Breaking Good

by Mike B. Good

  “I’m not allowed to play after dark. Plus, I might get cramps.”

  “What? Are you having a period? Afraid the blood will attract sharks?”

  “No. Wait, doesn’t it?”

  “All part of the fun. You’ll see, Mikey, night diving is irresistible.” He switched to a more compelling Full Nelson for emphasis. “At least when I’m around. If that’s what it takes to make you enjoy yourself, don’t think I won’t snap these puny arms of yours right off.”

  “When you put it like that. . .”

  “There’s that gung ho spirit.”

  _ _ _

  The next night, sure enough, Randy showed up at my campsite. No dummy, I wasn’t there. Didn’t matter, Sarge soon found me hiding in the trees. I guess all that Special Forces training helped. And those night vision goggles. And maybe my protective sidekick barking at him. Or perhaps, the smell of the hiding-out joint.

  “Getting in the right groove for a fun night dive, Mikey?”

  Not waiting for an answer, he pilfered the doobie, threw me over his shoulder, and carried me towards the shore.

  “You kidding? I can’t wait. Hey, is it night already?”

  “Yeah, that’s why it’s dark.”

  “Right, right. Well, guess I better cruise into Honolulu and grab my dive gear. By the way, you’ll need to put me down first.”

  “That’s okay, I’ve got some right here. Found it in your hooch.”

  “If I get eaten, Randy, it’ll be all your fault.”

  “I’m willing to take that risk.”

  At the water’s edge, Sgt. Randy gently body-slammed me onto the packed sand, where I stopped breathing after making a nice thud-like sound.

  Taking the joint from Randy, Big Steve observed, “Wow, look how long Mikey can go without breathing.”

  “That’s good, Mikey,” said Bigger Steve a few minutes later, enjoying his fifth go-round with the now-short doobie that no one thought to pass to me. “You’ll make a great diver.”

  Sgt. Randy prodded me with a XXL flipper. “Quit thrashing around, Private, time for some fun.”

  When I finally got my breath back, the buzzkilling warrior handed me a Hawaiian sling instead of the roach. A Hawaiian sling is nothing more than a spear with a loop of surgical tubing attached at the non-pointy end. You stretched the tubing taut over your elbow while holding onto the shaft and then. . .let go. Some gun. There was no trigger, no scope, and it didn’t even have bullets. It was a lousy trade. The only way it could get me high is if I speared a psychedelic fish.

  Randy interrupted my thoughts. “You ever use one of these before?”

  Still woozy, I answered, “Just that time with Captain Ahab. Or was that a harpoon?”

  “Right,” he said, giving me a skeptical look. “I’ll just refresh your memory, Ishmael.”

  He demonstrated by spearing a coconut.

  I made the coconut scream, “Hey, cut that out.”

  You should have seen the look on Sgt. Randy’s face.

  Big Steve handed me his spear. “Here ya go, Mikey, give it a try.”

  “Hmm, looks easy enough. At least for large simple-minded targets.”

  The Big Steves took several quick steps back.

  “Owww. . .” yelled Sgt. Randy, who didn’t.

  “Oops, sorry, just checking my aim.”

  “Nice shot, Mikey!” cheered the Canadians.

  “Good thinking, Private,” said Sgt. Randy, “but next time use it on a goddamn fish. And that’s an order. Still, I gotta admit, you’re a fast learner.”

  “A motivated learner. By the way, Sarge, hope that streaming blood doesn’t attract the sharks to you instead of me.”

  “Just don’t shoot me while we’re in the water.”

  “Hey, you don’t want me tagging along while you’re getting attacked, I’ll just. . .”

  “Oh, no, you don’t. You’re coming whether you or I want you to or not.”

  Rita stitched the Sarge up with some fishing line and soon we were in the water cruising along with our underwater flashlights and spearguns. The powerful lights made the coral colors even brighter than in the day. Especially the reds. The reef, with its day-glo hues, other-worldly shapes, and bizarre textures looked even more psychedelic than usual. Throw in the vivid markings on the snapping moray eels, and the fun went through the roof. Night diving proved to be a gas, no doubt staying that way until something consumed your happy ass.

