Molokai Reef

by Dennis K. Biby

  Like the sextant before it, the nav station was becoming an anachronism on modern boats. It seemed that everyone was switching to electronic charts displayed on flat panel displays. Few boaters used paper charts anymore. The nav station on Ferrity had been built for real charts. One could wedge into the seat and sit securely in the roughest seaway. In front of the seat, a sloping flat surface, the chart table, was large enough to display the biggest chart when it was folded in half. At sea, Gybe often sat at the nav station and wrote in his journal. Tonight he sat and wondered who had tossed his boat.

  Then he saw the jar.

  The tropics teemed with life. Some life forms were welcome some were not. On a boat, one struggled to keep the vermin ashore. Rats and roaches were the most pervasive and once aboard, the most prolific and destructive intruders. Spiders were another pest, but Gybe had learned to live with spiders.

  To prevent the introduction of the multi-legged critters, the first rule was never bring cardboard aboard. Roaches hid in boxes and laid their eggs in the seams. As another precaution, Gybe dunked hands of bananas and other fruit and vegetables in the ocean for several moments to purge the spiders and roaches. When tied to a pier, rats could skitter across Ferrity’s dock lines. But while cruising the islands, he seldom tied to a shore.

  No matter the caution, roaches still managed to get aboard. Some cockroaches would fly to the boat. In the past, he had tried roach hotels, motels, condos, and B & Bs. They didn’t work. In his experience, boric acid was the most effective roach-a-cide.

  Boric acid was a white powder with the consistency of chalk dust. A sixteen-ounce yellow bottle cost a few dollars. Enough boric acid for a decade. When the roaches walked through the white powder, it adhered to their legs and antennae. Clean as cats, the roaches preened by licking their many little paws. The acid dissolved their insides. Like skull orchards, only roach husks remained. It was very effective.

  Because the original container was so large, Gybe transferred some of the boric acid to a small jar formerly used for peanut butter. In large letters, he had written ‘Boric acid’ on the sides and lid of the plastic jar. He kept the jar under the sink in the head.

  Now, the open jar sat on the chart table. Beside the jar, a butter knife lay near a small pile of the white powder. Two shadowy traces paralleled a neatly formed white line.

  Darwin scores again, Gybe smirked, the dumb shit couldn’t read.

  56

  Kara walked down the ramp from the Moloka‘i Princess a little before 8:00 a.m. She had caught the 6:30 ferry from Lahaina. From the dinghy dock, she waved to the anchored boats. Flyn saw her first, so she bounced into her dinghy and pointed towards shore. With Kara onboard, Flyn headed towards Ferrity.

  Fresh brewed coffee permeated the air as the two women scampered aboard. Gybe produced two steaming mugs of coffee and returned to the galley. There was a portlight, propped open, on the port side of the companionway. In rough seas when the companionway was closed, the cook could pass food through the portlight to the watchstander in the cockpit. Through this portlight, Gybe handed Flyn a large bowl of fresh cut fruit. In the bowl, she saw bananas, mango, apples, and strawberries. Next from the portlight, she retrieved individual bowls of granola and a tub of yogurt.

  Gybe joined the two women as the last of the tour buses belched away from the ferry terminal. Silence returned to the harbor. Typical of December mornings, the wind was calm. Three boats – Ferrity, Makani, and Flyn’s boat – rested at anchor. Since there was neither wind nor current, the boats drifted at random around their anchor rodes.

  “How is Susan?” Gybe asked as he took the empty bowls and returned them to the galley.

  Kara informed them that she was still in jail. The judge still refused to set bail. The public defender assigned to Susan’s case was eager and she had graduated from an Ivy League school before returning to her native state. But, Susan would be her first murder case. Like the situation in most cities, there was a shortage of experienced public defenders. They were even scarcer on small islands.

  “Can’t you hire someone else?” Flyn interjected.

  “We could if we had the money. Oceans Now is a non-profit organization. Our limited operating funds come from donations. Those donations barely provide a subsistence salary for some employees. Most of our workers receive no salary.”

  “Won’t other environmental organizations help in this crisis?”

  Kara frowned. “Environmental orgs are as competitive as the worst capitalist. The fight for customers – donors – is fierce and ugly. When an org fails, there is a scramble to recruit the former members. One group happy, the other sad.”

