Molokai Reef

by Dennis K. Biby

  “Strong statement. How are they killing the reef?”

  Susan looked to Kara with a look that asked where she had found this bozo. “It’s obvious. They remove genes from algae, fish, god knows what, and stick the genes into a plant that nature has perfected over thousands of years to produce corn.”

  “Tell me Gybe, the last time you ate a roasting ear of sweet corn, did you look at that ear of corn and say gee wouldn’t it be better if this corn were pink or wouldn’t it be better if it tasked like shrimp or why can’t we make the corn self-buttering?’”

  Gybe held up both hands as a signal to stop. “Point taken. I don’t know what they are doing or why, but why do you think their work is killing the reef?” In fact, over the past two weeks, Gybe had learned a lot about what the genetic engineers of Moloka‘i were studying. This was the background research for his article, the article that he should be writing instead of playing PI.

  Susan’s voice drew him back to the room. “Because. The reef is dying at the same time these bio-nerds are shaking their test tubes.” She folded her arms as a signal of proof.

  Perhaps sensing that Gybe wasn’t convinced, Susan, sometimes assisted by Kara, argued for several more minutes. Gybe could see that emotions and rhetoric dominated the argument. She didn’t have facts to connect the state of the reef with the research of the seed corn companies. It didn’t mean that someone couldn’t prove a connection. It only meant that Susan had established the connection in her mind. She believed it. Ergo, her beliefs drove her actions. Whether science or logic supported the belief was irrelevant.

  After referring to his notebook, Gybe directed the conversation away from the reef. “According to Detective Kane, you’ve been arrested several times during protests here on the island.”

  Continuing her defensive posture, Susan said, “It is my right to protest. Free and peaceful demonstration is guaranteed by the Constitution.”

  “Agreed. What did you protest and against whom did you protest?”

  9

  Susan confirmed that she had picketed several biotech companies on the island. Gybe felt that she was evading some of the questions and he was ready to leave. He stepped outside and told the guard they were finished.

  After the guard escorted Susan from the room, Gybe and Kara left the police station, walked to Kolapa Street, and turned right.

  Near the end of this street, they turned left onto Kakalahale, which led to Susan’s house. Most of the time, Susan lived on the Kona coast of the Big Island where her business was based. Because she had won the construction contract for repairs to the commercial pier at Kaunakakai Harbor, she had relocated temporarily to Moloka‘i. She held a six-month lease on a small cottage in Kaunakakai town.

  As they walked, Gybe surveyed his knowledge of the town.

  There were no stoplights in the town, none on the island. The main street, except for the Hawaiian names, could be any small town main street on the mainland. Two grocery stores, three convenience shops, a couple of self-serve laundries, one bar, and several restaurants formed the business core of Kaunakakai. There were no hotels or motels in the town. That was how Kara ended up at the Hotel Moloka‘i, which sat on the beach a few miles east on the Kamehameha V Highway.

  Over one third of Moloka‘i’s population called Kaunakakai home. Everyone knew everyone.

  As they approached the house, Gybe spotted an old Unsafe at Any Speed 1961 model Corvair convertible sitting in the driveway. No cinder blocks supported the axles; no vegetation grew through the floorboards; no rust holes aerated the body.

  Susan or someone had installed four vertical bamboo poles, one in each corner of the passenger compartment. A frame of chicken wire connected the tops of the poles. Thatched to this frame, a thick layer of palm fronds formed a roof. Like the Lanai Bar at the hotel, the sides and back were open to the elements. A slab of Plexiglas spanned the forward posts to form a windshield. Native tapa cloth covered the seats. A meticulous mural adorned the sides.

  On the port side, the side facing them, the mural depicted a healthy, fish-populated reef along the bottom half of the car. Gybe identified Moorish idols, unicornfish, butterfly fish, bluestripe snappers, pufferfish, trumpet fish, and others. On the reef, he saw sea urchins, a moray eel hidden in a hole, starfish or as they were more accurately called today - sea stars, and an octopus. Jellyfish and squids swam just above the reef. A honu – green sea turtle – hovered over the front fender well, while a spinner dolphin arched over the aft wheel. The artist was very good; this mural could have been a diver’s snapshot of a thriving ocean reef.