  Loving the underwater show, I swam over a lava tube. Did not my wily predator’s eyes spot a scrumptious fish lurking within? The tube, not much more than a meter wide, barely allowed my Hulkish body to slip through with a few feet to spare. A small arena, but large enough to accommodate my first underwater kill. A little voice asked: What are you doing? Aren’t you concerned about your karma? Good question. I was no killer. But was killing and eating something all that bad? Wasn’t it part of the natural scheme of things? Was I not shark-like? An apex predator? Putting my pacifism aside for once, like a toasted Jacques Cousteau on a murderous rampage, I swam into the mighty fish’s lair, my blood-thirsty Hawaiian sling held like a lance.

  Seconds later, I stared into the face of my foe. The placid little fish wiggled his fins and looked me in the eye. The little bugga was daring me to shoot him. So I did. Sort of. If you can call grazing his tail shooting him. Startled but unscathed by the poorly-aimed spear, the fish inflated like a spiky balloon. Seeing my eyes pop out so competitively, he kept inflating, growing ever-larger, trying to intimidate me. It worked. Where did those spines come from? He looked like one of those mines they blow ships up with. Death by shark attack was to be expected, but I hadn’t planned on exploding. That would take all the fun out of night diving.

  I should never have shot at him, and not just because blowfish were loaded with tetrodotoxins (twelve hundred times deadlier than cyanide and with no known antidotes), but ‘cause he was incredibly cute. Sure, I’d missed, but as a vegetarian with Buddhist tendencies, murdering a gentle fish was out of character. I felt terrible about attacking the little guy, and I hoped it didn’t funkify my excellent karma. As an outlaw hoping for a nice harvest, I couldn’t afford to mess with that.

  Taking responsibility, I blamed Sgt. Randy for my depraved behavior. Meanwhile, I had a more urgent problem to consider: not letting my spiky adversary block my escape route like a pointy cork. Dying at the hands (fins?) of a tiny fish seemed a harsh lesson in karma. In a weird way, he reminded me of Dad. Wise to its murderous plan, I tried to swim in reverse, race it to the exit, but I just went deeper. Turns out the reverse gear on my flippers wasn’t working. Figures. They were made by IKEA.

  Stuck at the bottom of the narrow tube, desperate for air, I noticed my opponent had stopped expanding after reaching a profound girth of eight inches. I found it ironic that the harmless little fish could kill a top predator like me without using poison. As predators went, I made for good prey.

  In a desperate bid for survival, I thrashed around, shredding my legs on the coral till I pointed upright. I put my fins back into forward gear and went. . .backwards. Unbelievable. If the fish didn’t kill me, IKEA would. I pulled off the traitorous fins, and with a few desperate kicks, I got the hell out of there. The little fish didn’t retaliate, but by the time I made it sputtering to the surface, I’d sworn off spearfishing for life. The sport proved incredibly dangerous. For me, if not my finny foe. The festering case of staph I got from the coral didn’t go away for a month. I’d have been better off if the puffy little fish had shot me with the speargun.

  I made a note in my little book: Stay away from Sgt. Randy.

  Chapter 40

  Paramedics

  Losing the farm had been a crushing blow to my mission, and by extension, to the world. To our credit, Happy and I were resilient, dedicated, and delusional, and we’d bounced right back. Hopefully, so would the world. Until I could spread the philanthropy around, I’d hidden my horde of farm pot in seal
ed five-gallon buckets, then buried them amidst tall grasses behind Happy’s treehouse. It seemed safe there in the kiawe forest, and they’d be easy to get at when I needed them. Almost too easy. Coming home from a snorkeling trip one day, Happy found his place ransacked. We spotted some clues. Empty Primo bottles, fish spines, and licked-clean cans of Spam littered the ground under the treehouse. Size 16EEEEE luau feet had left deep impressions in the sand.

  Putting on the Sherlock Holmes cap, Detective Happy offered a theory. “I could be wrong, but I think someone searched my place during a snack break. I suspect a fisherman.”

  “Looks like the hat is working again,” observed Rita, pleased with her man.

  “This spot isn’t safe,” I said. “I’m gonna hide my stash in the valley.”

  “Makua Valley is safe?” asked the practical-minded Rita, obviously too sane to understand the beauty of my logic.

