Only a few fish may have heard my cough, but if anyone were watching me, the show would be over. I barely dare to re-emerge, but try to lift my head out of the water as carefully and slowly as possible.
About 300 feet away, there’s a small speedboat at the dock. I see Steve's lifeless body being ruggedly hauled into the boat and hear the engines start. A moment later, two powerful outboard motors roar to life and the speedboat speeds away from the island.
Damn it, what the hell was that?
Chapter 3
Gathering all my strength, I manage to swim back to the shore and crawl over the rocks. On all fours I reach the small road and flop over onto my back needing to rest. Watching the stars, I try to understand what just happened.
I breathe hard, feel exhausted and suddenly I’m completely sober. I just lie like that for a few minutes and stare into the night sky. The stars are shining as if nothing had happened; as if someone just didn’t kidnap my best buddy and try to kill me.
In that moment, my adrenaline level gradually subsiding, the thought terrifies me: not even five minutes ago, someone tried to kill me!
I slowly feel alive again. I can’t bear the sight of those twinkling stars mocking me any longer. So I turn my head to the side and look at the battered Jeep. Let's see: a mirror is missing, a tire is flat, and it certainly had a few less scratches and dents this afternoon. But the soil below is dry; meaning the oil, fuel and coolant must still be where it belongs. Judging from here, it should be drivable. After a tire change, of course.
Before I work on the tire, I slowly walk to the small dock where the speedboat lay. Finding anything that gives me a clue to our attackers may be wishful thinking, but I have to do something. Fortunately, the night is clear and the half moon is shining brightly. But it doesn’t help - I don’t find a thing, absolutely nothing that could help me in any way. Not even a boat mooring. Not that I knew how a rope could help me, but it would have been nice to find something.
Dejected, I make my way to the Jeep and start working on the tire; just me and my Jeep in the moonlight. Almost romantic. While changing the tire, I start thinking about possible next steps. Somehow, I don’t like the idea of going to the police. This story is too crazy. In my mind I already hear the policeman say: "Yes, Mr. Greenall, of course we believe you. Of course, you have been forced off the road, and certainly there were masked men who tried to kill you and kidnapped your friend. Now would you kindly blow into this device here?"
Even if I feel as sober as I ever have before, my blood alcohol level must still be pretty impressive.
First, I need to get away from here as quickly as possible. If a police patrol comes by and they see black tire marks on the road that lead directly into freshly trampled bushes on the slope, I’ll have a problem. Likewise if our attacker decides to drive by again - the car that forced us off the road must still be somewhere.
With that thought in mind, the tire is changed. I hop in and start the engine.
The best way to avoid trouble is to act normal. The first rule when driving drunk is: make sure all your lights work and you’re driving a little over the limit. Nobody sticks to the speed limit at night… unless he has something to hide. Don’t give the cops any reason to stop you.
So I hit the road with the lights turned off, floor it and immediately turn onto a dirt road that leads into a sugarcane field. This is not quite following the first rule, but have you ever heard of a police patrol at night in a sugarcane field? I haven’t.
Sugarcane is glorious. It’s not only beautiful to look at, but has the advantage of growing more than 12 feet high. A car disappears completely in the field; even with the lights switched on, I can’t be seen from the main road.
Under different circumstances I’d kick down the gas pedal, slide around the curves and feel like a pretty cool rally driver. But tonight, everything is different. Sure, I slip around the curves at top speed, but somehow it gives me no joy. After a few minutes I stop to think.
Good decision, because suddenly I realize the kidnappers did indeed leave me a clue. The boat went straight out to sea and then turned right. Not to the left. This is interesting, because on the left, to the west, is Kahului: the only city and therefore the only actual port on the north shore. On the right hand side, to the east, there’s pretty much nothing. After about 30 miles, you’d hit Hana, a small village that most tourists consider a must-see place. That’s actually a misconception; Hana is dead boring. But before Hana, there’s nothing but cliffs and coves. No port. Sure, a speedboat could easily drive the 30 miles to Hana, but even if Hana has a harbor, it would have to be very accessible. If there’s a powerful dinghy in the area, a few targeted but unobtrusive questions should lead me to the owner.
The many coves between here and Hana raise the most uncertainty. A boat can moor or anchor in almost every bay without being seen from the street.
Shortly before I came here, I met a friend back home. He just returned from Maui and told me his car got stolen here and the police had not been a great help. At the beach he learned about a Frenchman whose car also got stolen several weeks earlier. That guy had hired a small plane to search for his car.
When he told me he had gone to the airport the next day to charter a small plane, I nearly laughed out loud and yelled: "HAHAHAHA, what a totally lame idea, how can someone be so incredibly stupid?!" Needless to say, he didn’t find his car.