  As he neared the car, he saw an outline of the world and its continents painted on the hood. The oceans were named; the landmasses were blank and featureless. Underneath, he read the words Oceans Now. Scripted along the equator, he noted the Latin phrase Raptus regaliter. “Is this your logo?”

  Kara nodded.

  “And Raptus regaliter would mean?”

  “Royally screwed.”

  Susan had offered Kara the use of the house and the car. Kara wanted to retrieve her luggage from the Hotel Moloka‘i and check out.

  Kara started towards the side door of the house. “I’ll look for the key in the house.”

  “Don’t bother – you drive.” Gybe motioned to the driver’s door as he walked around to ride shotgun.

  A puzzled expression settled on her face as Kara turned and walked back to the car. Opening the driver’s side door, Kara slid in. When she couldn’t find the ignition switch on the steering column, Gybe pointed to the dashboard above her right knee. In lieu of a key, a stubby screwdriver protruded from the slot. A twist of the handle launched a cloud of blue smoke from both tail pipes accompanied by a rumble similar to a misfiring Harley.

  Kara dropped the floor-mounted speed shifter into reverse and eased out the clutch. Nothing happened.

  “Maybe reverse is on the other side.” Gybe suggested.

  Kara worked her way through the gears. She found three forward gears, but no working reverse. “Now what?”

  “There’s nothing in front of us, drive around the yard and back to the road.”

  She found her way back past the police station and onto the main road. With only one paved road leading through the town, the odds of not getting lost were good. Kara turned left towards the Hotel Moloka‘i.

  “You know,” Gybe commented, “Ralph Nader would shit an oil pump if he saw a greenie driving a Corvair!”

  10

  Behind the hotel counter, the clock indicated 2:03 p.m., 1403 to Gybe, when Kara finished checking out.

  “Let’s get something to eat.” He turned to the clerk. “Is the Lanai Bar still serving lunch?”

  The clerk nodded.

  Unable to lock her bags in the ’vair, Kara stashed them with the concierge.

  The bartender motioned to take any table. Gybe chose one midway between the bar and the beach. Like the ’vair, a thatch roof shielded them from the early afternoon sun. Kara sat with her back to the bar and looked out across the beach to the ocean,. With Kara on his right and the ocean to his left, Gybe faced the deserted swimming pool. He guessed that most guests were napping between morning beach time and afternoon mai tai.

  He greeted their server Keali‘i as she slid a basket of holiday green tortilla chips and a tub of salsa onto the table. He had met her during his first sail to the island a few weeks earlier. When asked, she would describe herself as a “short Hawaiian girl.” Here in the restaurant, Keali‘i stood about five-five, but Gybe knew that barefoot on the beach, she barely broke five two. True to her Polynesian ancestry, her hair was black and her light chocolate skin wrapped tightly around a sensual figure. Raised on the island as the daughter of a paniolo (Hawaiian cowboy) who rode for the Moloka‘i Ranch, Keali‘i was thirty-one years old. She had graduated with a degree in ocean sciences from the University of Hawai‘i Manoa campus. Manoa was part of Honolulu on the island of O‘ahu.

  Gybe introduced the two women. Comparing thei
r hands, he judged that the two women were about the same age. In this botox injected, silicone boosted, liposuct’ed, whitened, tightened, and tinted era, hands were the only unaltered age-indicator on women. Although, his friend Mongoose claimed that he could predict a woman’s age by looking at the back of her knees.

  “Keali‘i,” Gybe said, “what’s with the tortilla chips? I don’t think of chips and salsa as typical Hawaiian fare.”

  “You’re right, except for here at the hotel, chips and salsa are as rare as nēnē.” She turned to Kara. “Nēnē,” Keali‘i pronounced it nay nay, “is the rare and protected Hawaiian goose. They are our state birds.”

  “The restaurant manager agreed to test market the new chips. What do you think of them?”

  “They’re grrrrreat.” Gybe threw his best Tony the Tiger impersonation. “Last night after a few beers and a basket of these chips I felt no pain. Mellow. The chips are the perfect complement to a fine amber ale.”

