Molokai Reef

by Dennis K. Biby

  Once in the cockpit, he hauled in the mainsheet to control the luffing sail. As the wind filled the mainsail, the boom swung to the starboard side. Ferrity gained speed as she headed southeast towards the pier.

  With the furling line and jib sheet, Gybe unfurled the roller-furling jib and the big sail filled with a snap. Gybe turned the wheel and Ferrity’s bow swung towards the harbor entrance.

  Many would say he was showing off. Gybe, on the other hand, knew that engines always, always quit when you needed them the most. As often as practical, he practiced sailing away from an anchorage without the engine.

  The sun was at the top of its arc across the sky when he motored Ferrity into Hale o Lono, twelve miles west of Kaunakakai. Hale o Lono translates to House of Lono. One of the four gods brought by the ancient Polynesians who sailed from Tahiti, Lono was the god of peace and prosperity. Followers prayed to Lono to provide fertile crops for he was also the god of love.

  The harbor, often shortened to Lono, was an abandoned barge harbor built to carry cattle and supplies from the 50,000 acre Moloka‘i Ranch dominating the west end of the island. A narrow opening, marked by navigational range markers ashore, led sailors between the rock jetties guarding the harbor entrance. The nearest town, Maunaloa that he had visited with Kara, was about three miles up a narrow dirt road. On the outer jetty, two people were creating sculptures from driftwood and other flotsam. Someone else had balanced rocks atop other rocks to form small modernistic cairns.

  Gybe motored past the only other boat, a large catamaran, and anchored near the east end of the harbor, far from the ocean swell pulsing through the entrance. He recognized the other boat, the catamaran named Lagoonabago. There would be plenty of time to visit later.

  After setting the anchor, he unrolled the mainsail cover along the top of the furled mainsail, then lashed it to the boom. The cover protected the expensive mainsail from the weather and tropical sun. He coiled the halyards, jib sheets, mainsheet, and preventers.

  Satisfied that Ferrity was again shipshape, he made a sandwich of leftover fish fillets, spinach leaves, and a sprinkling of capers – no mayo. To a glass, he added a teaspoon of Tabasco, teaspoon of lemon juice, dash of Worcestershire, squirt of wasabi, and successive layers of chili powder, black pepper, and dried red pepper before emptying a can of V-8 juice – no vodka.

  He stuck his head outside, noted the sun over the yardarm, actually it was called a spreader on a sloop, then ducked below for the vodka.

  34

  After lunch and a short nap, Gybe launched the dinghy sans the outboard engine and rowed towards the catamaran.

  The catamaran was forty-seven feet long, with a nearly twenty-six-foot beam, yet she drew less water than Ferrity four feet or so. The large saloon, or salon as the advertising executives preferred, could seat ten at the dining table. A luxurious fully equipped galley filled the port side, opposite the table. Each hull enclosed two staterooms. Each stateroom contained a queen size berth and an enclosed private head.

  Lagoonabago, a play of words on the French-built Lagoon 470 racing catamaran, could dash across the seas at over twenty knots. Andrea, the owner, had purchased the vessel from a Caribbean bareboat charter fleet then contracted with a Venezuelan shipyard to customize the yacht. The work had taken seven months.

  “Ahoy Lagoonabago.” Gybe shouted.

  Andrea, sitting in the saloon, looked up from a paperback then stood, opened the sliding glass door, and stepped outside. Recognition edged across her face. “Gybe! Is that you? Come aboard, come aboard.” She rushed to the stern.

  Gybe tied the painter to the starboard hull. Molded steps led up the transom to the main deck. Andrea embraced him, then turned to the saloon. “Girls, girls – look it’s Gybe?”

  Three women streamed from the saloon and engulfed Gybe in a sea of lips, arms, and breasts. Gybe came up for air twice, but then returned to the jumble of nubile bodies. They seemed glad to see him, although he had never met “the girls.”

