I was flying over the remote west coast of Stewart Island in a single-engine Cessna, plastered against the window in the high air, stuck there by the G-force, when I took this photo. The blue water. The little wrinkled waves. The sand in the water. A few moments later, the pilot touched down on the sand and taxied to a standstill in the morning sun. Opening the doors on their hinges, the pilot let out two hikers who were heading into the bush for a few days. Mason Bay is a long unbroken stretch of coastline. Twelve-miles-long. No people. No buildings. Wild. And it's famous for its ambergris.
"The last time we were here," said one of the trampers with a grunt, as he swung his greasy bag over his shoulder, "there was this French guy who ran around naked for four days. Up and down the beach all day. Naked."
The other hiker stepped onto the hard sand -- wearing shorts and gators and well-worn hiking boots. Low tide. Waves in the distance. Silence on the flat sand, like a tea-colored highway.
"Oh, bloody hell, yeah," said the second hiker. "I hope that bloody naked French guy isn't still around."
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