  Behind her menu, he saw Kara roll her eyes at his culinary savoir-fare.

  “Can I get a bag to go when we finish lunch?”

  “We don’t normally do take-out, but just for you Gybe,” she semaphored with her eyelashes, “I’ll put together a bag to go.”

  “Mahalo Keali‘i.”

  Kara, pretending to read the menu, missed nary a flutter.

  “Can I get you guys a drink while you’re looking at the menu?” Keali‘i turned to Kara.

  Kara ordered a mai tai while Gybe opted for Fire Rock Ale from Kona Brewing. They scanned the menus in silence. Silent except for the sound of munching chips.

  In a few minutes, Keali‘i returned with their drinks.

  Locking eyes with their server, Kara ordered a mahimahi sandwich and a tossed salad.

  “I’ll have the grilled ahi sandwich; hold the special sauce or mayo, a salad, and fries.” Gybe returned the menu to Keali‘i.

  “That menu was Greek to me. Mahimahi was the only thing I recognized.” Kara said.

  “You’ll catch on soon enough. It didn’t take me long to learn many of the common Hawaiian words. The ahi in the sandwich that I ordered is one of the many kinds of tuna.”

  “Pronunciation can be intimidating, but it is quite simple. Once you figure out the syllables, just pronounce each one. Don’t try to say the words too quickly. Remember, you’re on island time now.”

  Keali‘i returned with their lunch and as she sat it on the table, Gybe ordered another round of drinks.

  Eyeing the empty restaurant and always recruiting for Oceans Now, Kara invited Keali‘i to join them when she returned with the second round of drinks.

  “Sure, I’m due for a break and it’s slow – thanks.”

  Between bites, Kara asked Keali‘i why after all the work to become an ocean scientist, she was waiting tables at the Hotel Moloka‘i.

  While they ate, Keali‘i explained that after receiving her Master of Science degree she chose to return to Moloka‘i rather than go to work for some company on the mainland.

  “Aren’t there companies in Hawai‘i that you could work for?” Kara asked.

  “Some, but not many. It’s frustrating. Hawai‘i sits in the middle of the Pacific Ocean yet most of the companies that work in the marine environment are on the mainland. We have a few aquaculture firms, a couple biotech companies that are extracting pharmaceuticals from ocean life, and a half-hearted attempt at developing technology for extracting energy from ocean waves.”

  She paused. “Sorry about the rant. I want to work in Hawai‘i. I grew up here, I like to surf, dive, swim, canoe – anything to do with the ocean. My ohana is here.”

  “Ohana?”

  “Ohana means extended family. It includes my brothers and sisters, parents, grandparents, aunties, uncles, their kids… - almost a community. Our culture is based on the ohana.”

  With a bit too much sarcasm Gybe thought, Kara asked, “How does an ocean scientist help her community by waiting tables?”

  “Oh, this is part time and temporary. I’m continuing my studies as a doctoral candidate at UH. I use a broadband Internet station at the Maui Community College campus. They have an extension branch here on the east side of town. Every other semester I return to O‘ahu for face time with my professors. Meanwhile, I’ve submitted a grant proposal to fund my research.”

  “What is the subject of your research?” Gybe asked.

  “The reef. You swim and dive, right Gybe?”

  “Sure, as much as I can. But to be honest, I’ve found that most of your reef is dead.”

  Keali‘i spelled out some of the problems. Tourists clumsily break coral formations with their flippers while snorkeling, and though it was against the law, tourists and local entrepreneurs collect corals and shells to take home or sell. Urban runoff floods the reefs with trash. Poor agriculture practices allow tons of silt to wash into coastal waters with each rain. The silt chokes the delicate corals and anemones. Unlike many more environmentally conscious states, Hawai‘i has very lax laws controlling the run-off from construction sites.

  “My ancestors subsisted on the bounty of the sea. But today, poor economic conditions and lazy habits have caused overfishing of coastal waters. Lazy fishermen and greedy fishermen use throw nets and set nets to harvest beyond their needs. Ancient Hawaiians did not use nets.”

  Kara nodded in agreement. “Keali‘i, you sound like a woman with a mission. Good luck. If you need my help, let me know. I can review your grant application, if you want.”

