From an old hippie, Gybe bought a hat woven from dried palm fronds. Kara found a table of salad bowls, serving trays, and desk accessories hand-carved from koa, monkeypod, and mango wood. Another craftswoman displayed necklaces, earrings, and bracelets created from seashells.
Five ukuleles sat on one table. The merchant told them that if they didn’t see one they liked, he could make one to order.
Under a tree near the center of the market, three teenage sisters sang in accompaniment with four men who strummed ukuleles and drummed.
Two high school girls stood behind a counter offering shave ice. They told Gybe that they were raising money for a senior trip to Waikiki. Several hormonal teenage boys hovered nearby. Gybe bought everyone a shave ice and they continued to walk.
He explained to Kara that shave ice was first used as an afternoon treat for the plantation workers nearly a century ago. Shave ice was similar to a snow cone, but different because rotating blades shave the ice from a block. The shave ice was mounded atop a cup or cone and sweet syrup was poured over the top. The girls in the booth had offered strawberry, pineapple, lime, mango, vanilla, and other popular flavors.
“If you go over to O‘ahu, you should visit the Matsumoto store in Hale‘iwa. It’s on the North Shore. Their shave ice is world famous. It has been featured in magazines and television shows. When I was there, they had over twenty-five flavors including lihing mui, lychee, and lilikoi.”
Gybe was in tour guide mode, so no one asked him to describe lihing mui. Flyn and Kara thanked him for the tourist spiel then walked away from the two men.
“Some people just don’t appreciate the culture.” Gybe commented.
Gybe spotted Jean’s gardener behind several baskets of fresh corn. A cardboard sign displayed a column of decreasing prices. All but the bottom price, one-fourth of the top price, had been x-ed out. The latest price was five for a dollar. Gybe was surprised to see so few customers.
“Five for a dollar is a bargain.” Mongoose selected ten ears while Gybe talked with the gardener.
“Corn looks great. I’m surprised you haven’t sold out.”
The gardener told him that he had taken the corn from Jean’s greenhouse. “No one tells me what to do, so I keep tending the corn. The ears were ready for harvest so I asked three local kids to help me pick it. No one ever came around from Jean’s company.”
“Why isn’t anyone buying? I don’t see any competition.”
The gardener picked up an ear and peeled back the husk. Both men stared at the green corn. Each kernel was a deep forest green, a color not often associated with corn.
“Wha da hell dis dat?” Exclaimed a passerby.
All the corn was that color, explained the gardener. He had expected to earn unpaid wages by selling the corn at the market. No one was buying. No one except the ‘goose who was undeterred by the unusual corn. The corn almost matched his teeth.
“That reminds me,” Mongoose said as the men walked away, “I heard from my friend on the mainland. He thinks that he understands what Jean and Ray were researching in their caramel corn project.”
Gybe took several more steps before his impatience boiled. “And?”
“He wouldn’t tell me just yet. He wants some samples of the corn. Not just the kernels, but one of the plants.”
“Why wouldn’t he tell you what he found?”
“Don’t know. But he was very excited. He said that if the tests on the actual plant supported the documents, then Ray and Jean had made an amazing discovery.”
They found the women talking with an artist while viewing her paintings. “We’re headed back to the boats, you coming?” Gybe asked.
“We’ll see you later.” Kara answered.
After dropping their purchases on the boats, Gybe sat behind the wheel of the ’vair and twisted the ignition screwdriver. The starter cranked the engine through several revolutions before it caught and issued its trademark backfire. Bill landed on the seat next to Mongoose and squawked “Fire in the hole. Fire in the hole.”
Across the pier, a fisherman screamed as she fell into the harbor.
Gybe and Mongoose drove away unaware that during the backfire, pressurized exhaust gases launched papayas from each of the twin pipes. The starboard papaya hit the fisherman in the small of her back. From the port pipe, the papaya followed a low trajectory before fragging a trash can.
Gybe drove around Jean’s house and parked near the greenhouse with the car facing the street. Inside, they discovered that the gardener had harvested most of the corn. From the few stalks still standing, Mongoose selected the healthiest for shipment to his friend. He counted eleven ears of corn on the four-foot plant.
