I Will Never.

We are on our 2-year honeymoon, in a tandem kayak, funded by a frayed shoestring budget, paddling through Abel Tasman, carrying, in the hull of the boat, $87 worth of food we cannot afford, purchased from a local market that cannot afford to sell it for less. The plan is simple: paddle north, camp, paddle, camp, spot dolphins, paddle, camp more.

By the time we reach the first beach, we eat through most of the crackers and are being bitten alive by sand flies, notorious New Zealand vermin more evil than mosquitoes because they come back for seconds at the blood buffet. But we are alive, by God. Some days, we paddle for 8 hours straight, and the kayak begins to feel as if it is a part of our body, slicing through the water like some kind of marine Centaur. At night, we huddle around our campfire stuffing our fat gobs with spicy beans and rice, and in the back of my mind sits an image: a tiny cheerful light blinking in the Cook Strait at the south end of the planet.

Each day on the water, we hatch plans, postulate, create rules about the way life should be, theorize some more, eat a Whittaker’s chocolate bar, and conclude that we will never do that -(insert evil habit) - upon reentry into the USA. We will never move to the soulless suburbs. We will live differently than the Others, without stuff, with our own garden, without television, off the grid, pepped up on the goofballs of life.

One night, we pull in at Awaroa, where we meet a man from Japan, the only other person at camp. He had walked in off the trail to this spot and set down his small bag. He is young and lanky and rather urbane and speaks choppy English and seems out of place in this space with its turquoise lagoons and informal pit toilet, so far from everywhere and everything and everyone but us. He fishes near the rocks while we pitch our tent and at once begins beckoning us over as if to help with an emergency. In his pursuit of dinner he’d somehow hooked a bird, not a fish. An angry gull, unlike the stoic Cormorants, who lift their black wings to the sun in triumph.

Immediately we pull out the Leatherman knock-off someone had gifted us for “outdoor moments” portrayed only in adventure gear magazines. Diagnosis: the hook has somehow caught the bird in its beak. So with catlike reflexes we crack open the multi-tool, clamp down to sever the hook, whereupon the Leatherman promptly snaps in half.

I can hear my Dad’s voice in the comic bubble sitting over our heads: The Chinese are eatin’ us alive, honey. We don’t make anything in this country anymore. I will never buy foreign products. Casey eventually releases the hook and the gull is free.

The upshot is that the young man’s scuffle with the gull affords us just the crash encounter we need to jump-start Japanese-North American relations down in the Antipodes. And so over dinner, the conversation begins:

Who do you prefer, Brad Pitt or Harrison Ford? the man asks, startling me a bit.

Um, how do you mean? I say.

Casey takes a pass on the Hollywood heartthrob question.

Who do you prefer, Brad Pitt or Harrison Ford? the young man repeats.

Harrison Ford, I answer decidedly, moving my feet closer to the fire. (This decision was made years ago, before Indiana Jones donned the stud earring and married Calista Flockhart).

Really? the fisherman asks, slightly stunned.

Yes, Harrison Ford. So who do you prefer?


Brad Pitt, he quickly responds. There will be no further discussion on this matter.

I would never choose Brad Pitt, I joke.


Unable to communicate much more, we stoke the fire. The stars are sharp, bright, and the waters of Abel Tasman are at peace for the night. Conversation would seem excessive in the presence of such decadence.

*******

Years later, the Engineer and I lounge on an overstuffed couch with great friends we clearly don’t deserve, discussing all the things we said we’d never do but somehow did in spite of ourselves.

B offers a morsel: When I was a kid, I said I’d never wear blue jeans.

Seriously? I ask. With this confession, B takes the cake with the best “never did” of all time. There will never be a rival. Because we all wear blue jeans.

The Engineer and I? We live in an aging subdivision now, and still don’t own a kayak despite years of renting and loving them. My Dad? He shops at Walmart, single-handedly supporting China’s economy. And tempting as it is to learn from this cautionary tale, I make more vows, such as this diamond of a promise: I will never raise a spoiled kid.

And with this, I place Eli in his organic sleeping gown and hit the floor to brush the black dog’s teeth and gums with chicken flavored paste.

What will you never do?

This post is a tribute to "Strawberry" Evans.