Half way to Hawaii

by Torben Sonntag

  On the next cliff, there is a property with several houses and a swimming area consisting of several pools including artificial waterfalls. This one seems to be inhabited. In any case, there is a helicopter in the front yard. It’s one of those they had in the TV series Magnum PI; a small agile one - I think it’s a "Hughes 500." Man I’d love to have one of those! In addition to the already grandiose estate, a stairway leads down the cliffs to a private dock. But it’s empty, no sign of a yacht or speedboat.

  I write "Chopper in the front yard" on my map. From there on, one promontory follows another. There are bays in between and some small beaches here and there, but no piers or roads.

  Bob and I start talking. I ask him to fly back on the other side of Haleakala. On the south side there’s indeed nothing but lava, but if you’re taking a scenic flight, you should fly in a circle.

  We approach Hana. My tension rises again. As expected, the harbor is very accessible. Actually, you can hardly call it a “harbor.” In the Hana Bay (by the way, I’d strongly advise against trying its eponymous rum), I only see a small pier, where not a single ship is docked. I assumed I would have spotted a few diving-school motorboats or private boats, but nothing of the sort. Not a single floating vehicle is located here; not even a rowboat. Nada, nothing, niente!

  Thank god I didn’t come here by car. Hana is just 50 miles from Kahului, but the drive takes three to four hours; mainly because the road has about 600 curves and at least 50 bridges, most of which only have space for one car. As if this isn’t enough, masses of tourists are on the road taking pictures at each corner. Their constant concern for their expensive rental cars results in a top speed below the velocity of your average teenage snail.

  We circle a bit above Hana, but even then, no boat appears. Although Bob is sitting behind me, he notices my disappointment and asks if I’m ready to tell him what I'm really looking for. I struggle to answer; it’s driving me crazy not to be able to talk to anyone. Bob has a better local knowledge than me and for some reason I trust him. Another undisputable advantage: he has an airplane. So I take a deep breath and tell him everything that has happened since my arrival on Maui.

  I'm not sure if Bob believes me; he’s probably not too sure himself. After my story, he’s quiet for a while.

  Then he says thoughtfully, "Tom, I don’t know how and if I can help you, but I have good contacts with the military. One of my oldest friends is General David Miller. He’s the commander of the US forces in Hawaii."

  "So you believe me?" I reassure myself.

  "Tom, this story is so far out, no one could have made it up. But before good ol’ David can do anything, we need more information. We have to find out what's going on. Think again exactly. Who did you and Steve have contact with? Is there a chance Steve slipped into something before he came here? Or worse: could it have been a mistake?"

  A mistake: the idea had not even occurred to me. Of course, it must be a misunderstanding. Someone mixed Steve up with somebody else. Steve has nothing to do with it!

  Bob continues: "A mistake would be the worst case. We virtually have no chance of finding out who kidnapped him then. A mistake would mean there is no connection between the perpetrators and the victim; so it would be impossible to find any clues that would lead to the people who did this."

  Sounds obvious. No, this can’t be a mistake. Nobody mixes up someone like Steve. Impossible. Steve must have fallen into something bad without knowing it. As a pilot, he has no money problems and he’s happy with his life. There‘s no reason for him to deliberately do anything illegal.

  I convince myself that it has to be this way and that we will soon find some evidence that leads to him. I’m still lost in this thought when I suddenly see a speedboat – a black rubber boat, about ten to twelve feet long, with two fat outboards. BINGO!

  Distracted by talking to Bob, I failed to make notes on the map for quite a while; so I don’t exactly know where we are.

  I’m just about to ask Bob to go lower, when a second speedboat appears. Looks like an identical model. Damn it, what's going on? Holy crap - a little further ahead, a third boat approaches. I can’t see clearly, but it also seems to fit the same description. First nothing and now a whole nest of speedboats!

  Confused, I ask Bob where we are and make him aware of the speedboats.

  "La Perouse Bay," comes through the headphones, "a popular place for diving and snorkeling. In the morning you can swim with dolphins here."

  Oh, yes of course, I already did that myself.

  I ask Bob about the motorboats.

  "If you’re looking for boats like this, Tom, we have a problem: almost every hotel uses them for excursions. The tourists love roaring over the water at 700 hp… just to end up snorkeling and enjoying the silence and unspoiled nature underwater. Batty. Furthermore, many diving schools use these boats. Even the university has some. Inflatable boats are fast, robust and versatile. On Maui we have at least 30 of those.

  Fuck! For the second time in this plane, I think my heart quits it’s job. My only clue is virtually worthless. All my hopes to find Steve soon burst like a fragile balloon. Suddenly I'm incredibly sad. I could cry if I wasn’t already so angry.

  "Cheer up, boy," Bob commands. "Even if the boat type doesn’t help, the most important clue is the boat direction. It didn’t turn off to Kahului, but towards Hana."

  Hmm… yes… well. For sure. That’s true. But how does that help now?

