"Understatement, kid. Practically got it for free,” I reply. “What are you doing here already; did they want to get rid of you in Singapore?"
Steve is a pilot and flies standby when traveling private. So you never know exactly when he’ll arrive. I stopped waiting at the airport for him years ago.
"Originally I had a flight through LA, but then I managed to get a direct flight to Honolulu yesterday."
After our heartfelt reunion, we scuffle down to the beach to check out the conditions. We meet almost the whole beach crew at once; only the Israeli is missing and hasn’t been seen for quite a while.
The windsurf conditions are exactly what you hope for: 9- to 12-foot waves and enough wind for a small sail. We happily rig our sails and go out. There's hardly anything better than windsurfing alongside a good friend - especially if there are only three other people on the water. Thanks to the global economic crisis, the Japanese found less expensive travel destinations and there are also less Europeans to be seen on Hawaii. A few years ago, about 150 windsurfers would have been on the water on a day like this. So even an economic crisis has its positives!
In the evening, we sit on the beach, drink an aloha beer and watch the sun vanishing into the sea. Umberto, a copier salesperson from Austria once loudly stated: "Dishh ish the maaaxshimum of liiife!" Despite the entertaining pronunciation, he couldn’t be more right.
We have dinner at Paia Fishmarket and, thanks to the jetlag, the evening ends early.
The next day starts early for the same reason. Even before sunrise, we’re in the car on our way to Haleakala Crater.
Maui is made up of two mountains: the West Maui Mountains and Haleakala. Haleakala doesn’t have steep mountainsides and looks like a gigantic hill. Still, its highest point is its crater lying at more than 10,000 feet above sea level. The mountaintop is accessible by car and attracts huge amounts of tourists every morning. Today we’re awake anyways and don’t know what else to do. The early bird might catch the worm, but only the second mouse gets the cheese. That’s why I never bother getting up early to see the sunrise up there. Besides, sunset is much nicer to watch from the crater; it‘s warmer and the colors are nicer. I never understood why most people go there in the morning.
So off to the mountain we go. Arriving at the crater, I wonder if economic crises only hit windsurfers – definitely no shortage of tourists here. One tour bus after another is lined up and there are around five hundred thousand people crowding the lookout point - no, I never exaggerate… it might be even more!
Well, how can I best describe the following natural spectacle? The sun rises and then is there. Today, it is amazingly yellow and round. In a word: a sunrise. Of course a very nice one, but aren’t they all? Summing up this experience in two words: FREEZING COLD. At 10,000 feet above sea level, even in Hawaii, temperatures hover around the freezing point. All this combined with high winds, board shorts and T-shirts. Getting up in the middle of the night, spending an hour in the car, waiting in a crowd and freezing half to death… just to see how the sun rises. Crazy!
On the way back to sea level, we first need something warm. Coffee and breakfast with scrambled eggs and bacon is just the thing.
Today we decide to do something cool. We park my car at Kanaha Beach Park and put my windsurf gear into Steve’s Jeep. We then drive to Hookipa and get on the water there. Windsurfing from Hookipa to Kanaha is a dream. You’ve got downwind. That means you can ride waves as long as you want and never have to sail upwind again.
We take our time enjoying these epic conditions. The view on Maui from the water is just fantastic. We can even see coral and fish through the clear water. Even a couple of sea turtles cross our path. They dive down as soon as you get close. I wonder if a windsurfer has ever collided with a turtle. If so, I’m pretty sure the windsurfer would draw the short straw. We arrive at Kanaha three hours later and take a short nap at the beach.
A little later, while derigging our sails, Steve spots a rather striking creature of the female variety, also derigging her sail. Steve simply says, “If it works for you, just pack everything and follow us!” and leaves without another word.
Excited to see what happens next, I keep an eye on them through my sunglasses. After a short chat, Steve helps pack her equipment into the car and gets into it himself. I have to admit: I’m impressed.
