Page 120 of Under Southern Stars
Unlike the fjords of Norway or Alaska, Milford’s walls are carpeted with lush rainforest that clings impossibly to near-vertical rock faces. The water is so still it creates perfect mirror images of the mountains, making it difficult to tell where reality ends and reflection begins.
A tour guide begins pointing out features through a microphone. “Milford Sound is actually a fjord, carved by glaciers during the ice age. It’s nearly 15 kilometers long and surrounded by peaks rising over 1,200 meters from the water…”
I try to focus on his words, on the spectacular scenery unfolding around us, but my awareness of Jack just meters away keeps intruding. The familiarity of him—the way he leans forward when something interests him, the slight tilt of his head as he listens—makes my chest ache with a confusion of feelings I wasn’t ready to examine.
“Look, Mom!” Madison calls, pointing to a rocky outcrop where fur seals lounge. “They’re so cute!” I join her at the rail, grateful for the distraction. The boat glides deeper into the fjord, dwarfed by the sheer rock walls rising on either side.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the tour guide announces, “we’ll be serving complimentary tea and coffee in the main cabin. I must apologize to our international visitors—it’s American-style coffee, I’m afraid.”
A collective “awwww” of disappointment rises from the predominantly Kiwi and Australian passengers.
I can’t help it—I laugh. After everything I’d experienced in New Zealand, this cultural quirk finally makes perfect sense. Jack’s eyes meet mine across the deck, a tentative smile pulling at his lips. I look away quickly, unsettled by how easily he could still reach me.
As Madison and Emma go below to get drinks, I notice a heavily pregnant woman sitting alone near the bow. She shifts uncomfortably, one hand pressed to her lower back, the other resting on her prominent belly. Something about her posture,the tension in her shoulders, the way she keeps checking her watch…triggers my ER nurse instincts.
I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed. Jack had also spotted her, his eyes narrowing in professional assessment. Our gazes meet briefly, a moment of shared concern that transcends our personal situation.
“Third trimester,” I murmur as he approaches. “Looks uncomfortable.”
“Thirty-six, thirty-seven weeks at least,” he agrees quietly. “Pretty remote place to be that far along.”
The moment feels strangely intimate—this shared professional language, the shorthand of two people used to assessing medical situations together. For a fleeting second, we are just Sophia and Jack again, charge nurse and paramedic, partners in the work we both loved.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” I say, more to break the moment than from conviction. “Probably just backache from the ride here.”
Emma rejoins us, Madison following with a hot chocolate. “What are you two looking so serious about?”
“Nothing important,” I lie, accepting the tea she offered.
The boat continues its journey into the fjord, eventually turning around in the Tasman Sea before making its way back toward the harbor. As we round a dramatic cliff face, a pod of small dolphins suddenly appears alongside the boat, their distinctive rounded dorsal fins cutting through the dark water.
“Dusky dolphins!” the guide announces excitedly over the PA system. “A resident pod that calls Milford Sound home.They’re one of the smallest dolphin species in the world and unique to New Zealand waters.”
The sleek creatures race alongside us, jumping playfully in our wake, creating perfect arcs against the backdrop of towering cliffs. Passengers rush to the railings, cameras raised, as the dolphins perform what seems like choreographed acrobatics.
“They’re so fat and cute!” Madison exclaims, nearly spilling her hot chocolate in her excitement. “They look like little torpedoes!”
The views are even more spectacular on the return journey, with the sun now highlighting different features of the landscape and glinting off the occasional dolphin fin as they continue to escort us. It was so beautiful that I had almost forgotten about the pregnant woman when a cry from the lower deck cuts through the guide’s commentary.
“Help! Is there a doctor on board?”
Jack and I are moving before the words fully register, instinct overriding everything else. We push through passengers to find the pregnant woman on her hands and knees, face contorted in pain, a puddle of fluid beneath her.
“Her water broke,” a panicked friend explains. “The contractions started suddenly, she says they’re coming fast!”
I kneel beside the woman, slipping automatically into nurse mode. “I’m Sophia, I’m an ER nurse. What’s your name?”
“Hannah,” she gasps between quick breaths. “It’s too early. It’s too early! My due date’s three weeks away.”
Jack kneels on her other side. “I’m Jack, a paramedic. We’re going to help you, Hannah. How far apart are the contractions?”
“Maybe a minute? I don’t know, th-th-they came on so fast.” Her face contorts as another wave hits. “Oh God, I think I need to push!”
I exchange a look with Jack. This isn’t just labor—this is precipitous labor, progressing far too quickly for comfort, especially in our current situation.
“How far are we from the harbor?” Jack asks the wide-eyed crew member hovering nearby.
“Twenty minutes at least,” the young man stammers. “We’re going as fast as we can.”