  Bob continues: "Most of the boats are on the south or west coast, so it doesn’t make sense to turn off to the east. Unless they did it just to throw off potential witnesses. That’s unlikely because they thought you were dead. One other idea: maybe their destination isn’t on Maui, but on the Big Island. This is the only island east of Maui. I’d be happy to take you on a trip to the Big Island. Unfortunately, not today, our fuel is almost empty. But tomorrow we can head over."

  Bob clearly has a fast operating and analytical mind. Plus, he loves to fly. I think it was a good move to confide in the man.

  On our way back, Bob pulls off a few aerobatic maneuvers in the sky. For me, it feels like yesterday when I raced through the sugar cane field with the Jeep. Under regular circumstances, this would be pretty cool, but today I’m not very enthusiastic about it. Bob also seems a bit listless. I’m sure he and his machine are capable of much more. Shortly after, we touch ground. The landing is as soft as butter, I might add. After a touchdown like this, loads of package tourists would applaud like hell. Some would probably still be clapping at the baggage claim.

  I wonder what these all-inclusive tourists actually would do if the landing went wrong. Would they let out a loud, contemptuous “booo“ just before burning to death?

  We fuel up the plane and I slide my card through the reader. Bob offers to discuss what to do next, but I’m in need of some rest. I now have to go over what we found out in the last two hours. So I thank Bob for his help, explain that I must be alone now, and I promise to call him tomorrow.

  On the way home, the Jeep exacts its rights: the fuel light flashes on. Oh great, two refuels in less than 20 minutes. There are two gas stations in Paia. I pick the “Minute Stop,” a really great station. You’ll find everything you need here: fuel, beer, soft drinks, flip-flops, beach towels, snorkel sets, sandwiches, donuts, sushi, warm lunchboxes with fried food, personal care products for men and women, a rich coffee and basically everything else you might need.

  I stand around and wait until the tank is full, when suddenly someone appears right next to me. An old man with long hair, looking a bit shabby, asks for 20 cents. I’m a bit confused, 20 cents? Usually those people ask for a dollar or more. He explains that it’s the amount he needs to buy a coffee.

  I usually don’t support bums – no idea why, I'm usually a very social person. But the scrounger next to me actually looks quite friendly. What the heck, if this guy gets his coffee, then at least one of us has had a good day. I take out my wallet and look for loose change. Man, this chan
ge shit just drives me crazy in Germany. Why is there no one-euro bill? That way you could always round up and say "keep the change!" and bah-bam, you will never have change in your pocket. Actually, we should get rid of small change altogether: that would save enormous costs. Apparently for some coins, the material is more expensive than the monetary value it represents. Imagine that! What a joke!

  The bum trots silently into the Minute Stop. I'm annoyed. That asshole didn’t even say "thank you." Things like that piss me off.

  Clack. Tank is full. I shake the last drops out of the nozzle and hang it back up. Somehow this last step during refueling operations reminds me of the last step to peeing. The fact that this part of the pump is called the "nozzle," just completes the visual. I have to grin a little. When I turn around to pay, I run smack-dab into the ungrateful bum. He looks at me slightly surprised; he probably hasn’t seen anyone move that fast for a long time. The hippie life is known to be deeply relaxed. I’m also surprised and before I can react, he says, "Thanks, man. You're a good person."

  At the same time, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handful of pot. He presses it into my hand and shuffles away with his coffee.

  Impressive. In Germany, the petty criminals weigh pot accurately up to the gram and pack it into small plastic bags. Then they think they’re a big gangster. But this here was really cool. Pot just loose in your pocket: that’s wicked!

  I do it just like him and stow the green stuff my pocket. I go inside to pay, but not only the fuel. Today, I dabble in a little more of the wide range of products. At the checkout, a tuna sandwich, a lunch box, some sushi, a twelve-pack of beer and cigarette papers disappear into my paper bag. With the quantity of pot the old man gave me, I can confidently quit tobacco.

  At home, I slide into my parking space using the handbrake. Bob’s stunt flying seems to have rubbed off on me. Propelled by this abrupt movement, something rumbles against my foot: an iPhone. Strange, I always turn mine off after landing on Maui and bury it in the closet. I stare at the thing. It must be Steve’s. My heart starts racing. An iPhone won’t just have all calls and contacts – no – you can also find the last emails, texts, appointments, and a few recently visited websites stored in this tiny little thing. If Steve has been up to anything shady, I’ll likely find a clue here.

  Excited, I run up to my balcony with the smart phone and my purchases. I grab my computer for possible research purposes and a cooler full of ice. Warm beer doesn’t refresh, and a good detective should always be fresh.

  The phone is indeed on, but password protected. No problem for me; Steve’s birthday is on March 3, and he somehow loves the date.

  I enter 0303. Wrong. Never mind, must be his other favorite number. I type 3333 and I’m in. With trembling fingers, I click my way through the phone. I know none of the names in the call list. All dialed numbers start with +65, the country code for Singapore, as my MacBook reveals. Not surprising, since he lives there.

  In the Internet browser, only one page is open: the internal site of Singapore Airlines showing flights. He was probably checking flights to Hawaii before his departure.

  In the mail program, I find emails from two young ladies (spam), a few messages from me and the shipping confirmation from an online shoe shop.