  He had encountered Andrea not long after she purchased Lagoonabago. While the vessel was undergoing refit in Caracas, Andrea returned to Sausalito where she was preparing to move her business onto the boat. She serviced a large number of clients, scattered across the United States, with most transactions on credit cards. The number of international clients, particularly from Asia, expanded as fast as the U.S. trade deficit grew and their cheap-labor economies ballooned.

  Like any sales organization, or as Andrea called it – a global consulting concern – she needed business management software to manage the client base and financial transactions. Finding herself on the leading edge of technology in her profession, she turned to Gybe.

  He determined that off the shelf products like Peachtree Accounting, QuickBooks, Oracle, and others were inadequate for Andrea’s needs. Instead, he developed a custom software database application on a secure Internet server. Because Andrea was moving the business’s corporate offices to Lagoonabago, Gybe developed the necessary tools to access the company software from a satellite-linked laptop aboard the catamaran. Gybe, both as a friend and business consultant, had unhindered access to the server.

  Andrea was in the service-oriented entertainment business. Aboard Lagoonabago, her three female employees, or pleasure engineers as she preferred to call them, offered wit, class, and fantasies in private theme-designed staterooms. On that day in Lono Harbor, one stateroom carried a harem motif, another offered a San Francisco inspired bondage dungeon, and the culturally sensitive third stateroom sported a Polynesian décor.

  Prostitution carried an ugly connotation in too many religious-retentive cultures. Euphemistically, it was referred to as marriage or dating or cohabiting, distinguishable only by length of contract. Regardless of the term, it involved the exchange of services, often quantifiable by economic measures.

  Andrea’s girls were more apt to be researching red light districts for their dissertations than they were to frequent those districts. At the minimum, an applicant must possess a Bachelor’s degree, but most knew that postgraduate work improved ones chances. After passing the second interview, Andrea hired consultants who tested their conversational abilities and physical fitness. As a condition of employment, each girl had to pass a top-notch finishing school in Provence, France. A recent check of the Web site database showed Gybe that one hundred thirteen girls were on the employment waiting list.

  On the client side, an existing client must have referred each new client. The potential client completed a multi-page questionnaire, slightly more complicated than required to buy a new home and then submitted it via the Web site along with a non-refundable ten thousand dollar application fee. After review, Andrea forwarded the application to San Francisco.

  In San Francisco, Jennifer, a former associate, headed the Northern California office of the largest nationwide personnel recruiting firm. Using the extensive resources available to headhunters, she vetted each new client before their first invitation to Lagoonabago. If accepted, the client signed a two-page document acknowledging rules and penalties and remained on probation for three visits. The waiting list for new clients was almost double the length of the list for the girls.

  Clients paid by credit card. Gybe set up the system so that the statements would show transactions billed to fictitious hotels, resorts, travel agencies, restaurants, spas, etc. On each visit, the client could specify the type of transaction and location. The tactic diminished the curiosity of homebound spouses, pesky accounting firms, and satiated the IRS definition of legitimate business expense.

  There was pressure to accept purchase orders but Gybe convinced Andrea that payments would be slow, especially with government purchase orders.

  She never accepted checks from campaign funds nor accept politicians as clients. After all, the girls had their standards too.

  The group moved inside and one of the girls brought drinks. Until the clients arrived, drinks were non-alcoholic. Andrea introduced the girls as Gybe tried to build memo
ry associations between them and their names. Perkiest breasts belonged to Pamela. Lindsey’s legs went from the deck to heaven. Amber’s ass was a nice double handful. Perky Pamela, Legs Lindsey, and Amber’s Ass. Got it.

  “So Andrea, I was on the Web site last week cleaning up the database and uploading some fixes. You are busy. Have you thought anymore about franchises?”

  “Yes and no. If you looked at the finances, you saw that the cash flow is substantial. And thanks to your computer wizardry and my knowledge of international banking, taxes have been minimal.”

  After graduating magna cum laude at Wharton Business School in Philadelphia, a Fortune 100 corporation headquartered in the northeastern United States had hired Andrea. Unknown to Andrea at the time, the company was building an elite team tasked to move the corporate headquarters to the Caribbean. Preliminary calculations predicted that the move could save the company upwards of three hundred forty million dollars per year in federal, state, and local taxes.

