Honey Girl

by Lisa Freeman

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Law Giver

  Annie Iopa didn’t have a clue who the last president was or why the United States was fighting in Vietnam, but she knew how to walk softly on hot sand and sashay around dog poop without looking down. If it weren’t for Annie, I never would have made it past the lineup or learned about astrology.

  Just like Annie had instructed, I sat at the Jetty, the beach a few hundred feet from State where the lineup could see me. The Jetty was a longboarders break with one-to three-footers. Guys who surf longboards are usually park rangers or married men so I knew they wouldn’t bother me.

  I laid my towel out so that I could keep an eye on everything that was going down. So far, I’d done things perfectly and I rewarded myself with a bag of M&Ms.

  Annie Iopa was like a genius when it came to surfers and local girl bureaucracy. A Capricorn and legend in her own time, she could outmaneuver anyone on the beach with her long wavy hair, killer body, and bright white smile. She was the number one hostess at Dad’s bar. Before that, she was the full-on North Shore wahine kapu, which meant that she was powerful. Capricorns are dependable and committed to their friends. Annie made that clear in her perfect combo of strength and beauty. It got her in with all the pros, like Buffalo Keaulana and Paul Strauch. Surfers trusted Annie since she knew everything about giant waves and liked to say, “Waves sewed heaven and earth together.”

  Annie loved my dad, but not lovey-dovey like my mom did. In fact, Annie was the first person to visit my house when news about his heart attack hit the coconut wireless. That day and every day after, Annie’s voice was as soothing as Valium to me. I loved to hear her retell stories about surfers. She could talk about them for hours. She’d say, “Surfers were messengers, priests, and gods disguised as mortal men.”

  Another thing she said was that “only a few of those planet-bound spirits could handle the hana kuli of the giant waves.”

  Annie was like a poet when she talked about the ocean.

  “The sound of the waves that crashed and died on shallow reefs,” she said, moving her long fingers in the air, “could crush eardrums with their screams.”

  She called them “water monsters.” Sometimes, she said, the noise they made was like “a million jets taking off at the same time.” Then she’d close her eyes and say, “That sound made a man pray for forgiveness.”

  Annie talked about surfing like it was a religion.

  Real surfers treat the ocean with reverence. Annie told me about the day a jerk professional football player took on Makaha to show off to his buddies. She said he mouthed off to the locals and showed no respect for the waves. It made her laugh when he got caught in a swell and washed up on shore with coral sticking out of his cheeks. Big waves can humble even the most conceited guys real quick. The ocean is to be worshiped, not pissed in.

  Dad took me to see the big waves lots of times. Mom would go nuts because the highway always got washed out and it was so dangerous, but it was one of our special times together so we went anyway. Dad would say, “Your cute mommy got lots of worries.”

  I shifted my towel to face the sun. In the distance, I studied the lineup of girls hanging out with some hunks. The no surf flag—yellow with a black ball in the center—was up, which explained why the guys were out of the water. The late afternoon wind was making all these white caps and the ocean looked angry and cold. I concentrated on Annie, closed my eyes, and remembered how beautiful she was with black hair to her knees.

  I could see her clearly in my mind. I have a photographic memory; I remember images as if they were snapshots. Annie told me that there’s magic in that. She said it was a gift that I could make real whatever I imagined. All I had to do was picture something over and over and it would come true sooner or later. I was an extra powerful Virgo born under a special star. Annie called me a supernova Virgo. That’s why she turned me onto astrology. The stars, she said, would guide me. Really, it was Linda Goodman’s book, Sun Signs, and Sydney Omarr’s daily horoscope column in the paper that explained how it worked. I could create a new reality. No one would ever know about my special skill or how I used the sky to understand who and what mattered.

  This is how it works: I close my eyes and enter a dream chamber in my mind. It’s where I go to figure things out. These days it’s purple and sparkly, nothing like the Chamber of Dreams in the movie Barbarella that gave me the idea in the first place. I imagine people I want to know as specific signs. Once I have a person identified as a Libra or something, it’s easy to weave a path in or out of his or her life.

