Moloka‘i Reef
By
Dennis K. Biby
Moloka‘i Reef
Dennis K. Biby
Copyright © 2009 Dennis K. Biby
Cover photo © Alex Bramwell - Fotolia.com
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To Leslie & Al of the sailing vessel Strait Aero.
1
Gybe assumed the sun was up as he stared into the clear water beneath the bow of Ferrity, his forty-one foot sailboat. He assumed that the earth was rotating eastward, carrying along Mt. Haleakalā. If true, in a few hours the sun would appear to rise from the nine-thousand foot dormant volcano, the foundation of Maui.
He didn’t like what he saw swaying from the anchor still more than a fathom beneath the surface. In August, he had sailed to the Hawaiian Islands from San Francisco to escape diversions like this.
Last evening, he had steered Ferrity into the small, abandoned harbor marked on the east by a few pilings once known as Kolo Wharf. Gybe preferred not to enter anchorages at night, but he had been here twice before and had marked the entrance on his GPS. The channel through the reef was narrow, but the wind was calm, the sea nearly flat, and the moon was just past full when Gybe eased Ferrity into the anchorage, dropped the twenty kilo patented Bruce anchor, and fed out fifty feet of chain.
Gybe was alone this morning. He planned to spend the next two weeks - until the winter solstice - anchored on the south shore of Moloka‘i, monikered ‘The Friendly Isle’ by travel agents and tourists. Besides Kolo Wharf, he wanted to anchor at Hale o Lono, an old barge harbor about three miles to the west, and Kaunakakai, the principal city on Moloka‘i.
Maybe the water and light were playing tricks. Gybe’s eyes traced the anchor chain from windlass, over the bow roller, and down to the water’s edge. Beneath the water, the two chimeras wavered like a reflection in a fun-house mirror.
Damn and double damn, he stepped on the button that engaged the windlass. The windlass reeled in another three feet of chain. Gybe stepped off the button and backed away from the bow.
Fifty yards to the east, he scanned the old wharf. The ocean, here behind the reef, was as still as a desert mirage. A tuft of cloud drifted across the water before impaling itself on the broken stub of the nearest piling. Ferrity sat motionless though her anchor no longer tethered her to the seafloor.
What to do? His eyes walked the shoreline from east to west, reaffirming the discoveries of his last visit. No one lived on the shoreline along the west half of the south side of Moloka‘i. When he was here last week, he had hiked an old jeep trail that paralleled the coast – the trail began at Hale o Lono harbor to the west and ended here at Kolo Wharf.
Several kayaks, paddles, and life jackets lay under a kiawe tree seventy-five yards to the west of the wharf. Gybe assumed that the Moloka‘i Ranch outfit that owned most of the west end of the island ran a kayaking operation here. This morning no one was around.
He had writing to finish. Last week he had met the local police. He didn’t like them. Nothing new there, Gybe hadn’t liked the police since… Move on. Stop thinking about the past, he told himself.
Back at the bow, he stepped on the DOWN button. The chain crawled out of the anchor well, over the windlass, and ticked across the deck before disappearing over the bow roller. Unsure, Gybe stepped off the button. Silence.
He heard a whale blow out in the Kalohi Channel that separated Moloka‘i from the neighbor island to the south – Lāna‘i. Like Pavlov’s dog, Gybe scanned the water searching for the fountain of water. Now that December had arrived, the humpbacks were returning in large numbers. Yesterday, he had changed course twice to avoid whales - whales that could grow to forty-feet and forty tons.
Beautiful morning shot to hell. Gybe pulled the restraining pin from the other anchor, a fifty-pound CQR plow, guided it past the hanging Bruce anchor and its catch, and eased it to the bottom.
Confirming his fears, Gybe mashed the UP button on the windlass and reeled in the Bruce anchor – an anchor that he had not baited last night. The windlass, capable of lifting two hundred feet of vertical chain, groaned under the load.
2
As predicted by Copernicus nearly four centuries earlier, the eastward rotation of the earth moved Mt. Haleakalā and the island of Maui far enough for the rising sun to clear the old volcano. Lā, as the sun was called by ancient Hawaiians, had risen from his home (Haleakalā meant house of the sun) and now hovered low in the December sky, due south of Ferrity.
An orange U.S. Coast Guard Rigid Hull Inflatable (RHI), a Maui County Police boat, and two black Maui County SUVs at the wharf surrounded Ferrity and Gybe who hours earlier had rested at anchor alone on the south shore of this tropical island. The whop, whop, whopping of a news helicopter alternated with the high-pitched squeal of the French-built orange Coast Guard chopper orbiting overhead.
Four hours earlier when Gybe had raised the Bruce anchor clear of the water, he found a chain looped across the anchor flukes. Two bodies, one on each end of the chain, dangled from the anchor.
Before calling authorities, Gybe lowered the catch back beneath the surface. He didn’t want anyone to stumble along the shore and see the bodies until he had prepared for the police. For the next thirty minutes, he ticked through a mental checklist as he rearranged and re-stowed aboard Ferrity. With the bodies hanging on the bow, the police might decide to search Ferrity and there were things that he would rather they didn’t find.
