Chapter 12
Honolulu, Hawaii
Wednesday April 26, 1989
United Flight 195 touched down at Honolulu International Airport six days before the Mata‘i was to set sail for the South Pacific. David’s heart raced as he left the plane. He hadn’t seen Jason in seven years. He was twenty-four now, and felt he was ready to take on the world. He had a fine arts degree from Rhode Island School of Design and had been in the middle of his grand tour of Europe when he got J.J.’s telegram and accepted his offer to sail the islands of French Polynesia.
Walking to the baggage claim David had a lot of questions. Who was Jason now? Who was the man who had been his best friend as a kid? Would they still have that connection after the years they’d spent apart—in college, traveling, finding love?
Jason was waiting for David at the baggage claim, a flower lei hanging on his arm. David saw him first. Jason looked more rugged than David remembered. His hair was longer, falling around his neck in sun-bleached curls. He was tanned to a dark oak and stood looking at the crowd in that loose sort of way that physically assured men do when they are totally unconcerned with their bodies.
His face lit up when he saw David.
The men greeted each other with a strong hug and Jason gave David the lei. David was in sensory overload. The colors dazzled him, so pure and sharp. The air, even at the airport, was tinged with the aroma of damp earth and flowers—the plumeria fragrance would stay with him forever. And it was hot.
“You don’t look like an artist,” Jason told him. “I was expecting a beret, or maybe a severed ear.”
“It was a New England art school, all hard chairs and plain walls. You know, art with a puritanical twist.”
Jason picked up David’s seabag and David followed his friend across the street to the parking garage where Jason’s “North Shore Cruiser” awaited them. It was the most dilapidated, rusty, aging Toyota station wagon David had ever seen.
“You expect me to ride in that?” he asked.
“It’s puritanical, like your education.”
Jason unlocked the tailgate and lifted it with a mighty pull. His surfboard, a Hawaiian Islands Creation thruster, lay in the back. He threw David’s bag next to it, careful not to scratch his board, closed the back and opened the passenger door for David. The door was dented and opened with a bang.
“You need to slam it shut,” Jason said as he walked around to the driver’s side.
Jason coaxed the car to start, got it in gear and they set off toward Waikiki where Larry Graff’s yacht, Mata‘i, which Jason said meant “fair wind” in Tahitian was berthed.
“Sorry about the air conditioning,” Jason said rolling down his window. David did the same thing.
“How’s it going with Larry?” David asked.
“I’m still on probation.”
David’s puzzled look spurred Jason to unload some of his feelings. “I thought Larry invited me along on this trip because of my sailing skills, but he treats me like I’ve never been on a boat before. It’s been frustrating. I know it’s my problem. I’m probably nursing a bruised ego, but I’ve got to find a way to deal with it.”
“He sounds awfully petty.”
“Larry was impressed with your sailing skills and your winning the Collegiate Ocean Racing Championship in Newport. But he was even more impressed by your exploits in that Newport to Bermuda race where half the fleet was damaged by a tropical storm.”
“That wasn’t a bright moment for me. We should’ve withdrawn and run for cover. I let the skipper talk me into going for it. We were lucky to come out in one piece.”
“Maybe I’m being too critical. I mean I like Larry. He’s smart. He has a good sense of humor. He’s always teaching me things a cruising sailor looks for. It’s a lot different than taking a catamaran in and out of Waikiki.”
“That’s right. You wrote me how much you liked skippering those boats.”
“Larry has no respect for the beach catamarans. He’s a blue-water sailor, and he watches every penny. If he can’t fix something himself, or make a part, he’ll find the best deal for what he needs.”
“It’s good he can fix things. We like that, don’t we? Who else will be on the boat?”
“Nobody. Just Larry, his brother Byron and you and me. Byron arrives on Sunday. We leave on Monday.”
“Byron’s cutting it close—arriving a day before we depart.”
