KEY POINTS:
Nothing prepared me for the first glimpse of my daughter in her bridal gown last Monday. She was sitting for the photographer in front of an old garden shed when my son and I arrived at the appointed hour.
The moment before she rose to greet us was one of those that sear themselves in your mind for life. Nicole was sheathed in a simple white garment that pooled on the ground around her. No veil, just a white flower in her dark hair, which had been swept back and set not too high.
Alex had made only one request. "When you arrive," he said, "I want to be able to recognise you."
The wedding had been nearly two years in the planning. I hadn't had to do much except marvel at the precision of it. They were putting the seal on a partnership that had lasted since high school and long ago seemed perfect. I was keyed up for the occasion but not for the emotions.
Father-of-the-bride was a film cliche. I intended to take it in my stride. The first sight of her so sublimely beautiful was the end of that resolution. Until that moment, the weather had been the main worry. Monday dawned wet, a possibility we had not wanted to contemplate.
The venue, Mudbrick Vineyard on Waiheke, had a small vault that could accommodate the ceremony inside if need be, but they dearly wanted it outside with Rangitoto, the sea and the city in the distance.
And I had a second worry, unspoken to the rest. An island motelier had greeted me the previous day with news that the venue had just received a damning review. Apparently the chef had left, standards had collapsed, disaster awaited us.
I remembered Nicole's alarm a few months earlier when the restaurant sent her a revised menu. The new meals were too fussy for her taste, many featuring "foam", whatever that was. But they had sorted that out. Anyway, it was too late now. The weather at least gave us options.
We had until 4.30 to decide. All day we watched the sky, heartened by every break in the cloud but frequent showers returned. By late afternoon, the sensible decision was obvious and it would have been wrong. Sentiment fortunately prevailed.
The rain had relented when the decorated car set out on the longest route we knew. She wanted people to wave. Almost no one did. From now on, she said, she was going to wave at every wedding car she saw.
At the winery, the sun was nearly out. Guests waved from the high terrace. While the bridesmaids went ahead of us and we waited at the steps, a string trio struck up an air. She whispered that she had written it.
Our procession was a blur. Familiar faces registered warm wonder at the sight of her. She seemed composed on my arm. I was trying not to stumble and could barely see through tears by the time I put her hand in his. He is a prince. They made their vows in brilliant clear light under a sky streaked with dramatic clouds of purple and grey.
Later at dinner (which turned out to be superb), several guests urged me to write about the occasion. I've hesitated.
Weddings are public but marriage is private. Everyone has to find their way to make it happen, or not.
Marriage is the foundation of families and the concrete of society yet so-called social scientists have almost nothing useful to say about it. They devote their research to suggesting it is in decline and wasn't always as important as we suppose.
But the wedding guests who urged me to write about that night had in mind, I think, the future. This generation of 20-somethings is very impressive. It has reached back two generations to revive many of the traditions mine dropped, such as balls, dating, proposals, engagements. Like us, they write their own weddings but their words are more mature.
They are marrying later and having families when circumstances are most favourable. They have outgrown the music that still rocks me. For their first dance, they chose Sinatra.
The future looked fine that evening for one young couple and for their country, even if it cannot hold them.
The close family from many parts of the country and the friends that came from near and far to be with them on Monday, will keep their hearts here. They left to the strains of Slice of Heaven.
Tears are in my genes, damn it. My father is worse and even his brother, a self-described cynical scientist who combats the genetic defect with humour, was blubbing behind me. But this bout was a new experience for us - tears not of grief or poignancy but of sheer, unalloyed joy.