“Look at this Gybe. There’s eleven ears on one plant.”
Gybe studied the plant. “When I visited my uncle in Iowa, he told me that his corn produced only one ear per plant. On average, anyway. He said the plants along the edge might produce a few more, but he never said anything about a dozen per plant.”
“This plant is half as tall as the ones on his farm. This must be why your friend on the mainland is so excited.”
Mongoose wrapped the plant in large lawn bags and took it to the car. When he returned, Gybe stood looking at a pile of fresh-shucked corn. Next to the pile, someone had converted the south facing wall into a solar dehydrator. Dozens of ears were drying on the rack.
The men walked through the back door and crossed the lawn to a small two-sided shed. The south and west sides of the ten by fifteen foot building were open to the weather. In the protected corner, Gybe found a small grain mill attached to a three horsepower electric motor. A two level commercial pizza oven with rusted Domino’s Pizza labels towered over the mill.
“We’ve found the mother lode.” Gybe mumbled.
By the time they left an hour later, they knew the source of the mysterious forest green tortilla chips loved by everyone. Maybe to hide their discovery, Jean and Ray had decided to turn the corn into nacho chips. Gybe knew that most corn plants were sterile hybrids. The seeds would not grow new plants.
His respect for Ray and Jean soared. If they had created a new variety of corn that produced ten fold the amount of corn and on a four-foot stalk that used resources for the ears instead of tall stalks, then they had made a remarkable and profitable discovery. And since they went to great efforts converting the ripe kernels into tortilla chips to hide their discovery, Gybe guessed that the kernels were fertile.
“Gybe, how are we going to get this plant to the mainland?”
“Pack it in a box and FedEx it.”
Mongoose pointed out that the USDA inspected all agriculture products, not just the ones coming into Hawai‘i, but the ones going to the mainland as well.
“Don’t sweat it. Everyone is more interested in box-cutters and bombs these days. The only species protected by government agencies is the one least endangered and most dangerous.” The men drove back to the pier.
Kara and Flyn were about to board the dink when they heard the ’vair approaching. After parking the car, Gybe and Mongoose explained what they had found in Jean’s greenhouse.
Kara volunteered to take the package on the ferry to Maui and FedEx it from there. It was time for another visit to her friend, Susan.
When the ferry carrying Kara was outbound, Mongoose announced, “Party. My boat. Now.”
Motoring back to Makani, Mongoose paralleled two outrigger canoes. “Hey guys and gals, party on Makani tonight. Bring your own drinks.”
The paddlers focused on their race, but both steersman signaled a thumbs up.
Gybe returned to Ferrity, pulled an amber ale from the reefer, and lit off his laptop. The deadline for his article was less than a week away. It was time for the third and final edit. In the article, he had described his visits to six of the inhabited Hawaiian Islands. The owners of Ni‘ihau prohibited visitors to the seventh inhabited island. Instead, he had circumnavigated the island and taken several photographs.
An hour l
ater, he closed the laptop, rose from the cockpit seat, and went below to the saloon. In a secret compartment, he stashed a backup disk of today’s work, then stowed the laptop in yet another hidden compartment. As a deterrent to theft, he kept an old, non-working laptop near the nav station. In the past two years, thieves had stolen three of the decoy computers.
Gybe slipped into a pair of swim trunks, climbed through the companionway, and walked to a point near the shrouds, almost amidships. Arching his back, he dove over the side and swam towards the sea buoy at the harbor entrance. This morning’s anchor dragging drill had interfered with his daily swim.
When he returned from the swim, he scaled the boarding ladder and dropped the swim trunks on the sole of the cockpit. He uncoiled the shower hose from its compartment on the aft side of the cockpit, took a quick shower, dropped below, and moved forward to his stateroom.
Gybe donned a clean pair of cargo shorts and topped them with an aloha shirt. The shirt was not strictly aloha motif. Instead of tropical sunsets, palm trees, or hula dancers, new and ancient sailboat designs decorated the shirt.