“From what Larry’s wife told me, Byron didn’t sit back and live off his trust fund. He owns one of the biggest real estate firms in Florida, has his own yacht, and regularly cruises the Caribbean. I think he’s doing this for two reasons. One, it will be hurricane season in the Caribbean, and two, he’s never been to the South Pacific. But what do I know? I’ve never met the guy.”
The traffic started backing up around the commercial piers just west of downtown Honolulu. The afternoon sun baked the asphalt, and the fumes from the string of cars and trucks slowly snaking their way toward Waikiki polluted the old Toyota. The roasting pavement softened the tires, and the smell of scorched rubber mingled with sticky scents wafting from the nearby pineapple cannery.
“So what’s next?” The driving was frustrating Jason and his questions to David were so empty they were almost rhetorical.
“I’m going to sail the South Pacific,” David reached over and gave Jason a playful shake. “You know, you and me? Buddies off on our dream adventure.”
“This trip may not be all that we’ve dreamed about.”
“Are you getting cold feet?”
“No. It has nothing to do with the sailing. There’s something I can’t put my finger on that keeps giving me this uncomfortable feeling.”
“I don’t believe it,” David said irritated. “I was in Barcelona three days ago, very happy with my life. So, we shouldn’t do this trip?”
“No, not at all. We have to do it.”
“I don’t remember you ever being ambivalent. You’d get some inner message and off you went, dragging me along with you.
“No, I have to do this trip and I want you with me. But I think there’s a lot more to it than just sailing to Tahiti.
“Chill out. You’ve been dreaming of this kind of adventure forever.”
Jason relaxed as he pulled off Ala Moana Boulevard and parked in front of a leeward slip not far from the Hawaii Yacht Club. The Mata‘i struck a noble bowsprit, like an accusing finger, out toward the high-rise hotels fronting the harbor.
“When Larry first got this slip here, he said you could see the mountains while having your cocktail on deck.”
David surveyed what would be his new home for the next few months. Jason grabbed his friend’s bag and his surfboard from the car, and the men crossed the street to the yacht. Jason tossed David’s bag on the boat and put his surfboard down on the end of the pier. He stepped on one of the spring lines to bring the yacht closer to the pier, jumped onboard, and unlocked the main hatch.
“Permission to come aboard, sir?” David said mockingly.
“Fuck’n A.”
“What’s aft?” David jumped down into the cockpit.
“Owner’s cabin. Off-limits. Leave everything here and I’ll show you around.”
“I want to change.” David was sweating in his mainland clothes, and the afternoon sun bounced off the glass of the surrounding hotels baking all the boats. “It’s hotter than I thought it would be.
“You’ll get used to it.”
David opened his seabag and found a pair of shorts to slip into. He looked anemic next to Jason. His legs were pale and spindly, and his bare feet looked frightfully narrow and white, like they’d been bound for years and had never seen the sun. He was taller than Jason, and his thin frame, mop of black hair, and white skin made him look like Ichabod Crane.
“Don’t worry, you’ll brown up fast enough.” Jason said.
The Mata‘i spanned sixty-three feet from the tip of her bowsprit to her taffrail. Ketch rigged with an owner’s cabin aft of
the cockpit, she was built specifically for cruising the islands of the South Pacific. She had a high clipper bow and a long sweeping strake that ended a classic wing transom, which gave her the appearance of speed even while she was at the dock. Resting on chalks on top of the aft cabin, under the mizzen boom, was a ten-foot wooden dinghy named Mata‘i Iti—Little Mata‘i. Mounted on boomkin jutting out from Mata‘i’s transome was an Aires self-steering wind vane.
Jason took David through the companionway, down three steps into the main salon. The wood paneling was painted a soft cream and had been rubbed to a satin finish. The cherry wood trim was varnished to a mirror shine. The decks were teak and honed as smooth as a baby’s cheek.
“We’re going to be up forward with Byron when he arrives,” Jason said. “Larry has a few idiosyncrasies you should know about. One, there’s no refrigeration. You might want to back out on that alone.”
“I might. What else?”
“Well, look around.”