  After Dad died, Annie gave me her lucky blue rabbit foot. I had lots of stinky thoughts at that time and she promised it would protect me. All I had to do was think positively and rub it. But when it came to life on a new beach, she said I had to remember every rule and regulation she taught me. That would be the difference between me getting in or getting lost at State. Annie had seen my potential. She had been grooming me to take her place up north someday. No way was I going to let all our work go to waste.

  “Think of the mainland as a Wahine School,” Annie told me.

  And that’s exactly what I was doing.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Credo

  The next few days, I got to the Jetty around 10:30 in the morning. I made sure to enter from the California Incline side even though it was a longer walk. What I liked about the hike was seeing the statue of Saint Monica at the end of Wilshire Boulevard because it looked like a giant hard-on I’d seen in a dirty magazine. In the morning, maids who worked at the Miramar Hotel across the street would leave flowers at her feet. The red geraniums looked good in my hair.

  It wasn’t safe for non-locals to enter through State’s tunnels that weaved under the Pacific Coast Highway, a.k.a. PCH, or to park in its public lot. No one hangs unless they’re invited. Annie told me that was the universal surf law of locals and of course she was right. The locals had sentinels watching from the bluffs above and three nasty generals keeping a lookout on the ground. There was no way I would ever try the main entrance unless the lineup gave me a thumbs up.

  Only one person could move around State wherever he wanted. Every beach had one: a bum who dug through the trash and slept in the sand. In Hawaii, we called them kanaka pupule, but I nicknamed State Beach’s bum Lōlō. Which is pidgin for crazy. Back home, pidgin is day-to-day local talk, kind of a mix of Creole, English, and Hawaiian. All day Lōlō walked back and forth across the beach and around the parking lot and the liquor store talking to himself. He leaned on a tall driftwood stick and wore a wool Salvation Army blanket over his shoulders like a cape. He had a beard and hair sprouted out of the top of his head like a cornfield and, like most bums, he had a dog.

  Beach dogs were shelter freaks or highway rescues. What was spooky about Lōlō’s dog was that it sensed me watching him. Even from a distance, I could tell the dog didn’t like me. I’d see him rotate his ears back and turn in my direction. He creeped me out. I wanted to stay far away from that hound. He crinkled his long muzzle and sniffed, then raised his big, egg-shaped head real slow. I’d never seen a dog like him before. He was muscular and stocky, low to the sand with eyes that were really far apart, black and narrow. That dog looked like something from another planet.

  I lay in the sun watching Lōlō. An astrological sign formed in my mind. It was the first one that connected me to State Beach. I knew I was looking at more than a dog and a bum who pulled moldy bread from the trash. There was something mystical going on with them. The sign that came to me was about being alone but being okay. It was about traveling with patience. It told me I had to trust my instincts and wait for a guide. Lōlō must have been a Sagittarius. Yeah, that explained it.

  The beach was quiet during the week. There was no one at the Jetty except a regular group of old gals who called themselves The Turtles. They swam three times a day and ate tuna fish sandwiches that stunk up the place. Although they were locals, they didn’t seem to mind me sitting in the sam
e spot every morning just to their left.

  I’d never sat alone on a beach before. It was the first time I noticed how big the ocean really was. The Turtles were my only comfort along with Dad’s thermos filled with what had been his morning protein drink. Even though he was gone, I still made it every day. I carefully unscrewed the top and took several long breaths. The smell of it made me feel safe and cozy.

  In Hawaii, the drink is called Hair of the Dolphin. I called it a Daddy-tini. It was a mixture of protein powder, wheat germ, ginseng, bee pollen, one cup orange juice, and one cup vodka. Every morning I’d make it for my dad. Put it in a blender sometimes with fruit if there was papaya or mango in the freezer. Sometimes he even added lychee juice or coconut and ginger.