  Andrea rose to the challenge and soon to the head of the team. After the successful relocation of that HQ, Andrea convinced her team to join her in starting a new company rather than meld into some innocuous position with the old company. All but one of her coworkers agreed. Over the next three years, the team relocated seven other Fortune 500 companies offshore earning very handsome consulting fees. Andrea was thirty-two and no longer challenged when she sold her company to a big accounting firm who unclear on the concept relocated themselves to Liberia and disappeared.

  “I’ve decided to expand as you suggest, but I will maintain ownership. No franchising. I have the cash to keep control. I’ve talked it over with the girls – the ones here and the ones who’ve worked with me in the past. I’m concluding the purchase of two more Lagoon 470 catamarans from the Caribbean bareboat fleet. Pamela has the Caracas shipyard ready to begin as soon as the boats are delivered.” Practicing his memory techniques, Gybe nodded to the perky breasted Pamela.

  “I’ve picked two former girls to captain the cats when they are ready. My attorney is drafting papers for a stock distribution plan.”

  “Great! Andrea, that’s terrific.”

  As the two caught up on events, the girls drifted away to read, listen to music, and rest. Gybe told Andrea about Susan and her plight. Andrea offered her help; she had clients from the biotech corn industry. Several were attending a mini-convention at the Papohaku Resort, the same resort on the west end of the island that Gybe and Kara had driven to yesterday.

  “I think one of them is scheduled for tonight.”

  She motioned Gybe to follow. At her laptop, they reviewed the backgrounds of tonight’s clients. Gybe noted that Les of SynCorn was on the list.

  “Les is a first-timer?”

  “Jennifer in San Francisco checked him out. Why? Do you know him?”

  After relaying to Andrea his knowledge of Les, Andrea insisted that Gybe return for cocktail hour as her personal guest.

  He was rowing back towards Ferrity when he heard shouts from ashore.

  35

  Ashore, a man waved both arms above his head motioning Gybe to come over. Two women and another lad stood nearby. Backstroking one oar and forward stroking the starboard oar, Gybe spun the dinghy shoreward.

  The face of the old wharf, lathed with horizontal planks, rose five feet from the water. Randomly hung tires formed makeshift rub guards protecting either the wharf or docked vessels - steel hulled working vessels, not fastidiously maintained yachts. Every fifty feet, bolted securely to the deck of the wharf, large mooring cleats, two feet from tip to tip, stood awaiting the next hawser or mooring line.

  Standing in the dinghy, holding on to the wharf, Gybe spoke with the people.

  They told him they had found a jetski on the beach down by the old Boy Scout Camp. “Looks like it run up on the beach.” On an earlier day, Gybe had walked the beach. He knew they were referring to an old pavilion, slowly falling into the sea, about a mile east of Lono Harbor. The people were worried that someone had fallen off in the ocean, allowing the jetski to beach itself. He doubted this theory since any sensible rider attached the kill lanyard to their body. If a rider fell off, the lanyard would either kill the engine or cause the jetski to idle in tight circles.

  “I’ll notify the Coast Guard when I get back to my boat.”

  Gybe rowed to Ferrity and called the Coast Guard on VHF radio channel 16. He knew that here in Lono Harbor cell phone coverage was poor to non-existent.

  When the Coast Guard answered, he suggested they switch to a working channel 22A. This was not an emergency so he did not want to tie up the main frequency. He told the Coast Guard the story and told them he would investigate and report. They agreed to stand by. The nearest Coast Guard vessel was at least an hour away. With what little information was available, the Coast Guard decided not to dispatch a helicopter until Gybe reported.

  The south swell ran too high to take the dinghy outside the harbor and then attempt a reef crossing to the Boy Scout camp, but if he walked the old jeep trail instead of plowing along the soft sandy shore, he could be there in less than twenty minutes.

  Gybe put on his hiking boots and threw the portable VHF, first aid kit, and some water into a daypack. He stopped by Lagoonabago on his way ashore and apprised Andrea of the situation. It was unlikely that the handheld VHF would reach the Coast Guard radio towers. He asked Andrea to stand by for a relay.

