs?"

Mikaere drops to a crouch to remove his sandals, carrying them in one hand as he picks his way across the sand after Jules. "Definitely don't want that," he agrees, though he's in no way surprised: this is the nature of beaches, whether here or anywhere else.

"I suppose it's the greenery that's most different. The kinds of shells. Some of our beaches are black sand, of course, but we also have the shining white sand people imagine from the tropics. It's just-- I don't know. It feels different."

Different, but not necessarily better. Mikaere exhales, content, as he tracks towards the water, his stride lengthening the closer they get to the tide mark.

“That sounds beautiful. Our sand is just sand-colored,” Jules says wryly, only to follow up her own remark with further commentary. “Which is a funny way to name a color, when sand comes in different colors. It’s very US-centric, isn’t it?”

She picks up her own pace to keep up with Mikaere, though careful attention to the sand underfoot also means she lags a bit, especially working through the rockier stretch.

“You look happy,” she declares when she catches up. This makes Jules pleased in turn, though she’s already riding the stress-free wave of good mental juju. She’ll be happy regardless. “There’s probably sea otters out there somewhere, but we won’t see them unless we’re out here in kayaks. Lots of bird life, though, and watch for seals.”

"There's a lot about your country that is," US-centric, presumably. Mikaere's not making a judgement, though: just musing out loud. "Not that we're different, in our way, just that I suppose we have a lot more American media coming in. We're tiny; we know we're tiny; we keep an eye on the world. I am happy."

He lifts both arms as he says this, as if to embrace the world. One bats lightly into the chilly bin hanging over his shoulder as he does so; the other extends so fast that he loses hold of his sandals clutched between fingers, and sends one flying. Oh well; it's not like he needs it right this moment. "Otters, eh? Those we definitely don't have. And we're far enough from Gray Harbor that these really will just be seals, right?"

Laughter bubbles up in response to the arms flung wide and how, in turn, the sandal (jandal) is flung away as well. “Here,” Jules says, going after the runaway. “I got it.”

Once the sandal is retrieved and held out for Mikaere to take back, she resumed, “Otters, yes. They’re the cutest little buggers, floating around on their backs. They always look happy. And yes, the seals are normal seals, as far as I know. I wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference before this year, but I also haven’t heard stories of mysterious disappearances, and they photograph like normal seals. Would the mermaids come out on camera at all, or would it be all fuzzy blurs, like the Loch Ness monster? It probably is some sort of monster, isn’t it. Huh.”

Oh no. No, no, no. A jandal is a rubber flipflop; these are definitely sandals.

Mikaere's rueful grin marks Jules' collection of the runaway, and he takes it back from her, holding it more securely, strap caught between finger and thumb. "I'm going to need to keep an eye out for these otters," he concludes. "They sound great. I-- don't know. I bet they'd just look like seals, to be honest, if you caught them on film. The way they do for people who aren't like us."

He makes a face, crossing those last few steps towards the water's edge, his toes making sharp indents in the sand. "It probably is, at that. Another cryptid."

Sandal, jandal, whatever it is, it returns to Mikaere’s possession.

“I still think cryptid sounds like a lizard monster, not like it’s just some mythological being. Though that would suit Nessie in both senses of the word.” Yet more rambling musings.

Jules is light on her feet as she steps into the foaming surf. The water is cold. This far north, the Pacific Ocean remains this way year round: okay for a dunking on a particularly hot day, but otherwise best encountered with a wetsuit on. No squeals, nothing of the sort; Jules knows what to expect, and she likes the ocean just as it is. Bull kelp bobs back and forth with the waves just a little ways away. It prompts Jules to regale Mikaere with yet more local knowledge: “The otters like the kelp. Well, they like the sea urchins that eat the kelp. They’re an important part of the ecosystem here— without them, the urchins would eat up the kelp beds, and everything goes out of whack. Are there sea urchins in New Zealand?” Now she’s on the hunt for one as they walk along, investigating the rocky nooks and crannies of the exposed tide pools as they come across them.

"There are," confirms Mikaere. "Mostly deep sea ones, but we have some that are found closer to shore, too. Kina, that's one of the kinds that's endemic only to our shores, they're tasty. There's very controlled harvesting of them now, of course, but at one time they were a core part of our diet."

Sharing this in no way takes away from Jules' information, and Mikaere listens with interest, crouching every so often to get a better look at the tide pools and what's growing in them, identifying some things; querying others.

As always, he doesn't much seem to mind the cold.