To search for one’s stolen car from the air may very well be written next to the word "stupid" in the dictionary. But to look for a motorboat from the air... that’s brilliant! Firstly, there are way fewer motorboats than cars, and even more importantly: only very few of them are parked in garages.
If there is a boat in one of the bays, the easiest and fastest way to find it is by plane. Besides, flying is much more fun than driving. If the flight leads to nothing, I can still get behind the wheel.
With the peace of mind that comes with a good plan, I drive back home through the fields.
****
Ughhh… wow, where did this headache come from? Must be the lack of oxygen during the drowning yesterday.
I start my day off with a nice coffee on the balcony and turn the computer on. Online I’m looking for a way to get me where I need to be, and as alone as possible in the air. Either I'm still hung over or this matter is harder than I thought. I don’t find anything except a scenic flight over Mauna Kea and Kilauea on the Big Island. The round trip is certainly spectacular – Kilauea is almost continuously active and you can see lava flowing into the sea. However, the machine has nine seats and the flight route is not on the north shore of Maui. The chances of changing the route, with eight other passengers on board, are likely trending towards zero.
That reminds me: I've often seen a red double-decker in the sky; someone said it was an aerobatic sightseeing flight. That would be just the thing. If a stunt pilot is not flexible in terms of the route, then who is?
So off to the airport. I drive to the heliport, opposite of the regular terminals. On this side of the airport are private jets, helicopters and turboprops; some for sightseeing flights, some just private toys.
At the gate, I claim to have booked a flight with one of the helicopter companies and get through pretty easily. Apparently nobody here has heard about the fear of terrorism that usually has America so firmly on guard.
The heliport consists of six or seven adjoining hangars. Each is equipped with an airline for sightseeing flights. I enter the first one and go directly to the receptionist.
Using my most charming smile I ask, "Aloha, you also offer flights in small aircrafts?"
She gives me a cold look and with a snooty tone she replies, "Can you read? What does the sign say?" She points to the huge, illuminated company logo behind her. "Big Hawaiian Helicopters" is printed large and clear.
I try one last attempt to break the ice and answer, "Sure. ‘Big Hawaiian Airtours.’ So, you offer air tours in small aircrafts?"
Now Ms. Fridge surprise
s me. Her face drops and she turns around abruptly. Does she really think she’s been answering the phone with the wrong company name all these years?
When she turns back to me, she has regained control.
"Very funny," she retorts, "Listen, I have better things to do than joke around with you. What do you want?"
I take a look around. There’s no one in the room except the two of us. I consider asking her what better things she might possibly have to do, but that would lead to nothing. So I smile again and ask her kindly if she knows anyone offering scenic flights in a small aircraft. Thereupon, she claims not to be a directory and offers me the phone book. I kindly decline and leave. Maybe I’ll meet someone a little more cooperative than the Frost Queen here in one of the other hangars.
So off to another hangar I go. This one looks much more promising. A pretty Polynesian girl in her early twenties awaits me. She is sorting merchandise T-shirts onto the shelf. As I enter, she interrupts her work and walks behind the counter to greet me.
Here it’s obvious; this nice lady has indeed something better to do than joke around with me. That is crystal clear. But the deep-frozen wench next door had nothing better to do. “She lied,” I think to myself and grin.
"Aloha. The next flight is in an hour and a half. You’re a little early Mister...?" she welcomes me.
Nice. I like it I when women take the initiative to appeal to the man.
"Tom," I say, "To tell you the truth, I haven’t booked a flight - I have a slightly different concern."
"Well then, I’m curious if I can help you. My name is Kiara," she replies with a glance that freezes me. Could she be flirting with me?
Since the staff here seems to live up to the company name, I try a different tactic: “I know this is ‘Sun HELICOPTERS,’ but do you also have a small aircraft for scenic flights?"
If she keeps looking at me like that, I’ll start sweating. She doesn’t reply instantly, she just keeps looking at me - but she does that very well.
Perhaps she’s wondering if she has recently seen a small plane, somewhere in the back corner of the hangar maybe. Behind the beverage cases and oil drums perhaps?
She replies with a smile, "No, we have no aircraft. As a good employee, I should probably be trying to sell you on a helicopter ride. But since you already realized yourself that you're asking for a plane in a H-E-L-I-C-O-P-T-E-R company, I'm assuming you definitely do not want a helicopter flight. Right?"
Did I really pronounce the word “HELICOPTER” as exaggeratedly, slowly and clearly pronounced as she just did?
"Correct. A plane. As small as possible; ideally only the pilot and me," I inform her.
"Then I have the perfect solution for you. Why do you need a small plane?" she inquires.
Damn, I didn’t make up a plausible story for this. I can hardly say that I'm looking for a speedboat my buddy has been kidnapped in.
"I’m playing a game with a friend. He hides and gives me clues. I have to find him and I’m hoping the bird's eye view will help me," I bend the truth.