Wait a sec… I should be following them! Frantically, I throw everything in the Toyota and swing in behind the wheel.
I wedge myself behind them just like in a movie. I keep a little distance, get closer, back off again...
The journey leads through Paia and ends in - drum roll - Hookipa, the starting point of today's surf session.
I park a little ways off. Steve gets out of the car, only to stick his head back through the window to say goodbye. Afterwards he goes to his Jeep and waves at her as she drives off.
Now he comes to me, grinning.
"Well?" I ask.
"I told her I spontaneously sailed from Hookipa to Kanaha and need to somehow get back to my car now. She lives in Haiku, so Hookipa was on her way home anyways. So she gave me a ride," he informs me.
"She believed that, with you standing there wearing sunglasses and a dry shirt? Doesn’t really credit her intelligence, does it?”
“Oh, you’ve got a lot to learn, my friend! The opening line is not important; all that matters is that you just say something. If she likes you, she will fall for anything. If she doesn’t, you can have the best opening line in the world and she will turn you down," says Steve.
"Steve isn’t so stupid," I think to myself. Of course I would never say that aloud in his presence.
"So you have a date, or do we have to do this every day now?" I ask.
"Her name is Christine and we certainly do have a date. Tonight's a farewell party for a local girl leaving the island for a round-the-world trip. Must be big: you're also invited," he adds.
Well, all right! Opportunities for evening activities are rare on Maui. The only chance for a good evening is a private party. Too bad the Spanish didn’t conquer these islands – Hawaii with a Spanish nightlife would make for the most insane place in the world!
We eat a burger at Paia Fishmarket and are on our way to the party. Anyway, I hope it’s the way to the party… Christine’s directions are a bit vague.
We’re in the Jeep. Steve believes an American off-roader with no roof or doors makes a better impression than my Toyota station wagon. I still think that’s in the eye of the beholder. But with the roads we’re on now, I'm quite happy to have some ground clearance and four-wheel drive.
We find the party almost immediately. Hearing the muffled sound of music making its way through the palms, we realize the source must still be a ways farther. But there are already a lot of cars parked beside the road and a young man with a South African accent says we’re better to leave the Jeep here, because there are no more parking spaces available at the party. Either they have really large plots of land here, or all the neighbors are also at the party. There is no other way to explain why the police have not yet shut this party down.
After a five-minute forced march we arrive, and we’re amazed. In a huge garden, about 150 happy people are gathered and drinking together. On one side there is a DJ console with a sound system any large disco would die for.
Torches are lit all over the place, and in the middle of it all stands a tent pavilion. Inside, a three-dimensional, six-foot-high pyramid of energy drink cans has been erected. That’s a lot of cans! All around there are old bathtubs filled with ice, protecting gallon bottles of vodka against the tropical heat. I feel a bit foolish with the quarter-gallon bottle of rum I brought, intended as a gift for the host. Anyways, as an act of courtesy, I help myself to a cold vodka-energy drink. It would be disrespectful not to do so after all the efforts the host made to present this drink in such an outstanding way.
Next to the pavilion is an old American van being spray-painted by self-proclaimed artists inspire
d by a rising level of alcohol in the blood. Apparently I’m watching this spectacle with a questioning stare, because, without asking, I’m informed by a guy that the van is the farewell gift to the world traveler who happens to like colorful cars.
Kind of strange to give someone, who’s leaving the island for a year, a car. Wouldn’t it make more sense to give it to her when she comes back? Well, that’s clearly none of my concern. I'd rather focus on the drink in my hand and a “skoal” with Steve. But he looks right past me and his drink misses mine in the air. I don’t have to turn around to know that Christine is somewhere behind me. Looks like I have to get myself somebody else to talk to for the rest of the party.
That’s all right, it’s always exciting meandering through gardens of strangers – especially when there is so much going on like in this one. I grab a fresh drink and stow a second one in the other hand. The garden is pretty big, and who knows when the next bathtub will cross my path.
