Their first date was on a camping trip. A group of friends camped on a desolate beach, defiantly keeping a massive fire going despite the Southern Ocean and a bitter southerly.
Peter didn't really know the others, but accepted the invitation on a whim. Any group of friends who like to camp sounded okay.
And then there was Grace. Stoic in all the setbacks. Late one afternoon, Peter walked off to take a shit. But then her voice called out after him, asking if she could come along.
Of course, he said, quickly throwing the dunny paper away.
They walked along the cliff face. Miles and miles of green paddocks dotted with grazing cows kept them close to the small walking track.
Grace slipped on a stone and reached out for Peter's hand.
Thirty years later, with his family camped at the same cove, Peter was walking the path alone. It was as if time was stitching together the two moments in time and allowing him to relive the first. He can feel the softness of her hand.
At the end of the track is another small bay with a lone rock standing sentinel against the endless ebb and flow. They'd reached this bay, climbed down to the sand and made love for the first time.
Peter stood at the precipice of the bay and watched as the old rock, still twenty metres tall, withstood another barrage of waves. He wished Grace had come with him to this spot so that he could show her their marriage was this rock, steadfast against all the elements. There will be high tides and low ones, but the one constancy is them.