In a practiced move, he untied the painter and leapt into the dink in one motion. Fifteen seconds from the cockpit, the outboard was humming with the bow pointed towards Makani. With the noise and music emanating from the schooner, even a blind man could have found her.
Gybe tied Aweigh to the stern. The inflatable nestled among four other small boats. Two outrigger canoes were rafted alongside Makani. Three more six-person canoes, tied end to end, dangled from the stern like a string of sausages.
The deck drummed with the weight of numerous male and female bodies. Keali‘i, their server from the hotel, watched Gybe’s approach. She handed him a cold Lavaman ale as he stepped aboard.
“Thanks, Keali‘i.” He swallowed a deep slug. “Do you know all of these people?”
“Sure. Except for you blow-boaters, everyone lives on the island.”
She had included Kara in her vernacular for sailors. After Kara’s action with the anchor this morning, Gybe wasn’t prepared to correct her. In Gybe’s opinion, Kara had learned a lot about boats and sailing since she had arrived on Moloka‘i. Best of all, she possessed the common sense gene, so rare in today’s society.
“Where’s ‘goose?”
“Not sure. He and some wahine took the dinghy ashore. They got in a noisy old car with a thatched roof and drove towards town.”
A friend of Keali‘i appeared and soon dragged her away from Gybe. Odd man out. Gybe walked about the schooner, mingling with the partiers. He saw the girl that he had swum home with from the last party. What was her name? Before he pulled a brain tendon trying to remember, he heard the ’vair on the causeway.
At the dinghy dock, he watched Mongoose and a sarong-clad native girl wrestle three bags in the boat. The ‘goose parked the car then returned to the dink. The girl had started the motor and as soon as he stepped in, he cast off the line. She drove the dink back to Makani.
Gybe stood amidships on the starboard side while she silenced the outboard and drifted alongside.
“Take this.” The girl handed up the first bag. “Be careful, they’re fragile.”
Captain Cook Coffee Co. Ltd. was stenciled in a diamond shape on the gunnysack. Beneath the logo, Gybe read Net Wt. 100 Lbs. He braced himself while marveling at the strength of the petite wahine.
Gybe grabbed the bag with both hands and stumbled backwards with the unexpected weight. The burlap bag weighed no more than ten pounds.
Mongoose laughed. “Chips. More chips.” Then he handed Gybe the remaining bags.
“Damn ‘goose. Got enough chips? Where’s the keg of salsa?”
Parties aboard Makani were boisterous, unpredictable, and loud. Anyone who had attended one never hesitated to accept the next invitation. Mongoose provided the platform – the schooner - and started the festivities with good music through a sound system that included four sets of speakers – one set below deck, another set on each mast, and a set in the cockpit. With a custom built remote control, the ‘goose could select from over five thousand music tracks stored on hard drives, as well as, balance the entire sound system.
For refreshments, he had converted a locker originally designed to hold sails into a cold storage unit capable of chilling two regular-size beer kegs and one pony key. The taps were mounted on the aft bulkhead of the galley. When he invited people to his parties, he asked them to bring their own drinks. Many did, some didn’t. Mongoose didn’t care.
Flyn, Keali‘i who had dumped her friend, Mongoose with his latest squeeze, and Gybe sat in the cockpit, sipped drinks, and crunched chips. An impromptu band had formed on the foredeck. Mongoose lifted the control, hanging from the binnacle, and killed the sound system.
“Why is your boat named Makani?” asked his wahine as she draped a bare leg across ‘goose’s lap.
“Makani means wind or breeze. You’re Hawaiian, you should know that.”
“I do. But, why did you name it that?”
“Because I blow with the wind. No roots. I’m adrift in the cosmos, adrift upon the oceans, just blowing in the wind.”
“Profound,” replied Flyn hoping to stifle Mongoose’s motion towards song.
Keali‘i chuckled and tried to cover her laughter behind her drink.
As usual, Bill sat on the binnacle holding a fat doobie. He passed it to Keali‘i.
“What’s so funny Keali‘i? Too much wacky-backy?” Gybe asked.