David sat down on the settee behind a gimbaled table on the port side of the salon. Looking back to the cockpit he had a clear view of the large traditional spoke wheel mounted on a binnacle. He noticed the windows on either side of the salon. They were larger than on most modern yachts and were bordered with little red- and-white Tahitian print curtains. The windows were one-inch-thick Plexiglas that could be wedged against rubber gaskets inside their bronze frame during rough weather, but that day they were raised high to let in the trade winds. The frames also allowed the Plexiglas to tilt in at the top for ventilation on a wet day when water flowed down the deck. It was rather ingenious. Jason told David that Larry had invented the versatile windows.
On the starboard side of the boat, across from the settee and two steps lower, were the galley and navigator’s station. The galley included an icebox, a sink, and a gimbaled alcohol stove-and-oven combination. The navigator’s station had a chest-high chart table and an array of radios, but only one GPS.
“The guy’s a ham,” David said. “And I don’t think he puts much stock in electronic navigation aids.”
“Very observant.”
“All those electronics and no refrigerator take off a couple of points.”
“You’ll find all kinds of Larry’s little inventions on the boat.”
David got up from the settee, checked out the navigation station, and then made his way to the forward cabin, a step below the salon. The main mast came through the roof there, penetrated the cabin floor, and was attached to the keel. There were three forward-looking ports where the salon ended and the forward cabin began. The high berths on either side of the hull in the forward cabin were filled with gear.
“Where do we sleep?”
Jason followed David into the cabin and pulled out a drawer from beneath one of the high berths. He sat on the thin mattress of the narrow bunk and patted it as if he were checking out a bed in a department store. “We might be able to clear off one bunk when we get more organized, but this is where you sleep. I prefer sleeping in the cockpit—unless it rains.”
Running along the inside of the hull, above the bunks on either side of the boat, was a bookshelf filled with leather bound books and a short railing that resembled a classical Greek balustrade to keep the books from falling out in rough weather.
“Someone likes to read,” David said.
“Larry lived onboard for years. I think he still thinks of this as his second home.”
“How‘d you two meet?”
“I met him at one of my mother’s retreats a few years ago. I’ve never been at sea with him for longer than an afternoon, but he has a great reputation as a blue-water sailor and a navigator. Hang around the club or talk to any of the old-timers. They all know Larry and would sign on with him in an instant.”
“I’m not questioning his ability as a sailor. If he meets your approval, that’s fine with me. So far I’ve picked up that he’s a demanding boss who expects top quality work on his boat for the best price. He’s literate and has a modicum of taste. He likes people and wants to be in touch. He might be a little stubborn and set in his ways, but he’s embraced a spiritual teaching, so he’s working on tolerance, forgiveness, and brotherly love. Have I missed anything?”
“I think he has a crush on my mother.”
“Really? How does that make you feel?”
“It doesn’t matter. She handles it very well.”
“What about your dad?”
“He passed on a little over a year ago,” Jason said turning away.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“Mom was at the height of her lecture tours, and Dad never liked to travel. I think it put a lot of stress on him, especially seeing the level of devotion some of the students had toward mother.”
“So what happened?”
“An aneurism; very sudden, on the golf course. He had his buddies and loved golf and the men’s world. I think he was happy. When they were home together they were like teenage lovers, but when mother was getting ready for a lecture tour you could feel the curtain closing between them and they both shifted gears. Anyway, Mother and I were in Dallas when it happened. She left in the middle of a class and I filled in. We decided that I should give the remaining sessions.”
“Weren’t people disappointed your mom wasn’t there?”
“People felt the atmosphere and I think it showed the student body that the mystical message transcends personality and the belief of death.” Jason said that as if he’d convinced himself it was true.
“Do you speak in your mom’s classes now?” David asked.
“Sometimes I do the meditations, but here in Hawaii I stay in the background. Mother rented a condo on Diamond Head for a couple of months and will stay on while we’re in the South Pacific. I think she’ll eventually retire here.”