  “Besides, this isn’t an environmental issue. Susan has been accused of murder.”

  “Does she have any ideas about who framed her?” Gybe asked.

  She had no idea. Kara wasn’t even sure there had been a frame. It wasn’t as though someone had planted the murder weapon in Susan’s closet.

  For Flyn’s benefit, Gybe replayed Susan’s alibi. “On the night of the murder, Susan took her boat to the reef. After anchoring she stoked up a fat one and masturbated under the moonlight.”

  “No.” Kara scowled at Gybe then looked to Flyn and rolled her eyes.

  “Smack him if you need.” Flyn suggested.

  “She dives to the bottom where she works through her yoga exercises before sitting quietly and meditating.”

  “Wow. That sounds exciting. When she gets out of jail, I want her to take me on one of these yoga diving expeditions.”

  Gybe brought the conversation back to the present problem. “Nice alibi. The prosecutor thinks she’s a murderer and eco-terrorist while the townsfolk think she is a witch. But, oh no, they are wrong. Susan is really a New Ager who meditates underwater during a full moon.” Gybe searched for words. “A werewolf. No that’s not right, a were-seal.”

  “She’s innocent, she doesn’t need an alibi.”

  They talked for a few more minutes about Susan, then Gybe brought Kara up to date on what they had discovered at SynCorn.

  “Flyn and I are on our way to meet Les. We’ll drop you at the pier.”

  “I want to go.” Kara whined.

  “Sorry. Not this time. You know how Les reacted the last time he and I met. I don’t want you there if he gets nutty again.”

  “What about Flyn?”

  “Look Kara, it isn’t because you are a woman. Flyn and I have worked together before. We can do the good guy – bad guy routine. You would be in the way.”

  Kara sulked while Gybe motored the dinghy to the pier. She walked to the ’vair, got in, and started it. Still angry, she revved the engine and popped the clutch. The engine hesitated, backfired twice, and the car lurched forward. A man in an old Army jacket, holding a fishing pole, jumped off the pier.

  “She took that well.” Gybe noted. “The maturity of the modern Mendocino woman.”

  57

  From the pay phone, Gybe telephoned Les and convinced him with a reference to the Tonto Group that it would be better to meet away from SynCorn’s offices.

  While Gybe was on the phone, Flyn had returned to Ferrity and then her boat to retrieve their bicycles. They mounted up and rode up the causeway towards shore and town. Les had agreed to meet them at the Kioea Beach Park, about a mile west of town.

  Between town and the park, wide shoulders bordered the two-lane road. They reached the park before Les.

  Cognizant of the signs warning of falling coconuts, they pushed the bikes around the edge of the coconut grove.

  From a sign, they learned that King Kamehameha V had planted one thousand royal coconut palm trees on the site in the 1860’s. Each tree represented a warrior in his army. He had selected the site because it encompassed seven sacred ponds. Almost one hundred fifty years later, the Kapuaiwa Coconut grove had dwindled to a few hundred trees.

  Staring up the limbless trunks, Gybe wondered if his reflexes could dodge a falling coconut. He recalled that the equation for the
distance an object fell was equal to one-half the gravitational constant multiplied by the square of the time in seconds. (D = ½*g*t**2) He rearranged the equation, rounded the gravitational constant to ten meters/sec/sec and used twenty meters as the height of the trees. Ignoring air resistance, a coconut would hit the ground about one and a half seconds after it broke free from a tree. Hmmm, he would need an alcohol-free processor and good reflexes to dodge a down bound coconut.

  Island legend maintained that at least one hundred fifty people per year died from falling coconuts. But a column in an alternative newspaper titled Straight Dope by Cecil Adams debunked the myth. According to the column, the data didn’t support anywhere near that number of deaths. It did admit that the data was sparse and collected from tropical regions not known for their record keeping.

  Flyn and Gybe walked the bicycles along the edge of the grove with Gybe wearing his helmet.

  “It’s beautiful here.” Flyn commented as they reached the sandy beach. “The water is so still and clear.” She waded away from the beach. “And shallow. Probably shallow all the way to the reef.”