There’s a number of small creatures in these pools: crabs, chitons, anemones, sea stars, sand dollars, tiny fish that skitter under the shelter of the rocks. No sea urchins yet.

“What else was part of your diet?” Jules asks curiously. “You’ve heard all about the salmon out here.”

"Birds and fish, primarily," is the prompt answer. "Plus roots, and kūmara-- sweet potatoes-- and other things we cultivated in our gardens. Aside from bats, I think, we don't have any native land mammals, though we brought dogs and rats with us from Hawaiki. Aotearoa is so isolated, the wildlife's just completely different. Some of the birds we have, or used to have..."

"Aotearoa," Jules says to herself, trying to make the pronunciation stick. Of course, she's doing so aloud. "Aotearoa. Got it. Maybe. Aotearoa. I'm totally going to forget this and butcher it." She kicks at the surf, just for the hell of it, though she doesn't aim said kick at Mikaere. "No native mammals. Huh. I would've thought there would still be some from whenever it broke apart a billion years ago. Bringing dogs makes sense though -- some tribes out here actually used to keep dogs for their fur, like it was wool. They'd stick them out on isolated islands or sea stacks so they couldn't breed with regular dogs. A little herd of island dogs."

Pause.

"Aotearoa."

All that? It makes Mikaere grin. It makes him laugh.

"You won't be the first or the last to butcher it," he promises. "Some of our vowel sounds are tricky to remember, and the hard consonants. It's easier, actually, when you're just hearing them and not seeing them written down. Figuring out where the syllables are, I guess. That's not so dissimilar with Quinault, though, is it? Or lots of non-English languages, where the letters work slightly differently to what you expect."

“Yeah, well, I’d like to not butcher it,” Jules fires back, and this time she does aim a kick of sea spray at Mikaere. It’s not a complete splash; she’s not trying to soak him, just to punctuate her response. “Names matter, you know? Getting them right. Your name’s not hard, and Ravn’s isn’t so bad once you figure out how to kind of growl it, but this one has a lot more syllables. Aotearoa. This reminds me of the story of how I got my last name.” Does Mikaere even know Jules’ last name? He will now, because she launches into it without further ado.

“So back in the day, Indian kids used to have to go to white schools. It wasn’t actually quite as enforced out here as it was in other places, where they’d make the kids go to school to indoctrinate them into how to be good little Indians, learn how to be civilized, whatever. Anyway, people still chose to have their kids in these schools because it made sense to them to have them get educated, and there was pressure. Did they have these kinds of schools in New—Aotearoa? Hah, got it right.” She pauses, then carries on. “Anyway, the story goes that my great grandfather, I think it was, was asked his last name, and no one had last names, so they asked him his father’s name. And they just kind of hand waved the actual name in Quinault and were like, no, in English, kid, and his name translated as Black Bear. Chop off the bear, and there you go. Jules Black.”

Sea spray gets kicked back, promptly, and Mikaere sticks his tongue out too: so there. For what? Who can say.

Storytime, though, that's more important, and deserves his full attention. "Huh," he says, at the end of it. "I mean, you're right, yes. Names do matter; there's power in names. We also had that kind of school-- mission schools, for the most part. Kids were strongly discouraged from speaking Māori, often with violence, and that definitely led to a decline in speakers of Te Reo. We had to take it back. How do you feel, knowing that's where your name comes from?"

Jules just grins. She could keep this up at length, flirting like a teenager, except that there's a story to tell.

"I don't know," she says in reply, shrugging. "It is what it is? I mean, most people have English names at this point. Not always. But yeah, mission schools, same thing. And then a lot of them got handed over to the government when the states out here were formed, though the Quinault got control over theirs back earlier than most, I think. Did you grow up speaking your native language? How did that work?"

"My ma," Mikaere explains, glancing out towards the distant horizon. Somewhere, thousands and thousands of miles away, and rather in a different direction? That's where his mother is. "She teaches Te Reo, at the university. Not just the language itself; its history and context and connection to everything. So I learned it from childhood, in a way that I guess a lot of kids don't."

He glances back, giving Jules a crooked smile. "I still stopped speaking it and refused to have anything to do with it when I was a teen, though. So embarrassing, you know?"

He puts in a voice, the high-pitched squeak of it evidently intended to imply his mother: "Hoki mai ki konei! Ka whana ahau to koutou kaihe!"

“Oh.” It all makes a little more sense.