Jason paused for a moment.
David thought it seemed rather sad. The St. John’s—the three musketeers—were no longer all for one and one for all.
Jason quickly changed into his trunks, took an extra key from a drawer, and tossed it to David.
“Lock up when you leave,” he said.
“You going somewhere?”
“Surfing.”
“Want to get a bite after?”
“You go ahead. Walk along the beach to the Reef Hotel and you’ll find a right-of-way into town.” David had expected a little more companionship, some more reminiscing, and maybe doing something together, but that was Jason; you never knew exactly what to expect.
David followed his buddy on deck in time to see him throw his board off the pier and dive in after it. He paddled through the harbor out toward a break called the Ala Moana Bowl without looking back.
Going below, David found a flyer for Elizabeth St. John’s “Living Without Fear” seminar in Waikiki. According to the flyer, she had been lecturing all week in the evenings in preparation for the private “closed-class” that began Thursday morning. Thursday, Friday, and Saturday would be intensive sessions designed to awaken the student to the nature of the Spirit within. David placed the flyer back on the settee, found a cool drink, and flaked out in the cockpit. He soon fell asleep.
The “Living Without Fear” seminar was based on the writings of the great twentieth-century mystic Dr. Solomon Green, whom Jason and David had met when they were fifteen. Dr. Green had died on Maui in 1984 and Elizabeth had been there for his funeral. Jason, who had been a junior at the University of Hawaii at the time, had chosen UH to be able to study with Dr. Green. Besides having had a mystical connection, Jason and Solomon had also shared a love for the Hawaiian culture – and all the Polynesian cultures for that matter. They had studied the Kumulipo – the Hawaiian creation chant. The Hawaiians traced their linage back to the gods, and the Kumulipo was that story – like Genesis was the story of Judo-Christian origins. Jason had immersed himself into the poetry of the chant. Dr. Green had recognized Jason’s spiritual capacities, and invited Jason to collaborate with him on a book tracing the spiritual roots of
the Polynesian. Both men thought the Polynesian people were originally a Semitic race, perhaps one of the lost tribes of Israel. The Polynesian languages had similarities to ancient Aramaic that could be traced through Taiwan and India back to the Middle East. But Dr. Green passed away before the book was completed.
Dr. Green’s funeral attracted people from all over the world. His widow, Ruth, had addressed the crowds, assuring them that his message would continue to unfold. She introduced the handful of teachers Dr. Green had recognized worthy to carry on his work. Elizabeth St. John was one of those. She had left the Christian Science church in 1980, soon after meeting Dr. Green, and shortly became one his most sought-after lecturers.
That Wednesday night was Elizabeth St. John’s final public lecture before beginning her concentrated three-day retreat. She sat in her hotel suite meditating, opening herself to the Spirit so that her talk would be from that Divine Source within, and not personal ego. Her face glowed softly, reflecting the peace and tranquility she was experiencing. Her light brown hair fell loosely to her shoulders, cut in a way to accentuate its natural waves. Her eyes, when opened, were a piercing pale blue, clear and direct. They spoke of tenderness and strength but revealed none of the suffering she had endured by taking over such an important man’s ministry.
The knock on the door to her suite brought her out of her meditation. Marjorie Cummings, a plain woman in her mid-sixties, who had been Elizabeth’s traveling companion for the last two and a half years, answered the door and brought Larry Graff into the suite. Here was a man Elizabeth could get involved with. He was tall and trim, and his ruggedly tanned body bore evidence of years at sea and a life in the tropics. His close-cropped silver hair gave him an air of distinction and authority, as if he could protect her from the violence of the world while at the same time understand its underlying cause and scientifically explain why it wouldn’t touch her. Elizabeth enjoyed his company, but always held back in the presence of such raw masculine power dressed in the politeness of a fast-fading era. Larry was seventy-one and rich. His upbringing had been prep schools and Ivy League colleges prior to World War II. Elizabeth thought he lacked the crudeness of the typical rich American.
The Atua Man Page 9