  I knew everything about bars and being a bartender. I knew the exact amount of a dash, jigger, scoop, split, and pony. Bartenders had rules, too. The most important was: always measure exactly and put the ingredients in order. That made all the difference in the world. I knew how to cut citrus peels, stack swizzle sticks, tell the difference between a shot glass and a hurricane glass, make a hot toddy or Tropicana, and shake up a Zoom like a milk shake with honey, ice cream, and eggs. I knew a virgin had no alcohol in it, Sloe Gin Fizzes got their red color from the berries on blackthorn bushes, sangria was punch soda, wine, and juice, and a Puff had milk and alcohol in it. And I knew you should never skimp on ice when making a cocktail.

  My dad’s bar, the Java Jones, was known for its drinks with a kick. He was a bartender who liked to see people having a good time, but his rule was: never drink at the office. That’s why I did his morning pick-me-up special at home. Sometimes I’d even make them before I went to school so he’d have it when he woke up. Now I just make them to remind me of him.

  I put the lid back on and screwed it tight, placing it safely in my purse until I needed to smell it again.

  I had to organize my thoughts. Thinking about my dad made me want to cry. To refocus, all I had to do was think of Annie. She always shaved her kneecaps and oiled them in cocoa butter so they wouldn’t peel. She did the same with her elbows, feet, and palms. It gave her a sparkle that lasted all day. She showed me how to get rid of deodorant streaks under my arms with a Q-tip and clip split ends with nail scissors. We used to wash our hair together and rinse it with vinegar before going to the beach to make it shine. She showed me how to pick up a towel without flicking sand, flip my hair in the wind, and light up on the first try.

  Lighting up, like every beach stance, was a hula. No movements were trivial. Everything meant something. Annie taught me how to sneeze without opening my mouth and look up without lifting my head. In the water, she told me to think like a girl and swim like a shark.

  “Show no mercy,” she always said. She was always reminding me that on a locals-only beach survival was the only goal.

  She also taught me how to make my weird eyes do all the talking. One thing I want to make clear is that my eyes aren’t crossed or anything. The big problem with my eyes is they stand out. What makes them weird is the color. They’re deep set and really light brown with yellow in the middle. My mother calls them hazel. I call them green. They are the first thing people notice about me.

  There were two other important rules Annie told me about. They were:

  Never enter the water when surfers are out.

  And never ever surf under any circumstances.

  “Girls don’t surf,” Annie said.

  The first time she told me that, I thought it was odd. What about Mo‘o the Lizard Goddess, who snagged a lover when she was surfing? What about Kelea, the great woman chief who was surfing when she got kidnapped? And what about Margo Oberg, the blonde girl who surfs Makaha?

  Then Annie told me what happened to girls who surfed. It was awful. First, guys would label them losers or dykes and that was the worst thing in the world. But the main thing was girls hated girls who surfed. They thought of them as troublemakers who were messing with the natural flow of a beach. Once that happened, no one would ever go near them again. Even if a girl was getting gang banged, locals would stay clear. Annie told me she’d seen it happen but couldn’t do anything. It was another rule:

  Never interfere with surf politics.

  The cool thing about all this stuff Annie taught me was that surfers had no idea The Rules existed. It was a girl manifesto, unnamed and coded, passed down from generation to generation.

  “We are like the air,” Annie told me. “We are everywhere, yet no one sees us.”

  I understood what Annie meant, but that’s not exactly how it works. You see, we aren’t invisible, as a matter of fact, we’re far from it. We’re the type of girls who don’t have to look both ways to cross the street; we know the traffic will stop. Our style of long hair and flowing clothes make us look like we are floating. Each one of us creates our own look—and someday I will, too.

  The term used to describe Annie and the kind of local I want to be is Honey Girl. That’s what guys in Hawaii call the super sweet, nice girls. Surfers, on the other hand, use the word a bit differently. The story goes: there was once a big-time surfer at Waimea who came out of the water totally dazed. Everyone thought he got hit in the head by his board until he pointed to a major wahine. She was so dreamy and sexy pretty, there wasn’t a word to describe her until he spit out, “Honey Girl.”

  If I’m lucky, I will become the first official combo sexy-sweet Honey Girl at State Beach. That is, if I get in with the lineup.