"Aha, a scavenger hunt for adults. Hide and seek with planes. What are you: bored millionaires?" comes off her sharp tongue.
"Ha, no. Pretty much the opposite," I reply. I definitely can’t complain about boredom or wealth at this point. My answer, though devoid of any meaningful information, still seems to satisfy her.
She replies, "My father was a stunt pilot in the military and calls an old biplane his own. He’ll certainly take you around. However he finds it hard to fly straight. Do you have a strong stomach, Tom?"
And once again, she gives me that look.
Kiara calls her father and makes us a coffee. Since no one else is here, we talk until her father arrives 20 minutes later. He introduces himself as Bob and is clearly pleased to have a reason to be able to fly today. He only wants me to pay the fuel and estimates the cost at under $100. Very well. Soon after, we’re standing in front of a bright red double-decker; a “convertible,” if you can even use that word for an airplane.
With great enthusiasm, Bob presents his plane to me. It’s completely overpowered, has partly hydraulic support in the flaps and lots of other things I cannot remember or even understand.
I joke around a bit, asking him if the hydraulic assistance is some kind of power steering and wonder where you switch on the underbody lighting.
Bob finds this semi-funny. He clearly loves his bird. As for the subject of power steering, he promises to demonstrate the hydraulics and leaves it up to me to comment on that again afterwards. Sounds almost like a threat.
We get in: I in the front, Bob in the back. I get an aviator cap and headset. Bob radios to the tower and, shortly afterwards, we roll off.
Between the landings of a thick United Airlines Boeing 757 and a classic Hawaiian Airlines 717, we get permission to take off.
Barely onto the runway, Bob pushes the hand throttle. My head flies backwards and I get pressed into the seat so powerfully, it's a wonder my lungs and heart don’t cease operations on the spot. A friend of mine owns a Porsche, but I have never experienced acceleration like this before.
Just as I overcome the initial shock, Bob thrusts us up in the air. In that moment, there’s no doubt I shrink a few inches. Awesome. I'm overwhelmed. From a pure mathematical perspective, it’s simply not possible to take off after such a short run, especially not at such a steep angle. I look at the wings and wonder why they’re not breaking. Just when I am about to lay down the law with Bob, my head slams with the speed of light to the left. No, stop. My head stays where it is. Everything else moves to the right. It’s as if someone has a hold of the propeller and the aircraft is just revolving around it.
After one and a quarter turns, Bob abruptly stops the spinning. The wings are almost vertical, and we take a steep right turn. I hear laughter in my headphones. After a 360-degree circle, Bob slowly levels off the plane.
"Wicked, huh?" laughs Bob.
"Super hot," I acknowledge, happy he can’t see my face. I wonder how long my breakfast will stay in my stomach.
All the while, Bob keeps rolling off facts about the plane and the advantages of biplanes versus single wings. Double-deckers are agile and faster because the wings are shorter. In addition, you can fly slower with them, because the wings are basically oversized. This somehow doesn’t make sense to me, but the small plane has proven more than once in the last minute that it’s not subject to the customary laws of physics. The plane’s top speed is close to 300 mph. To initiate radical maneuvers at this speed, you need the hydraulic support I earlier mocked as "power steering." Of course.
I ask Bob to take it easy for a bit and unpack the map Kiara gave me.
Bob insists on showing me some more flight tricks at the end of our journey. I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry.
We fly along the coast above Paia. Until now Bob hasn’t asked for another explanation. Kiara told him my scavenger hunt story and he didn’t question it.
We now reach Maliko, the place where the raid took place. So now it starts getting interesting. Over the past millennia, countless small rivers have carved their way into the lava soil of the island. Wherever a river meets the sea, a bay is formed. Except for the bays, the north shore consists of rugged steep cliffs, sometimes 10 feet deep, sometimes 150.
Above each bay, I make notes about my observations. Otherwise I would not have any chance of ever finding a specific bay from land. First headland: cow pasture. Third headland: Peahi (also known as “Jaws,” one of the most famous big-wave spots for surfers and windsurfers). Sixth headland: telegraph trees. Eighth headland: fresh harvested pineapple field. Speedboats? Nope!
So far, there’s nowhere for a ship to dock anyway. Doesn’t make sense to anchor, at least not if you want to get on land.
Below us lies the residential area of the rich and famous. There are huge mansions with enormous yards. The special feature: there is no road. The houses here are only accessible by helicopter. Owners include Hollywood superst
ars, big fish from the music industry and business people whose faces have already graced the cover of Forbes magazine.
Most of the properties seem to be empty. Crazy, why do people buy luxury villas for tens of millions of dollars if they’re not going to live in them? And why can’t I move into one of these in return for their upkeep? I mean, somebody has to maintain a well-stocked refrigerator and fish leaves out of the pool.
Half way to Hawaii Page 3