Ferrity, a forty-one foot cutter-rigged sailboat, had been Gybe’s home for seven years. A two-inch royal blue stripe ran fore and aft seven inches below the deck on each side of the white hull. The dodger, royal blue canvas stretched taut over stainless steel bows, protected the companionway and front of the cockpit from ocean spray and the sun. He had made sail covers, winch covers, and other canvas covers from the same royal blue fabric.
He had rigged her for single-handing, sailing alone, and that’s how he preferred to sail. When he wasn’t steering by hand, he relied on a Fleming windvane self-steering system that hung from the stern. As a backup, he had an electric Autohelm 4000 mounted on the wheel.
Electronically, Ferrity was minimally equipped with a depthsounder, knotmeter, and GPS. Fighting the growing trend towards electronic charts, Gybe continued to use paper charts. He didn’t have radar. Nor did he have an a
nemometer.
Satisfied that he was ready, Gybe keyed the mic on the VHF marine radio, released it, hesitated, then keyed it again. “Coast Guard, Coast Guard THIS IS the sailing vessel Ferrity, Ferrity – Whiskey Tango Sierra Six Eight Five One – Over.” A mayday required a life-threatening situation. The crabs feeding on the bodies suspended beneath the boats bow were the only threatened lives.
“Vessel calling United States Coast Guard; THIS IS the United States Coast Guard. Over.”
And so the conversation continued, in a terse military protocol not often heard where most boaters had learned radio procedures at the movies.
While waiting for the Coast Guard, Gybe boiled water and poured it through the fresh ground French Roast in the coffee filter. Steaming mug in hand, he climbed the companionway ladder to the cockpit where he sat and opened the ship’s log.
In the log, Gybe noted the time of the discovery, his action to drop the other anchor, and the radio call to the Coast Guard. Maritime law considered the ship’s log an official document that courts could subpoena as evidence. The log of Ferrity showed a truncated timeline between discovery and notification.
He heard the whining before he spotted the dragonfly silhouette of the incoming orange helicopter. Like a bad mantra ‘I don’t need this’ cycled through Gybe’s thoughts.
Anchored in San Francisco Bay a year earlier, Gybe had awakened to a thudding against the hull. Thinking that another boat had dragged down on Ferrity, Gybe leapt into the cockpit, ready to fend off and opine on the anchoring skills of the other vessel. Instead, a human body bobbed against the hull.
Somehow, still not entirely clear, circumstances had dragged him into the case of the bumping body. Never again, he thought.
I’m a writer or at least I’m trying to be a writer. Can’t I anchor in remote location on the uninhabited, leeward side of an island and write? Why are bodies hanging from my anchor, Gybe wondered.
The increasing whine of the orange bird interrupted his self-castigation and drummed out any remaining thoughts of releasing the bodies and setting sail.
In his mind, Gybe enumerated three reasons to be in Hawai‘i. First, he had been on San Francisco Bay too long. Gybe, a life long sailor, had lived aboard and sailed Ferrity for seven years. As a goal, he preferred to spend less than a year in one place. The Bay was large and through circumstance and … Gybe hadn’t left the Bay in eighteen months, until July 19 – almost five months ago. On a full foul-weather morning with the air slightly drier than the bay, the sun cowering behind the hills of Oakland, and the tide ebbing beneath the Gate, Gybe sailed beneath the red-orange wires and girders, under the incessant traffic hum, and into the Pacific Ocean. Seventeen days later, he dropped anchor in Radio Bay – in Hilo, Hawai‘i.
The novel was second on the list of reasons to be in Hawai‘i. For more than a year, he had struggled with the MS Word document that sat in the My books folder on his laptop. He struggled with neither writer’s block nor plot nor character nor action, but with the diversions that dogged his wake wherever Ferrity sailed. As soon as Ferrity’s anchor touched bottom, someone or something would demand his time. OK, sometimes it was a party or a dinghy dangle or a woman.
Most people didn’t need reasons to be in Hawai‘i. Hawai‘i, a tropical paradise with sandy beaches, clear waters, waving palm trees, surfer babes – and for those so-inclined, surfer dudes – beckoned everyone with a ticket or a credit card. But, paradise wasn’t the third reason for Gybe’s trip to Hawai‘i. At least not that he would admit to anyone to whom he reported. Come to think of it, he didn’t report to anyone.
The third reason for the trip was to meet with Andrea aboard her Lagoonabago. When he wasn’t writing or pursuing life as a single, heterosexually active sailor, Gybe maintained the business management software and Web site for Andrea’s business. Between the software and an occasional freelance article, Gybe eked by without contributing to society in the indentured, structured, mortgaged manner encouraged by presidents, preachers, and parents.
“Ahoy Ferrity,” blared the coarse god above, drowning out the background whine of the turbine powered whirlybird.
Gybe, who had been sitting under the dodger that shaded the main hatch, slid below and returned the ship’s log to the navigation station.
A quick glance around the cabin reassured him that he was prepared. He stepped into the cockpit and waved to the helicopter that had dropped lower to hover off his starboard side. The voice from above told him they were dropping men into the water. Would he take them aboard?