I circle through the garden and engage in a little small talk here and a bit there. A few familiar faces from previous holidays are present, but I have no interest in getting into a real conversation yet. So after a short time, I take another pit stop at a bathtub. While I mix my drink, a slightly shabby looking guy joins me and introduces himself as "John." He comes from the island and tells me a lot about America in general and the USA in particular. After a few songs of praise about his own country, he asks where I'm from.
"Germany," I answer, already half expecting a silly allusion to the Third Reich. Last year, a similar wanderer asked me whether Hitler was still ruling my country. But John surprises me: "Germany, aha. Have you ever used an elevator?" he asks.
"An elevator?” I repeat, just to make sure I understood him correctly, "Absolutely. I take an elevator quite often."
"Oh, so you have electricity in Germany?" he retorts.
Initially I’m thinking he’s pulling my leg, but his eyes show real astonishment.
"John, you know Mercedes? Or maybe Porsche or BMW?” I ask.
"Of course, quality German cars – very popular in the US," he says.
"Right. German quality. Do you think we Germans screw those together in caves without electricity or running water?" I ask him.
It seems as if he’s really contemplating this idea and actually begins to respond. But before he can open his mouth, I turn and leave. True, not very friendly, but at his blood alcohol level he won’t recall my rudeness tomorrow anyways.
Steve is engaging in international communication on another level; also using the tongue, but in a less articulate way than John and I.
After two hours of splendid small talk, I’ve laughed a lot and made some new friends. It turns out John's a great guy; he just stood a bit too long next to a bathtub before our conversation. Therefore, I don’t bear a grudge against him for his funny questions. Later that night, John suddenly takes a running jump into what’s left of the can pyramid. Loudly screaming, he collides with it and crashes to the floor, cans flying in all directions. Apparently the stuff doesn’t give you wings after all.
Somehow this is a good ending to a perfect evening. Christine breaks away from Steve and goes home. Steve and me both take a final beer for the long walk to the Jeep. Drinking this first beer after several vodka-energy-drinks, I can’t help myself: I just have tell the only joke I know in English: "American beer is like sex in a canoe - it's fucking close to water!"
Steve laughs even though he’s already heard the joke. That’s what buddies do. We stagger back to the car. Although Steve had Christine's tongue in his mouth literally the whole evening, he still managed to reduce a significant portion of the can pyramid.
"You drive, I'm a pilot. If I get caught drinking and driving, I’ll be in real trouble,” he says and holds out the keys.
I see. Sure. Of course. Fortunately I get in absolutely no trouble if I get caught. Not at all! It’s only pilots that are not allowed to drive drunk.
Whatever. I drive.
Initially I’m leaning quite nicely on the gas, but after a while four – sorry, correction – two headlights appear in the rearview mirror. So I stop racing and drive properly. Steve is already asleep. I can’t blame him: at 20 miles per hour on a straight road, even I would fall asleep sober and in the daylight. Why doesn’t the bum pass me? Nobody sticks to the speed limit at night. I'm a little nervous: first he comes roaring up and now he’s sticking behind me. Must be the police.
The road goes downhill and leads into a sharp curve. Finally, the asshole behind us accelerates and gets ready to overtake us. What an idiot! We had a straight and free road for miles, and just before a sharp curve, now he decides to do it?! Whatever, as soon as he’s in front of me, I can go faster again as well.
I concentrate on the road. Drunk as I am, I don’t want to drift into the other lane accidentally. As the other car is almost past us, our Jeep is suddenly jolted. The car definitely crashed into us. Or was it the other way around? Through my tunnel vision, I did not see him coming. Damn it – did I mess up, or did he? I struggle to keep us on the road. The Jeep lurches dangerously. Suddenly we receive another jolt – the other car hits our side once again. This time, I can’t regain control. We swerve off the road and race down an embankment. Small trees and shrubs disappear under the car with loud cracking sounds.