  They both turned towards the sound of Les’s black Lincoln Navigator crunching over the coral-covered parking lot. Crushed coral substituted for gravel on many tropical islands. Spotting them on the beach, Les crossed the lot boundary, bumped over a shallow curb, ignored the warning signs, and slalomed the huge sport utility vehicle through the coconut grove.

  A gentle gust of wind loosed a coconut, which dead-centered the picnic table sized hood of the SUV. A distracted Les plowed into the next palm and stopped. The raining coconuts sounded like two Tibetan monks announcing dinner with a large gong.

  When the drumming stopped, the Navigator looked like it had been driven through a golf ball dimpling machine. Somehow, the windshield was unscathed.

  A stunned Les stepped out of the vehicle and looked up - one coconut too soon.

  58

  As Les looked up, a coconut hit above the bridge of his broken and bandaged nose, a souvenir from Lono Harbor. Gybe lifted him by the arms and drug his body to the beach where he propped the unconscious man against a mound of driftwood.

  From a ready supply of discarded beer bottles, Gybe selected a 40-ouncer and filled it with seawater.

  Les sputtered awake as Gybe dumped the second bottle of seawater.

  “Mornin’ sunshine,” Gybe gibed.

  Flyn suppressed a smile.

  “This is my friend, Flyn. Flyn, this is Les. He is the director of SynCorn and was Ray’s boss.”

  “Les, tell me about the Tonto Group.” Gybe asked.

  “Fuck off. It’s none of your business.”

  While Gybe had been awakening Les, Flyn collected crabs from the beach. She dropped a handful of the black crabs inside the collar of Les’s western shirt. “Tell Gybe what he wants to know.”

  Les struggled to get up but was held back by a rope looped around his chest and tied to the fallen palm. He hadn’t noticed the rope when he came to.

  “Sit still. Tell me about the Tonto Group.”

  Before Les could answer, Gybe saw a Maui County cruiser stop on the highway, flip on its blue lights, and back up to the entrance to the park. With his rigging knife, Gybe severed the rope that held Les.

  The police officer parked the cruiser in the lot and walked to the black Lincoln SUV. Cocking her head towards the shoulder mic, she radioed the station and read the license plate number to the dispatcher. Then, she walked to the beach.

  The officer flung a thumb over her shoulder and asked, “Who owns that car?”

  Les acknowledged that it was his. Gybe and Flyn edged away from the still recumbent Les who was squirming and wrapping his arms over his shoulders trying to reach the crabs.

  “We found him unconscious near the car, officer.” Flyn took over the conversation. “We carried him here and he just came around. I think he is OK except for that lump on his forehead.”

  “What’s wrong with him? Why is he squirming?”

  Flyn and Gybe shrugged.

  The officer unsnapped the retaining clip and rested her left hand on the butt of her 9mm Glock. “With one hand only, show me some ID.”

  Les started to stand but the officer drew her gun and yelled for him to sit back down. Les stood anyway.

  “Hands on your head, NOW.” The officer had taken a step back and braced her gun in both hands. “Turn around.”

  Les complied. Sand poured from the bottom of his once sharply pressed Levis as he settled his hands on top of his head.

  “Officer, if you don’t need us, we’ll be going.” Gybe and Flyn walked toward the bikes without waiting for an answer.

  The officer’s attention focused on Les who looked like the typical white-man dancing as he tried to shake the sand from his pants and the crabs from his shirt.

  Les was arguing with the officer when Gybe and Flyn mounted up and rode along the path to the parking lot. Two more Maui Police cars left rubber on the highway and slid into the parking lot; their blue lights flashing with impatience and their sirens triggering adrenal, pituitarian, and testicular hormonal releases into their steroid-enhanced bodies.

  Once out of range of the officer, Gybe said, “Guess we will have to schedule another meeting with him.”

  They pedaled towards town.

  Flyn and Gybe were half way down the causeway when a swarm of mopeds surrounded them. Gybe counted eleven mopeds – seven black ones, three silver, and one gold. Their leader rode a Harley. Queen bee and her drones, Gybe thought.

  Flyn leaned their bicycles against the railing and watched as Makaha swung a leg over the hog and stepped up to Gybe. The other riders straddled their mopeds revving their engines. It sounded like a Kathy Lee sweatshop in Bangladesh.

