Cameron met me in the lobby at four o’clock, as planned. Though he said nothing about my reduced baggage, his smirk spoke volumes. He had, of course, managed to pack everything he needed into a duffel bag smaller than the one I’d bought at Kathmandu.
“Here,” I said, handing him the cash I’d withdrawn from the ATM. “I can’t let you pay the Pyms’ rent. Ruth and Louise wouldn’t approve of you throwing your hard-earned money at their problem.”
“If you insist, he said.
“I do,” I said firmly, and led the way to the car.
After we left the Spencer, I expected to head north, but Cameron confounded me by heading south instead.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Back to the airport,” he replied.
“Are we flying to the Hokianga?” I asked.
“We’ll fly to Dargaville and drive north from there,” he answered.
“Excellent,” I said, foolishly anticipating a quick and easy journey.
When we reached the Auckland Airport, Cameron bypassed the international and domestic terminals and parked in a lot reserved for private pilots. Ten minutes later, I found myself strapped into the copilot’s seat of a tiny propellor plane, wearing a headset and a worried expression.
“Do you know how to fly this thing? ” I said into the little microphone that curved from the headphones to my lips.
Cameron’s confident voice came crackling through the headset: “No, but I’m a fast learner.” As I started to sputter, he held up a pacifying hand. “Relax, Lori. I’ve been flying since I was sixteen.”
I glanced anxiously at the sky. It looked to me as though New Zealand was about to demonstrate how changeable its spring weather could be.
“Have you noticed the black clouds building up in the west?” I asked.
“A snarky low’s coming in off the Tassie,” he replied incomprehensibly. Sensing my bewilderment, he said slowly and distinctly, “A low front is moving in from the Tasman Sea. Should make for a lively flight. We have clearance from the tower. Here we go!”
I was glad that I’d taken a nap before leaving the hotel because I couldn’t have slept during the journey if I’d been drugged. Gusting winds from the “snarky low” buffeted our tiny plane like a cat toying with a Ping-Pong ball, and sheets of rain obliterated the view. I’d never been airsick in my entire life, but by the time we reached Dargaville, I was cursing the impulse that had prompted me to eat lunch.
Cameron tried to lift my spirits by telling me that we would land on the Dargaville Aerodrome’s limestone runway rather than its grass strip, but the news that we would be landing at an airport that still had a grass strip failed signally to boost my morale. I gripped the edge of my seat and apologized mutely for every sin I’d ever committed as he zeroed in on the rain-washed runway, but after a few heart-stopping bounces, we were safely on the ground and taxiing toward a small hangar.
My hands shook as I removed the headset and it took me three tries to undo the restraining straps, but I managed to keep my trembling knees from buckling when my feet finally hit solid ground. I pulled up the hood on my rain jacket and let Cameron retrieve all of the luggage. I felt he deserved to be punished for predicting that the flight from hell would be “lively.”
“Camo! Over here, bro!” called a voice.
A stocky man with light brown skin waved to us from the shelter of the hangar. He was dressed in a knee-length slicker, shorts, and flip-flops, and his coal-black hair was clipped close to his skull. Around his neck dangled a curiously carved pendant of highly polished, dark green stone, and his bare legs were covered from ankle to thigh with an elegant, curving pattern of intertwined tattoos.
“Toko!” called Cameron. “Good to see you, man!”
During the introductions that followed, I learned that Toko Baker was a Maori—the first I’d met—and one of Cameron’s oldest friends. The two men chatted briefly in Toko’s native tongue before reverting to English.
“Flight all right?” Toko asked me, winking at Cameron.
“Piece of cake,” I lied, with a carefree shrug.
“Jean Batten would be proud of you, Lori.” Cameron dropped his bag and clapped me on the back. “She was New Zealand’s Amelia Earhart, and as fearless as they come, but compared to you, she was a quaking blancmange.”
“Thanks, Camo,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Car’s waiting for you outside,” said Toko. “I’ll look after the kite.”
“Ta, Toko,” said Cameron.
“Hei aha,” Toko replied, adding for my benefit, “No worries, mate.”
“We’re borrowing one of Toko’s vehicles,” Cameron said as his friend headed for the plane. “He takes a laissez-faire approach to maintenance, so we won’t be breaking any land-speed records, but we’ll get where we need to go. Only sixty-three kilometers left—round about forty miles.”