The slope ends on a road and we hit hard as the surface flattens out. One tire blows and the Jeep spins across the road. With a loud screech, we spin around and finally come to a halt. On two tires, we come to a rest in the shallow banks of a riverbed.
I can hardly believe how lucky we were. The Jeep didn’t flip over. I take a deep breath and look over at Steve. He is visibly shocked, but seems unharmed. Looks like we got off with a slap on the wrist.
I look around to get my bearings and turn my head to the left. At that moment someone punches me hard in the face. As my head bounces off the steering wheel, I see a man in camouflaged clothes next to Steve. He pushes a taser to his neck and pulls the trigger. With the zap, Steve shrugs and hangs lifeless in the seatbelt. Before I can respond, someone drags me out of the car and hits me in the stomach. I slump down and lie on the ground.
"What should I do with him?" asks the guy in front of me.
"Shit, I was hoping they’d be unconscious after the accident. Drown him and let him float down the river. Then the police will think he had been thrown out of the car unconscious," comes the disquieting answer from somebody else.
At least I know what they’re up to. I should be able to somehow use this to my advantage. Think, Tom, think. And above all: Think fast!
The guy drags me a few feet into the river. I feel a strong current and think like hell what I could possibly do to save myself. On my back I get pulled into a deeper part of the river. Just as a strong foot on my chest pushes me underwater, I finally get an idea: whenever someone in a movie gets drowned, the victim fights like hell. He fights harder and harder until he dies at the end and the lifeless body remains underwater.
I never understood why the victim doesn’t just pretend to be dead, wait and then, with a final surge, use the element of surprise to start a counterattack. Isn’t it amazing what one can think of in a situation like this? Now I have the unique opportunity to test my theory. So I begin to defend myself, first only half-heartedly, then harder. Damn, that takes strength. I pretend to panic, and frankly, with every passing second, I’m no longer pretending, but actually terrified!
My lungs are trained and thanks to many crashes when sailing in high waves I know how to act underwater. If you really panic, it's over. Panic consumes oxygen, a lot of oxygen; a luxury I currently can’t afford. My reserves dwindle faster than I thought. Time for the dramatic showdown. I suddenly stop defending, let my arms sink into the water and blow out a few air bubbles.
My opponent stays on my chest pushing me further underwater with a constant pressure. Shit, why doesn’t he budge? I'm dead!
My lungs scream for air and I get a rapidly building headache. M
y eyes race back and forth and I press my lips together. Don’t inhale, Tom, no matter what, don’t breathe. Thank God it's dark, and the attacker can’t see my face, which is far from the relaxed expression of a dead man.
There’s a hard kick on my chest. My potential murderer takes a step on me and leaves. The foot is gone.
I’m free!
But it’s not over yet. I fight the urge to immediately jump up for a deep breath. I have to wait until my head emerges by itself. Only then can I draw a life-saving whiff of air through the nose. Otherwise everything was for nothing.
Thanks to my show with the bubbles, I hardly have any air left in my lungs. So I only go up very slowly. Inch by inch my nose approaches the water surface. Because of the darkness, I can’t tell how deep I‘m still underwater. But the slow flow on my cheeks tells me I’m moving upward. My reserves are depleted. I start counting to three, after that I simply have to go up, no matter what the consequences are.
One, Two, Thr.... - ughh - finally I break through the surface of the water. I have to focus on breathing calmly and quietly through my nose. My ears still underwater, I have no idea where our attackers might be. I let myself drift for a while and hit some rocks here and there, but don’t get sucked back down. The current decreases. I have either arrived at the river mouth and now float into the ocean, or I’m in a quiet little side arm. A wave spills over my face. I taste salt water, so I know I'm in the sea. Just as I want to take the risk to have a look around, another wave spills over my face and right into my nose. I swallow up and manage to press my head underwater just in time to silence a coughing fit.
Half way to Hawaii Page 2