The impersonation draws out a laugh. “What’s that mean?” Jules asks. “For what it’s worth, teenagers are supposed to be awful little shits. I used to sneak out the window. Single story house, easy enough to do. What’s more interesting is how you took it up again.”

"I believe the direct translation would be... let's see. 'Come back here! I'll kick your arse!'" Mikaere's smile is lopsided and amused, both for the recollection and for Jules' story. "I was definitely a little shit. More interested in rugby than in school, and definitely no longer interested in anything to do with my heritage. I just wanted to be normal."

Whatever that is.

"But I started being more aware of it again, later. Selfishly, how it influenced my career. That was probably a low point; using my heritage for selfish gains. But there was Ma, always talking about it, and-- it started having more meaning, I guess, eventually. I'm not sure my ex ever really understood, though."

More laughter, though when it dies down, Jules makes a thoughtful noise. Normal. Somehow, she manages to keep from interrupting; when Mikaere carries on, her attention moves with it.

“I guess even if you were talking about it for the wrong reasons, you were still thinking about it,” Jules hypothesizes. “And why do you think that about your ex? I’m guessing this is your ex-wife.”

Oops. Jules isn’t supposed to know that. That self-awareness registers a half-second later, and the look she turns towards Mikaere is a little guilty. “Sorry. I absolutely did not mean to say that, and I was not going to bring it up, it’s none of my business. Della googled you.” And the cat’s out of the bag.

Mikaere arches one brow towards Jules, as if to say: really?

But then he grins. No: he laughs.

"Fuck, I'm pretty sure that's one of the first things you admitted to me, when we had our first text chat. That Della googled. Figured that might have come up, too, but it's a weird one to raise. Yeah, my ex-wife. Laura. She was-- Pākehā, first and foremost. She didn't understand my growing connection to my culture as more than a tool for my political ambitions, and she didn't... well, she wasn't like us, either. It's a wonder Ma liked her, but she really did."

Mikaere might be laughing, but Jules looks increasingly mortified. “Oh my God, I did not mean to. This would be an excellent time to open that cooler and hand me a granola bar so I don’t say more things I’m not supposed to say. Like, tell me more about your ex-wife, this is fascinating, ahhhhhhh Della this is all your fault.”

Jules presses her lips tightly shut, face about as flaming red as it’ll ever get.

"Hey," says Mikaere, much more seriously. "Hey, it's okay. I know about your ex, remember? There's no big secret about mine."

Which apparently means that no, the chilly bin is staying where it is, on his shoulder, closed.

Denied. Denied?!

“Yeah, but, that’s different,” Jules insists. “You didn’t Google me. Although technically I didn’t do that either, Della just texted me every single thing she could find. I did not ask her to, for the record. She’s the creepy stalker, not me. And you were married, and I have to assume that’s different than just having an ex out there floating about, because we all have exes. Well, maybe not all of us, maybe not Una, but generally speaking. You never brought it up, so I certainly wasn’t going to.”

"Okay," agrees Mikaere. "Della's a creepy stalker. I'll have it out with her next time I see her."

The rest is more difficult to respond to, though the look on his face suggests he's working on it, working through it, rather than trying to get away with a non-answer. "Would you believe me, that I felt weird about bringing it up? It's not random first-date talk, and after that..." Apparently the moment was never right. "There's not a lot to tell. It wasn't acrimonious. It's not like we had kids or anything."

“No, that makes sense,” says Jules, who is slowly starting to recover, though she still looks incredibly sheepish. “I wouldn’t have said anything either. It’s weird to be like, so hey, let me tell you all about my past relationship. Have I mentioned how shitty my break-up was? Mine, not yours, apparently. I was not actually trying to make it about me, that was supposed to be rhetorical. How does one have a non-acrimonious break-up?”

That one might be an actual question, even if it didn’t start out with that intention.

The look Mikaere aims at Jules is so fond, for this. It's not his fault that she's kind of adorable like this, right?

"Uh-- I don't know. I guess the acrimonious part happened earlier, when I had my little... thing. And then when I told her I was done, she basically just agreed, and that was that. She didn't know what to do with me, and I really didn't know what to do with her, either."

“I mean, I can probably answer my own goddamn question, you don’t have a shitty relationship to begin with,” Jules mutters to herself, though she is paying attention. There’s even a bit of a raised eyebrow as she catches Mikaere’s look, along with the rapid-fire thought processing that occurs aloud at this given moment. “What?” Without pause, she amends, “It wasn’t always shitty. That’s not the point; this is so not about me. Sorry sorry sorry.” She shuts herself up again amid the profuse apologies, brow furrowed with the force of that concentration. If Jules looked guilty before, she looks amusingly fierce now. In lieu of a response, she just makes a noise, a small little “hmm.”