To an eighth grade student diagramming sentences, it was a request. Projected through the loudspeaker, it was an order. Gybe hoisted a thumbs up, moved to the stern, and lowered the swim ladder.
Three bodies dropped from the chopper, the first of many to climb aboard Ferrity, enter the harbor, and foul the air, land, and sea of that once beautiful morning.
3
A few minutes after the helicopter, an orange CG RHI arrived. Following the 9/11 attack, Coast Guard RHIs proliferated faster than mosquitoes after a rain. The twenty-some-foot, twin outboard powered boats carried a crew of five with a big-ass machine gun mounted on the bow. Not a very writerly description thought Gybe as he reminded himself that writing was supposed to be his occupation, not a sideline.
Since the establishment of the Department of Homeland Security, it seemed that every soldier, sailor, airman, and Coastie came equipped with guns and bullets. Unlike many, Gybe felt no safer with an armed teenager – a teenager who may have selected the military over another trip to juvie hall.
After leading the Coasties to the bow and showing them his catch, they ordered him to return to the cockpit and wait.
Someone had notified the Maui County Police and a little later, two blue-light adorned SUVs kicked up red dust as they loped down the unmaintained jeep trail from Lono Harbor.
As the sun marched through the sky, Gybe repeated his story to successive waves of officialdom, sometimes changing or omitting minor details for their (OK his) enjoyment. He doubted that in the ensuing turf war and confusion, anyone would compare notes.
Each official approached with a similar set of questions. What was his name? What was he doing here? Where did he come from? What did he do for a living? Had he seen anyone when he arrived or later?
Gybe. Anchoring. Lāna‘i. Sushi chef. (As a rule, Gybe told the truth. As another rule, if an official or a pre-printed form asked a question that was irrelevant to their scope of responsibility or need to know, Gybe felt no obligation to fill in the blank accurately.) Nope.
A squint at the sun suggested that it was noon, yet the bodies remained hanging from his Bruce anchor. Designed to hold North Sea oil rigs, the patented Bruce appeared to work equally well supporting two chained together, non-obese bodies.
The CG had rafted their orange boat to his starboard side while the dingy gray Maui Police boat tied to the port side. Neither police nor Coasties had complied with his request to remove their black boots. Scuff marks led from amidships to the bow.
With all the attention focused on the bow, Gybe went below; made himself a peanut butter and onion sandwich, pulled a cold amber ale from the reefer, and returned to the cockpit. With the bottle held aloft, he saluted the news helicopter.
“We’re ready to remove the bodies, Captain.” The Coast Guard Lieutenant motioned Gybe to the bow.
At their direction, Gybe stepped on the UP button and watched the bodies rotate once as they swam lifeless towards Ferrity’s bow.
The Maui police officers maneuvered their boat underneath the corpses. With the aid of the divers in the water and officers in the boat, Gybe used the windlass to lower the remains into the police boat.
As Gybe watched the police boat accelerate out of the harbor, the senior CG officer spoke. “Captain, we’ll escort you back to Kaunakakai Harbor. The Maui Police have taken over jurisdiction since it doesn’t appear that the deaths occurred on a vessel or in federal waters.”
“Wa
sn’t planning to go there. Tell them I’ll be in Hale o Lono harbor if they need to talk with me.” Gybe’s words were lost as the boat’s coxswain fired up the twin outboards.
4
“Permission to come aboard Captain.”
Only one other anchor competed with Ferrity’s anchor as it rested on the bottom of the small harbor.
With neither sense of humor nor sense of respect, the Coast Guard had suggested – strongly – that Gybe comply with the Maui Police request to return to Kaunakakai Harbor.
Taking his time getting underway yesterday afternoon, Gybe stowed the fate-altering Bruce anchor, retrieved the CQR anchor, and motored away from Kolo Wharf. Feigning engine problems, he raised sails and tacked upwind to Kaunakakai Harbor. The frustrated CG crew tagged along for thirty minutes before receiving a call to search for a missing windsurfer off Kihei on Maui. They motored alongside Ferrity which was sailing southeast on a port tack at six knots, and reminded Gybe that he was required to sail to Kaunakakai Harbor. With both throttles hard forward, the CG crew sped off towards Maui.
By the time the sun had dropped to within two diameters of the horizon, Ferrity rode to anchor in Kaunakakai Harbor; her sails stowed; and her hatches open. Gybe sat in the cockpit, cold amber ale in hand, and reviewed the day while watching the sun close on the distant sea.
Shoreward of Ferrity, music drifted from Mongoose’s schooner - Makani. Windward, or to the east, lay the half-mile long causeway connecting the town to the only commercial pier on the island. There was room for an interisland barge to tie alongside the west side of the pier. The interisland ferry terminal occupied a corner of the pier near the causeway. From his previous visit, Gybe knew that there were a dozen or so sailboat slips on the far side. Shoreward of the pier, on the near side of the causeway, fishing boats rocked in their slips. A small floating dinghy dock rested between the fishing boats and a launch ramp for trailered boats.
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