  “Here’s my business card. E-mail your address. When I return to Mendocino I’ll contact some of the people that I know.”

  Remembering Susan’s contention about the corn companies, Gybe questioned Keali‘i before she left.

  “Maybe.” Keali‘i responded. “There are so many factors affecting the reef that it is possible that there are side effects from the genetic research on corn. Can I get you guys anything else?”

  “No thanks, I’m pau.” Gybe answered.

  “Pau?” Kara arched her eyebrows.

  “Pau,” Gybe pronounced it pow, “means done, finished, complete … it’s a great word that you’ll hear often.”

  “What’s next?”

  “I want to see what the newspapers have to say and I want to look around Susan’s house.”

  11

  Kara turned left from the hotel parking lot, steered the ’vair towards Kaunakakai, and mashed the accelerator. Soon, the heavy, engine-toting rear end of the car stopped swaying and began tracking the hood ornament. Within minutes, the car accelerated to match the 35-mph speed limit. There were neither seat belts nor airbags. A thin layer of paint padded the steel dashboard. If a collision appeared imminent, Gybe selected bailing out as his survival tactic. He rode with his right hand fastened to the door handle.

  He pointed at convenience store and told Kara to stop. “Don’t forget, we can’t back up.”

  Kara rolled the car parallel to the sidewalk.

  Inside the store, Gybe purchased copies of the Honolulu Advertiser and Honolulu Star-Bulletin.

  “Why are you getting the Advertiser? Are you looking for another car?” Kara asked.

  “No. The Advertiser is a statewide newspaper. I don’t know how they ended up with the name. On the other hand, maybe they should be complimented for their honesty.”

  Kara drove to the house. Plantation owners had built it to house their workers. Weathered clapboard, perhaps once painted gray, covered the exterior of the simple square design. A porch, or lanai as they say in Hawai‘i, three steps above ground level, crossed the front of the building. The front railing was missing and the end rails teetered.

  They approached the front door. Gybe opened the screen and checked the door. It didn’t budge. “Gotta key?”

  “No. Let’s try the side door.”

  A deadbolt lock secured the side door where a notice denied entrance except on police business. Gybe tried the window to the right of the door. Through the windowpane, he could see that it was u
nlocked. He lifted the lower window, then bowed motioning ladies first to Kara. She climbed through the window and unlocked the side door.

  They had entered the kitchen. Divided into quarters, the efficient floor plan contained four rooms – kitchen, living, bedroom, and bedroom. They wandered through the rooms.

  In the second bedroom, Kara pulled aside a curtain of beads to reveal a Porta Potti in the closet.

  “Nice bathroom. Where’s the rest of it?”

  “Hey, Mendocino gal, this is back to nature. I saw a garden hose out back. Da shower. What else do you need?”

  Gybe snagged the Honolulu Star-Bulletin and grabbed a chair at the kitchen table. Even after four days, the murders on Moloka‘i remained on the front page.

  Gybe skimmed the stories, picking out the highlights.

  According to the lead story, Maui County Police officials had a suspect, Susan Combs, in custody. Ms. Combs owned Ocean Construction Company, Inc. headquartered on the Big Island. One anonymous police source had told the reporter “We have witnesses who can put Ms. Combs at the scene of the crime.”

  Witnesses? Susan had told him that she went out by herself and drifted in the channel. Now, the police were claiming they had witnesses. “Susan lied,” he said aloud.

  “Huh?”

  “Your friend, Susan, lied to us. According to this story, the police have witnesses.”

  Before Kara could respond, Gybe held up his hand and returned to the newspaper.

  According to the reporter, Maui County Police had arrested Susan twice during protests at SynCorn, Inc. An unnamed source at the Kaunakakai police station told the reporter that they believe she participated in the destruction of a test plot of corn owned by GeNesRus Ltd. Moreover, she had organized protests at the companies where the victims worked, as well as, most of the other seed companies with research plots on Moloka‘i. Not surprisingly, she was a co-defendant along with a weekly island newspaper in a pending libel suit. In several instances over the past eighteen months, the local paper has quoted Susan as saying, “… corn companies and their genetic engineering are murdering the reef system of the Hawaiian Islands.”