  Gybe balanced on the balls of his feet and readied his muscle groups. When Makaha crossed into his personal space, Gybe held up a palm. “Whoa buddy. That’s close enough.”

  “I want the key for that thing you put on my brother’s nuts. I want it now.” The chorus of mopeds revved their approval and support. Two tried to chirp their back tires but instead killed the small engines.

  “Don’t have it. Wouldn’t give it to you if I did.”

  Not liking the answer, Makaha puffed up even more and stepped closer to Gybe. “Maybe I should check your pockets in case you forgot.”

  The man was two inches taller than Gybe. Prison tattoos, one letter on each knuckle, spelled FCUK. Another illiterate or maybe a dyslexic. The man’s biceps had pumped some heavy iron. Makaha was solid and mean. The gang of mopeds bolstered his ill temper.

  “Where’d you get these guys?” Gybe nodded to the mopeds. “Shriner dropouts? Abandoned by the circus?” From the moped colors, he deduced that the moped support team represented the lower tiers of the multi-level drug distribution pyramid.

  One guy removed a coil of rope looped over his shoulder and stepped to the nearest lamppost. On the third toss, he sailed the rope over the cross-arm and tied a slipknot in the dangling end.

  The remaining riders parked their mopeds in a semicircle, obstructing the makai bound lane of the causeway, then dismounted.

  “I think maybe we shake out your pockets. Remember how funny you thought it was to hang me from the banyan tree?” His guys had heard the story, so there was no use pretending that it hadn’t happened. Makaha had embellished the tale. Six big men had jumped him before stringing him from the tree. Three of them were in the hospital, he had told his troops.

  “Hey Pablo, show the man what you got in da jar.”

  The small Hispanic man, clearly out of place on this island, held up a gallon jar full of fake mustaches. Odd, Gybe thought, until he noticed they were moving. Centipedes!

  Makaha stepped forward and grabbed for Gybe’s shirt. As his hand touched the material, Gybe heard the loud snap of bone just before Makaha’s scream of pain.

  Like most macho men, Makaha had ignored the weak female who stood about a yard to Gybe’s right. Flyn, who had studied
martial arts as a hobby and sometimes taught self-defense classes to college coeds, had thrust her foot into the side of Makaha’s left knee. The joint had snapped and it would no longer support his weight.

  Makaha screamed as his leg collapsed. Trying to ease his fall, Gybe lifted a knee to the man’s groin. His knee supported Makaha for a moment but then the big man went down howling.

  For several seconds, the mopeders stood silent as they watched their boss writhe on the tarmac. Makaha didn’t know whether to grab his k-nuts or his k-nee.

  “Kill that bitch. Kill em both.” Makaha squealed with his new falsetto voice. “I want em dead.”

  Gybe and Flyn exchanged glances. They could stay and fight. The odds were eleven to two. Gybe surveyed the crowd. Like good little drug dealers, each one wore a pair of dark sunglasses. If they were on batu – ice, crystal meth – then they would be unstoppable.

  A SWAT officer in Honolulu had told Gybe how it took several trained officers to bring down a tweaker, someone high on ice. The drug gave them superhuman strength and a feeling of invincibility.

  The bay was behind them. Flyn and Gybe could jump into the water but it was less than four feet deep, deep enough to swim but not deep enough to offer an advantage.

  Flyn flicked her eyes towards the harbor. Gybe heard the dopplering sound of a small engine. Someone, Mongoose he hoped, was approaching in a dinghy.

  “I think maybe we string up the bitch first.” The talker was about five six and weighed well over two hundred pounds. Like the rest, he wore slippers and surfer shorts. His greasy muscle shirt, a size XXXL, should have been another X or two larger.

  The group stepped forward.

  Flyn and Gybe stood side by side with their backs to the water. None of the gang had noticed the approaching dinghy.

  Gybe grabbed Flyn as he turned and dove into the water. Several feet away, a moped exploded, knocking five of the gang to the pavement. Gybe and Flyn surfaced in time to see the second flare miss the mopeds, but catch one of the mopeders in the gut. His friends ripped off his shirt and threw him in the water. Gybe and Flyn swam towards Mongoose’s dinghy.