  At the wharf, he tied the dinghy to an old barge cleat and walked towards the jeep trail. A padlocked gate prevented cars from entering the trail. Bullet riddled signs warned against trespassing on the private property of Moloka‘i Ranch. Gybe climbed the gate and dropped to the ground.

  Closer than he remembered, he arrived at the camp in less than fifteen minutes. The jetski was far up on the beach, above the high tide line. The unit appeared new. Good riddance, thought Gybe.

  He hated jetskis or personal watercraft or whatever the name du jour. They were loud and obnoxious, the machine equivalent of mosquitoes. OK, maybe a machine can’t be obnoxious, but in the hands of the people who rode them, the jetski and rider combination became the most abominable nuisance on the water. Several coastal cities and counties had banned them. Like snowmobiles in the wilderness, Gybe couldn’t fathom the attraction of rocketing through nature on a noisemaker. Why didn’t someone flood football stadiums and let them play there?

  Ropes connected to the beast trailed towards the water. Tidal action had buried most of the rope. An old inner tube lay partially buried where one rope disappeared under the sand. Gybe suspected the machine had been there for a couple of days at least.

  He tried to contact the Coast Guard with his handheld radio, but got no response. When Andrea heard no response from the Coast Guard, she broke in and relayed his findings to them. He read the state registration numbers into the radio.

  Gybe could hear Andrea relay the information, but he couldn’t hear the Coast Guard’s response. After she finished, she called him back. The Coasties had requested that he stand by for a few minutes. A patrol boat from Maui was on its way and should arrive within ten minutes.

  Gybe agreed. Remembering that Mongoose had mentioned a jetski theft, he told Andrea to ask the Coast Guard to check for theft.

  36

  Two hundred yards beyond the jetski, Gybe noticed a large dark shape on the sand. It was well above the tide line. He wandered up the beach to investigate.

  Having identified the mass, he stopped twenty yards away to watch the resting Hawaiian monk seal. Had Gybe lain beside the dozing seal, he would have found the seal to be up to a foot longer, possibly seven feet in length. However, at two to four times Gybe’s weight, he chose to estimate the sleeping animal’s length from afar. Even as a protected species, the monk seal had achieved the dubious distinction of being the most endangered marine mammal in America. Estimates varied, but fewer than fifteen hundred remained. Most survived around the uninhabited Northwest Hawaiian Islands. So far, they had fared better than their
cousins had. There were fewer than a thousand Mediterranean monk seals and the last Caribbean monk seal had been sighted more than fifty years ago.

  As Gybe walked away, he realized that the seals would disappear with the reef. They fed on reef fishes, eels, octopi, and lobsters – all reef inhabitants.

  The Darwin-challenged ancient Hawaiians had given the seal a name that meant ‘dog that runs in rough waters.’ Today, many scientists believed that the ancestors of pinnipeds, such as the Hawaiian monk seals, had evolved from terrestrial animals related to bears and wolves. Twenty million years ago, they returned to the sea.

  Gybe knew that the reef would die before the seals could evolve back to land. As carnivores, what would they eat? Mongooses, cats, dogs, small children? His grin widened as he enumerated the opportunities.

  He ambled back to the jetski to await the Coast Guard. Near the beached noxious beast he found an old fence post smoothed by its recent life in the surf zone.

  By the time the Coast Guard arrived, the recently shiny carapace appeared to have tumbled in the surf as well. They confirmed that the owner reported it stolen a week earlier. No search for the missing rider was necessary.

  Fifteen minutes after the Coast Guard left, Gybe returned to the gate at the foot of the jeep trail. As he stepped up on the gate, his eye was drawn to the chain. While the padlock, which was visible from the other side, was intact, the chain on the backside of the gate had been cut. Someone had used a twist tie like those found on a bread bag to connect the ends of the chain.

  37

  Back aboard Ferrity from the walk to the jetski, Gybe showered, changed into pressed chinos, donned an aloha shirt, and slipped into Rockport boat moccasins. Andrea’s operation was first class and Gybe dressed to fit in.