  Like I said, we have a totally underground society, a secret girl world that surfers really know nothing about even though it’s right in front of them. Girls rule girls on the beach. Girls have the power to mentor or destroy each other. That meant that for me to get local status, Miss Macadamia and Lemon Verbena would have to take me in. There was no other way. I would have to be their protégée. Lemon Verbena and Macadamia would decide my fate. They would give me my beach pass or keep it from me. If I got lucky, they’d train me to rule the beach before they turned eighteen and left.

  Annie told me the law about leaving the beach was never mentioned. But the truth was all “girl rulers” had to leave the beach on their eighteenth birthday or they’d lose status. Oh, sure, a ruler could return to her beach but she could never stay all day every day like she used to. If she did, she’d look like a flash in the pan with nowhere to go. Annie said that a real local goddess dies when she graduates high school and morphs into something better.

  I closed my eyes tight and went into my dream chamber. I saw those two beasts as my best friends, just loving me up. They had to. I was almost sixteen and time was tight. My life would never work out until we became “the three of us.” That’s the only way my world would get back to normal with a beach and friends of my own.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Contact

  At the end of the eighth day, the lineup made contact. The two girls that did the first walk-by were different shades of blonde. They walked two feet in front of me, side-by-side, arm-in-arm, in the same rhythm. One of them wore a homemade Pier One Indian bikini and a straw hat. She had long wavy hair and cute cho cho Mick Jagger lips. She was eating a stalk of celery and holding a sparkling cold can of Tab. Her voice was so loud and raspy I could hear it over a siren ripping up PCH. She talked about going to see Led Zeppelin in Long Beach next week while the other one listened.

  The girl listening was more of the Joni Mitchell type, wearing a Karenina bikini from Malibu. She had a slight overbite, a big smile, high lip line, and small white teeth that were perfectly aligned. An unlit cigarette dangled from her hand, and she had blonde highlights streaked evenly around her narrow face and halfway down her back. She had a high ribcage, tiny waist, and no hips and when she walked by, she gave me a slight nod. The other girl just stared at me and talked about Robert Plant originally wanting to name the band Mad Dogs.

  After that walk-by, I knew they’d be doubling back soon. I had to get prepared. I reviewed in my mind the twenty-five most important rules:
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br />   1. Always warn your friends when a surfer is close.

  2. Girls don’t fight with girls.

  3. Do not wear a matching bikini unless you are a local and never wear the same color as someone already on the beach.

  4. Never touch a surfer’s board unless he hands it to you.

  5. Be respectful of locals and high-ranking girls.

  6. Everything you wear will be judged and inspected. Find your own style and stick to it.

  7. Never cut your hair.

  8. Never use nasty words in front of guys—they hate trash mouths.

  9. Never go all the way with a surfer before you are officially his girlfriend or you will end up with a bad reputation.

  10. It’s better to die than to fart or barf.

  11. Never talk in bathroom stalls.

  12. Flush before you pee unless you’re with the lineup. Then you must pee in front of them or they won’t trust you.

  13. Never look directly at a surfer when he’s surfing. It could jinx him.

  14. Always have a bathing suit with you.

  15. Don’t ever talk about world events, politics, or money. Surfers hate brainy girls.

  16. Keep your nails long for tickling. Surfers love to be tickled.

  17. Bodysurfing is okay if the guys are out of the water.

  18. Don’t gulp or burp when you’re drinking beer.

  19. Always carry money. Most surfers don’t pay for anything.

  20. Never date a guy smaller than you.

  21. Never flick sand on someone you want to be friends with.

  22. Showing up on time is lame.

  23. Never wear bright colors like pink, orange, or lime green.

  24. Check your nose for snot drips before coming out of the water.

  25. Be sincere.

  On the way back from their walk, the girls came to the edge of my towel. I made a mental note that one wore a tiny checkered print bikini and the other wore a tapestry cloth. They were impressively skimpy bathing suits, but I’d seen smaller and hopefully someday they would, too. When I made local-girl status, I had to remember not to wear their colors or prints. That was forbidden. But I had a string bikini that I would wear someday and blow their minds.