  “Hell, no. Makes it perfect.”

  “Don’t worry, Rita,” assured Happy, “Mikey’s got this all figured out.”

  “Really?” Silly Rita sounded skeptical.

  I elaborated. “The Military blowing it up all the time makes the valley secure.”

  “Secure? No one in their right mind would venture there.”

  “Exactly. Now you get it.”

  She rolled her eyes and sighed, as if not getting it. I felt proud, already developing a feel for this clandestine lifestyle, out-witting less devious, more sensible people with hardly a coherent thought.

  Handling all that pot gave me an idea. After stashing it in Happy’s lava tube, I drove to Makaha and called Crash from a pay phone.

  “Mikey, where you been, man?”

  “Well, I’ve been. . .”

  “Who cares? Look, we gotta get together. People here in town are going nuts.”

  “Of course they are. Living in a big city when they could be out in the country. . .”

  “You gotta help ‘em out.”

  “Well, I’m not a psychiatrist, or even a realtor, but I’ll do what I can.”

  “Thattaboy. I think another two doses of your medicine will do the trick.”

  “Sure. Come on out and pick up your prescription.”

  “Are you kidding? This is a medical emergency. You gotta get here quick. These maniacs won’t get off my back.”

  I pictured Crash with the phone receiver in his hand, a dozen frantic potheads on top of him, screaming for more buds. Angel of mercy, I made a speed hike up to the stash and pulled out a couple of pounds. Determined to restore the mental health of Honolulu’s unruly connoisseurs, like stony paramedics, Happy and I made a mercy run in the Turd to Honolulu. Appalled pedestrians, finding our rock ‘n’ roll, smiling faces, and long hair offensive, shook fists as we passed by. They probably weren’t too pleased with how our truck smelled, either.

  On the way back to the beach, a fresh twenty-four hundred bucks in my pocket, the compassionate work I’d chosen seemed so appreciated and so right. And most of all, fun. I made up my mind. Traveling the world could wait. Unless something disastrous happened, I’d stick with the profitable philanthropy.

  Steely Dan was on KPOI. Inspired, I harmonized through my respirator with Donald Fagan, insisting I’d never go back to my old school.

  Happy begged, “Please stop.”

  “You gotta take a leak?”

  “I meant the singing.”

  “Sounds funny through the respirator, huh?”

  “Funny is not the word.”

  Music critic Happy couldn’t think straight or smell a thing, but the guy had perfect pitch. Some people get all the luck. Like Jesus, I grew pot in the wilderness. Like Superman, unless someone gave me a compliment, I remained an unassuming hero. The rest of the time, like the Buddha, I acted so humble about how cool I’d become that no one even realized it. Fellow do-gooder Buddha taught: Just say no to desire. I found that easier to do with a little cash and plenty of righteous stash. And yet, I couldn’t deny that something deep inside my altruistic heart desired to grow vast quantities of pakalolo. World-changing amounts, not just tiny starter crops. And not because I wanted to be so rich I was free from desire or so that admirers would build enormous golden shrines in my name. I’m far too unpretentious for that. But if people decided they must honor me with temples, I probably wouldn’t be a dick and stop them. Unless the temples weren’t lavish enough. The point is, I just couldn’t stop myself from helping others.

  When not helping others, I loved to be in the ocean. Makua’s small waves were boring for board surfers, but perfect for body surfing. I could stand there in crystal clear, chest deep water and launch myself on the next breaking wave with just a couple kicks of my IKEA swim fins. (Long as I kept them in reverse.) The waves just kept coming and we’d ride ‘em for hours and never get beefed. It was especially fun on magic mushroom days when the dolphins joined in.

  _ _ _

  “Howzit, guys,” bellowed Sgt. Randy, sneaking up from behind and putting Happy and me in headlocks. “A big storm is heading our way. Our squad is going to Yokohama Bay. That’s an order.”

  Someone griped, “But that beach is full of hard-core local surfers when the surf is up.”

  “Thought you liked surfing, Mikey.”

  “I do, but I’d be totally out-classed.”

  “You mean seriously beefed?”

  “Exactly. And not just by the surfers. No way I’m surfing in those big storm waves.”

  “See?” He tapped his muscular head. It sounded like a gong. “That’s why we’re going body surfing.”