Giggling, Keali‘i answered. “Besides wind or breeze, Makani also means to break wind.” She took a deep hit, then passed the doobie back to Bill.
Bill leaned over to grasp the joint in his beak and fell off his perch. “Oh baby, primo buds.” Bill tried to stand, but he couldn’t keep his legs beneath him. Even a drunk couldn’t fall off the floor. Bill remained on his back on the cockpit floor. The giggling Keali‘i fell over into Gybe’s lap.
62
Mongoose steered his dinghy to the stern of Ferrity and climbed aboard. “I heard from the mainland.”
“You heard from the guy that we FedExed the corn plant to?”
“Yeah. The preliminary tests on the plant confirmed his suspicions from the documents.”
“Let me guess. Jean and Ray created a strain of midget corn with yields several times normal? Only one problem – the kernels are green!”
The ‘goose smiled. “True. That is one conclusion. You and I have seen that.”
As was often the case with Mongoose, he parceled out information like an old man dribbling his corn flakes.
“There’s more, isn’t there?”
“I’m mighty dry. Got any brews aboard this barge?”
Kara, who had been reading on the bow, stepped into the cockpit and heard the request. Gybe shrugged and Kara continued below. She returned with three cold Lavaman ales and sat next to Gybe across from the ‘goose.
“If I weren’t rich, I would be.” He teased.
“Goose, if you don’t want me to pop those eyes out of your mongoose-like face like I’d pop a two-day old pimple, you’d better start talking.”
Mongoose grumbled something about humor, took a deep pull from the bottle, and told the story.
Developing a high-yield, efficient variety of corn had not been the goal of the murdered Jean and Ray. Their goal, which they attained, was to transfer the THC producing genes from the cannabis plant to corn. The corn kernels tested between eight and twelve percent potency for the good stuff.
Mongoose paused to let the news soak in.
“Don’t you see? The market for the corn would be astro-fucking-nomical. Instead of all the secret marijuana plots in Marin county or British Columbia or hidden across these islands, recreational users could grow it in their own gardens and greenhouses. Think Alice B. Toklas brownies – anything made with the corn could give you a buzz.”
“Wow! But, the problem was the forest green kernels?”
“No. My buddy doesn’t think so. He thinks they made the kerne
ls green so they could control the experiment. According to him, Ray could modify the next generation to the more common white or yellow.”
No one spoke for several minutes as each shuffled through the possibilities.
Kara spoke first. “Do you think they were killed because of this?”
To Gybe, it all made sense. Secretly, the two researchers had produced the caramel corn. Maybe the rumored offer of hashish to the drug brothers was really an offer of corn.
“Do you think the drug brothers are involved?” Mongoose asked.
“Nah. They’re too stupid. They are efficient in the distribution and control of the pakalolo market, but I don’t see them as farmers or visionaries or market makers. Besides, once these kernels become available to everyone, the pakalolo market is gone. I mean, the kernels are fertile – aren’t they?”
“Yes. All you have to do is save some of this year’s crop and replant it next year. Beautiful, just beautiful.” Mongoose’s eyes widened and darted about like a weasel in a hen house.
“Then maybe the drug dealers killed them to stop the corn.” Kara suggested.
“If they did, then that confirms their stupidity. Killed the victims and left behind a greenhouse full of fertile corn.” Gybe replied. “No, I think we need to look for someone else.”
The three turned as Flyn brought her dinghy alongside. Once in the cockpit, Gybe summarized the recent discovery.
“Les.” She said.
“What about Les?” Kara asked.
Gybe was ahead of the answer. Of course, SynCorn had received two million dollars from the Bahamas via a Swiss bank account. Flyn’s friend had sailed from Eleuthera to Freeport where she bribed, although cash wasn’t the incentive, a bank official. The two million dollars came from Columbia. When Flyn revealed this to Gybe, they decided that the money was most likely drug related. There was no purpose in pursuing the source further.
Gybe answered. “Remember SynCorn received the two million dollars six months ago? That money likely came from the illegal drug trade. Either the drug barons wanted the corn – unlikely since the greenhouse was untouched – or, they wanted the researchers stopped.”
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