  Last chance: the calendar. I open it. But apparently Steve has never done this before. The calendar is completely empty.

  That's it – the next dead-end in search of Steve.

  If anyone searched my iPhone, they could create a fairly accurate movement profile of me and know more or less everything I do. Without my calendar and email, I am helpless in everyday life.

  My mood drops to a low point. I have no Idea what else to do to find Steve. I just can’t find any clue. Everything points to a mix-up. But that can’t be. As Bob already said, we have virtually no chance of finding him if it’s a mix-up.

  I don’t want this anymore. I can’t bare this any longer. I’m at my wit's end. But giving up is not an option; I'm Steve's only hope.

  A friend of mine used to say he always smokes pot when he has to study or prepare for an exam. He says after enjoying some good old marijuana, his mind is crystal clear and he suddenly becomes super focused on one topic. I think this idea is totally nuts, but what do I have to lose? Plus, you don’t get a hangover from smoking weed. I want be in good shape tomorrow; and even if a joint doesn’t help, at least I’ll escape this cruel reality for a few hours.

  The last joint I assembled was about ten years ago; and even then I was no good at it. So it takes me a couple of tries and the outcome is still nothing to be proud of. I have a crooked, not uniformly thick cigarette in my hand. Anyway, the thing was built for effect, not to win any beauty contests.

  I smoke quickly, coughing now and again and rinse down the foul taste with delicious, cold beer.

  I have much better success rolling the second joint. I marvel at my work and think to myself, "Beautiful, beautiful, you smoke with your eyes first!" And light it up.

  The hoped-for effect sets in rapidly. My thoughts drift off. I start thinking about drugs. How much revenue is made in Germany alone on drugs? Hundreds of millions, or even billions? How stupid is the Federal Government? If drugs were legal, Germany would get one-fifth of the total turnover just from the VAT tax alone. Legal dealers would have to pay taxes on their profits. This huge amount of cash is currently slipping through the cracks and fiscal authorities get nothing. And don’t forget the follow-up business. Illegal income can be spent almost exclusively black. Would a drug dealer go to the Porsche dealer and pay off his new 911 in cash, even though he is officially unemployed? He would be under arrest before he even had pushed the car into first gear.

  If drugs were legal, the federal bank accounts would be overflowing so incredibly fast without changing a thing. Drugs are consumed anyway. If they were legal, the government would have more control over it. Strangely, there’s nothing that opposes the legalization of drugs, and yet they are still banned.

  If I were Chancellor, I would immediately legalize all drugs. Furthermore, I would offer any kind of physical activity for free. If each and every fitness club, tennis court, and football club would be for free for every German, people would be more active. The result would be a dramatic savings in the health-care system. The people would be more athletic and healthier.

  Moreover, it’s not acceptable that one out of four marriages ends in divorce. I would assert that only one spouse may work. Whether it’s the man or the woman doesn’t matter; but one must stay at home and take care of the family. Nowadays everyone wants to make a career and fulfill themselves. The family goes to the devil. If only one is working, we would have no more unemployment. The wage level could be raised, so a family can really make a living out of one salary. Also, the one who doesn’t work has time to spend the money. With both working, no one has time for shopping. The money would immediately go into a fast circulation and wouldn’t gather dust in savings accounts; that slows the inflation and the economy shoots through the roof!

  After only two or three years as Chancellor, I wouldn’t only have freed Germany from all debts, but a big plus would be on the account of the Republic.

  Then I would buy Yuan, Chinese Yuan. The Chinese actually have more US dollars than the United States. Virtually any goods worldwide are produced in China. This means China can dictate prices and drive the United States out of business. Let's not fool yourselves: China is already the largest economy in the world. The day will come when the US dollar will be replaced as the world’s currency.

  But not by the Euro. Europe is far too socially and internally divided to seize world domination.

  China will rule the world.

  By this time, I’ll have bought more Yuan for Germany than China owns! Ha, and then Germany will be at the top. Honey will flow in our rivers and the clouds will be made of cotton candy.

  I'm pleased. In just 30 minutes I have solved all of Germany’s problems with a simple four-point agenda and wil
l bring my country into a dominant position for future challenges.

  Oh, an important point needs to be added: of course, I will eliminate all coins from our payment system!

  "HEY! Wake up!"

  Someone is shaking my legs. Apparently having overslept, I look around. It's bright and I’m lying on the balcony. Next to me is an ashtray full of butts; the cooler is, aside from some melting ice cubes, empty and some empty beer bottles lay strewn around the balcony. Who drank all this? At first glance, it probably doesn’t look as if I’m worried about my best friend and am desperately looking for him.

  I shake myself and check to see who has just woken me up. In front of me stands a pretty, young woman. With her blond hair tied, she makes a very good figure in a bikini top, hot pants and flip-flops. It's Christine.

  Chapter 4

  "Wasn’t easy to find you," Christine begins the conversation.

  I can think of no witty response. So I wait for what comes next. She glances at me and looks around on the balcony, but doesn’t comment on the visible chaos.