Too late, Mikaere seems to have realised that he's lost his focus, that focus that was keeping his control over Jules' emotions. He reaches out for her hand again now, aiming to squeeze it, and to focus his attention back on her mind. More calm; more happy thoughts. "Hey," he says. "You're fine. Okay? And yeah, I guess it wasn't that shitty. Laura and I were on paths that seemed to converge for a while, and then didn't. She and Ma still gang up on me, and in a sense, it's a relief to be over here, out of their reach."

See? Everything is fine!

Everything is fine. The comical scowl eases; the anxiety abates. Jules doesn’t realize just how her relaxation comes about, but she readily agrees, “Okay,” as Mikaere takes her hand. She squeezes back, shifting the grip to interlace their fingers.

“Hah!” Now, Jules finds the amusement in his remarks. “Lucky you. She sounds like she’s become more of a friend, then. That’s nice. Your mom sounds cool.”

"Less friends and more..." Mikaere tries to come up with a word. He's also watching Jules intently, and maybe that means he's picked up that she hasn't realised, and maybe that bothers him, though he's working hard to keep his expression neutral.

"I don't know-- something more annoying. Like a busybody sister. There's nothing like dropping in on your mother and finding her drinking coffee with your ex-wife in the kitchen." The poor man. The poor man.

"Ma's an interfering busybody as well, but yeah, she's reasonably cool. My dad was harder."

Jules freely laughs at Mikaere’s expense, turning a bright-eyed grin up at him. She may not identify the source of her mood shift as existing outside herself, but all the consternation has vanished. Once again, she’s simply happy to explore the beach in Mikaere’s presence.

“Oh yeah?” The grin subsides at the mention of his father, past-tense. “What was he like?”

Mikaere keeps hold of Jules' hand, splashing forward through the surf as they walk. Jules' laughter makes him grin, and that's undimmed even when she explains, "He was water police. A good, solid working class man who had little time for sails, and even less time for anything he thought of as frivolous. It's hard to know what he and Ma saw in each other, but they made a go of it, I guess. My brother's a lot like him."

“You have a brother and a sister, right?” It’s been mentioned in passing at some prior point.

Jules eyes the placement of the sun in the sky, in the meantime, and digs for her phone with her free hand to check the time. “We should probably turn around if we still want to get out on the water,” she judges. “But I also vote for coming back with kayaks and looking for otters. There are cabins you can rent up here, too, but they get booked up fast, I think.”

"Both older than me," confirms Mikaere.

He pauses as Jules digs out her phone, and seems a little reluctant-- but she's right, and he knows it. "I like that plan," is easy enough confirmation. "We'll definitely come back. Maybe look into those cabins, too, just in case there's a cancellation or something. It's beautiful out here."

“Isn’t it?” Jules sighs with her contentment. It’s her ancestral home, hers in a way that does not entail possession. Even without the mental boost, she’d be happy here. “We’ll come back. And the whole coastline is like this. I’m glad it’s been saved as a nature preserve.”

She carves a wide circle when turning, spinning them both when she doesn’t drop Mikaere’s hand. “Summer is great out here. You came at the right time.”

Mikaere's nod is a satisfied one. There have been too many places of natural beauty lost to consumerism and greed; he's equally glad for this one being preserved.

"Water?" he offers, as they spin. "I did, didn't I? Summer's always been my favourite season. It's hard to imagine it being winter back home. Not that it's super cold, but... it's definitely not like this."

Now Jules has to drop hands, since she’s accepting the offer with a, “Yes, please.”

“Huh. That’s funny to think about. And Christmas in the summer. No Christmas trees. Or maybe you still do them. But like, with barbecues.”

Mikaere opens the chilly bin to pull out a bottle of water to hand it over, and grins.

"Oh, we still have Christmas trees. And we have the Pōhutukawa-- the New Zealand Christmas Tree. It blooms bright red, usually in December right before Christmas. It's beautiful. As a kid... it was that reminder that Christmas was coming, you know? C'mon. Let's keep moving."

Back to the car. Back to Gray Harbor. Back to the boat, which can be moored somewhere off shore for the evening, where it doesn't matter how loud and unfiltered you are: there's no one to hear.