Bethells beach: defying both gravity and common sense

I was doing my best to forget a difficult week in paradise.

New Zealand’s springtime greenery is an unfairly cruel temptation during exam time here. As you Charlottesvillians — bless your hearts — sink into the depths of winter, Auckland is awakening into springtime. The sun is yawning and stretching its limbs at progressively earlier hours and lingering for a few extra minutes of conversation at the end of each day. The college women of Auckland traded their black winter ensembles for their (still black) spring sets, and seeing a young man who is actually wearing proper shoes has become somewhat of a rarity.

Meanwhile, my situation is a bit less sunny. The University of Auckland’s student body, which typically avoids its dingy, dreary campus as much as possible, has suddenly descended en masse on its library and study area. Previously deserted lecture halls are suddenly filled, and computers, study carrels and quiet spaces are as hard to come by in the city as Bush supporters. I had no idea how to obtain some prime study space myself, exacerbating my exam-related strain. Like a cockroach, my existence during exam time is restricted to dark corners and places no one else will take.

After my exams passed, I had trouble adjusting to my newfound freedom outside, given my past two weeks of indoor seclusion. I felt the cognitive dissonance arise as I attempted to waste a Thursday afternoon by catching up with The New York Times. My Kiwi friend Sam, using perhaps an odd sort of telepathy, sent me a text message, promising to take me on the sort of adventure that causes one to forget such pragmatic concerns. A few hours later, I stuffed a bathing suit, jacket and some peanut butter sandwiches into a backpack and hopped into his car.

I have determined that the lack of traffic has given young Kiwi men permission to drive like complete idiots, roaring through winding country roads in ignorance ­— or defiance — of the danger that could befall them. Sam tore down State Highway 16 at a maniacal pace as the dashboard of his ’95 Nissan Silvia rattled in protest. His car dutifully groaning through hairpin turns, he manipulated the stick shift to and fro and gave a self-satisfied smile at his vehicular prowess. I maintained a placid expression and laughed at his jokes, hoping my clawing hands would not give away my true condition. The blossoming scenery was pure eye-candy, a welcome change from the study carrel.

Our destination, a place called Bethells Beach, proved to be a completely satisfying reward for my quiet resilience. The Maori name for the area is Te Henga, which means “sand.” I could instantly see why. Endless expanses of black, glittery titanomagnetite rise up in packed mountains, forming tiny cliffs that faced the Tasman Sea. New Zealand often sells glimpses of its beauty by way of movies, and Bethells Beach is no exception. “Xena: Warrior Princess” was shot here, and the beauty around me was indeed somewhat fantastical. The air was balmy, but the water was cool, running in streams around my feet with surprising downward force. The sun crept in with quiet ultraviolet intensity, ricocheting off the speckled glitter underfoot.

Sam led me toward a black sand cliff and smiled. Spreading his arms out as if he were about to fly, he threw down his bag, took off at a running pace and disappeared off the edge of the mound. I screamed and ran to observe the damage but all I found was a smiling, sand-covered young Kiwi. “Your turn,” he said, motioning toward the peak. I shook my head in protest but was astonished to see my feet carrying me toward oblivion, slow at first but then at a running pace. I leapt, tensed my muscles and felt the wind rush by as I hurtled toward the ground. I sailed through the air precariously for a second or two, hair flying in my face during a moment of free descent. Astonishingly, the sand cushioned my fall, and my weight sunk into its softness as if in an enormous pillow. After a moment of sand-filled shock I jumped up and let out a loud cry. I was hooked.

Exhausted, Sam and I retreated to civilization several hours later. I was drunk with satisfaction and completely fulfilled, miles away from dingy basement cubicles or study sheets. As I cleaned up before embarking on the night’s adventures, it struck me that even after living here for five months, New Zealand continues to surprise me with new experiences. While I begrudgingly put in my library time as my last classes wind to a close, my imagination will be leaping off mountains and yearning for the next adventure.

Jessica’s column runs biweekly Tuesdays. She can be reached at j.burris@cavalierdaily.com.