  Sgt. Randy wouldn’t take no for an answer. Which is why he kept us in headlocks. Remote Yokohama, almost to the end of the road at Kaena Point, from what I’d seen, served as a locals-only beach. At least when the waves got big. Given how territorial Hawaii’s aggressive surfers were, haoles entered the water at their own risk. Pretty much the same as every other beach in the state, except worse. Just ask the outclassed and badly-mangled Buddy.

  The rental car places reminded customers of two things: Their insurance did not cover the steadily worsening road out to Kaena Point, and the Waianae area gave birth to the violent criminals scaring them on the evening news. Some of the Makua gang would go out to Yokohama on flat days to dive off the cliffs or snorkel, but aside from us, I never saw any other haoles there. Sure, the rusty corpses of stolen, stripped-out rental cars abounded alongside the rutted road, some with shrubbery and small trees growing out of them. Hawaii’s murderers may have been vicious thugs, but they were not big on recycling. Well, no one is perfect. And yet, except for shredded pieces of clothing, broken suitcases, and a curious profusion of yellowed bones strewn about, there would never be any sign of the tourists. Carrion birds, yes. Tourists, no.

  “Tell me why it’s not an insane idea for us to go there.”

  “You don’t get it, Mikey. The waves are still small, perfect for guys like you.” He pointed off-shore. “Three and four footers, man. And even better, the locals won’t be there yet.”

  “Well, neither will I. Besides, the waves are perfect right here at Makua.”

  “Come on, Private, don’t be chicken.”

  He clunked our heads together to create a more cooperative mood.

  “Private?”

  Just the day before he’d promoted me to Corporal.

  “You’ve been demoted. Report to KP. Don’t worry so much. We’ll be in and out, med-evaced before Victor Charley ever shows up.”

  “We should be more worried about Victor Lopez.”

  “Whaddaya say, Corporal Happy?”

  “Do I have a choice?” gasped the Corporal, his voice muffled by Randy’s thick arm.

  Before giving us another playful head clunk, Sgt. Randy said, “No, heh heh, not really.”

  Chapter 41

  Instant Karma

  When we woke up, already dumped on the shore at Yokohama, the “small waves” looked big. In fact, they loomed overhead. Huge compared
to Makua that day, but with good form. Not too challenging for an excellent body surfer to take on with just a pair of swim fins. In other words, intimidating for Corporal Happy and me.

  “Hey, Sarge, thought you said three to four feet. These are overhead.”

  “Hawaiians measure the wave from the back, Mikey.”

  “Figures. The one part of the wave that won’t kill me.”

  “Don’t be so sure. That’s where the tiger sharks hang out.”

  “Tiger sharks?” yelped Happy.

  “Quit obsessing about likely death, men. The giant surf won’t arrive for hours.”

  I pointed at some dorsal fins. “Yeah, but the giant sharks are already here.”

  “Don’t be so negative. Don’t you have anything good to say?”

  “At least the beach is empty.”

  “There ya go.”

  “I better stay on it so it doesn’t feel lonely.”

  “Well, it’s not even eight. The surfers are still sleeping off their hangovers.”

  “Good.”

  “But don’t worry; they’ll be here soon enough.”

  Great. Another thing to worry about.

  “All right, Sarge, I’ll give it a try, but as soon as any locals show up with boards, I’m out of there.”

  “That’s better, troop.” Sgt. Randy, like General Custer gone berserk, bellowed, “Charge!”

  With a war cry, he raced into the water. Happy and I smoked a warm-up joint and watched him catch a wave and zoom across the steep face.

  After swimming back outside, Randy yelled, “Get out here, you pussies.”

  “We’ll probably get smashed on the bottom,” I told Happy, about to succumb to peer pressure.

  Happy offered reassurance. “We’ll be lucky if that’s all.”

  We caught a few exhilarating rides, awed by the power of the bigger waves. Also, thrilled and surprised at not drowning yet. I caught what the locals called a five-footer. Looking ten feet straight down from the top through clear water at the coral below made taking off a serious adrenaline rush. Also, made me wonder about the math skills of Hawaiian surfers. Still, I could see how someone with more athletic ability and less fear of death could get addicted to this.