So, if you want to come tomorrow night we can sit on the beach out back of Pineapple Pete’s and be platonic. Then I’ll show you some trick shots at the table. I do a wicked 15 ball carom.
P.S. I had to google “kaftan.” I’m not wearing that ever.
Sunday 23rd February 10.03am
—Fitness Center at Waikiki Yacht Club—
Also, there’s a car service that comes with our club membership. The drivers are salaried, no tipping allowed. It can pick you up if you ever want to come over my way again. It’s not a limo, more just a shuttle thing.
Sunday 23rd February 10.07am
—Foodland—
Coolies. I’ll wear a kaftan. One of us should be in a kaftan.
Sunday 23rd February 10.11am
—Fitness Center at Waikiki Yacht Club—
Maybe you can wear an American accent, too. That might help with maintaining the platonicness on my end.
Monday 24th February 9.16pm
—Pineapple Pete’s at Coconut Bay Resort—
Thanks for bringing me a play date. She’s cute!
Monday 24th February 9.17pm
— Pineapple Pete’s at Coconut Bay Resort—
I didn’t bring her. She glommed onto my plans last minute.
Monday 24th February 9.18pm
— Pineapple Pete’s at Coconut Bay Resort—
You don’t think Jacqueline’s cute? Surely we can talk about that now that we’re just friends.
Monday 24th February 9.20pm
—Pineapple Pete’s at Coconut Bay Resort—
If you’re into the fake boobs, fake nails, fake soul Barbie thing, then yes, she’s a real doll.
Monday 24th February 9.25pm
—Pineapple Pete’s at Coconut Bay Resort—
And older.
Monday 24th February 9.28pm
— Pineapple Pete’s at Coconut Bay Resort—
What? I’m just making an observation. Maybe you didn’t notice since you’re spending your whole time bending over the table for Lachie.
Monday 24th February 9.55pm
— Pineapple Pete’s at Coconut Bay Resort—
Send another Shirley Temple over here and it’s going in your face!
Tuesday 25th February 7.29am
—Waikiki Yacht Club—
Well, that went well.
I’m assuming you’re still sleeping, probably face down in a ditch somewhere.
I don’t know why you have to be such an asshole. There’s nothing going on with Lachie and me. Not like that. We’re friends, like you and I are friends, and we text sometimes. He and Olaf dropped by the club one day to deliver custom boards to some members and they wanted a tour of the boat so I gave it to them. Then we went over to Jac’s boat and played Cards Against Humanity for five seconds until they realized there was no beer and left.
You brought Lachie on purpose last night and were a shit to me from the time you walked through the door. Why’d you even come if you didn’t want to spend time with me and have a nice night? It’s like you were trying to trip me and Lachie up in something, prove some big point to us both. I assumed you knew that I still talk to him. I assumed that he knew I’m talking to you, too. You’re best friends and work and live together, right? Do you two not communicate at all? But, now that the confusion is all cleared up, maybe you can both chill out about it.
Tuesday 25th February 7.35am
—Waikiki Yacht Club—
Also, I just have to add that for someone who’s engaged and trying to reform his man-whoring ways, you were awfully handsy out there on the dance floor with Jacqueline. You’ll be glad to know she’s quite smitten and talked about you the whole ride home. “Aussie Dreamboat...his body, those eyelashes...omg, blah, blah, blah...” Unlike you, I did not invite a friend in order to mess up the evening. Our parents were having dinner together over at the Japanese steakhouse on the other side of the resort and when she found out I was in the nightclub, she came running over. Thanks for pumping her full of Fat Yak all night and then handing that hot, slurring mess off to me. I could have smacked that shit-eating grin right off your face. She puked in the shuttle and I broke a good heel dragging her ass back through the marina. It’s a far freaking walk from the shuttle drop to the boat slips and she’s heavier than she looks. She’ll be calling you for surf lessons. Good luck with that. Anyhow, thanks for the great evening! Can’t wait to do it again!
Tuesday 25th February 8.04am
—Waikiki Yacht Club—
And from now on, if I want a Kody-Amelia buffer, I’ll be bringing Cristina, the voice of reason.
Tuesday 25th February 8.48am
—Koa Boxing Club & Gym—
First of all, in that original lesson that we had together, I was a stranger that you met on the internet, and you came in a bikini and got into the water with me and you pulled right up to the bumper with no hesitation at all.
I didn’t look any more than I had to, and I didn’t touch you except where it was professionally required, so it’s pretty fcking offensive that, now that you know me better, you feel the need to bring an armed guard in case I get too ‘handsy’ with you.
There is no doubt that I have my flaws, but you don’t need to bring Step Daddy, or Cristina, or anyone else to protect your virtue from me.
You might think it’s a joke, but I’m actually a feminist. I think girls should have the same opportunities. I think they should earn the same and I think women’s sport should attract more sponsorship. I also think that women should be free to sleep with who they want to without all of the associated obligation or guilt. Because sex is great, and if you’re doing it right it can be the most exquisite way that you can honour someone and make them feel beautiful. And generally speaking, I am happy to oblige.
Well, I was before I went back home for Christmas, anyway. All the times I got slapped it was because they came back for more, and I said no.
You’re just not listening to me when I say that Lachlan doesn’t hold the same principles. He called dibs on you last night as if you were the last slice of pizza.
So you’re either not listening to what I am saying, or you want to be treated like that. Lots of women do, and it makes me really sad because it means they don’t even know their own value. I see the women that go for him, and while I know they enjoy it at the time (the walls here are pretty thin) I see them in the morning, and they don’t look like they’ve been honoured.
He’s my mate, but he’s not a good guy. He’s not for you.
You’re not that girl. I think you already know you’re something special. Don’t let someone make you feel ordinary. Not even me.
I’m sorry about the Shirley Temples. I was just teasing. I didn’t realise just how mad it was making you. My chest is still all sticky with it. Between that and the germs from this disgusting gym, I’m toxic.
I’m going for a surf.
Wanna come with?
Tuesday 25th February 2.06pm
—North Shore, Oahu—
So I’ve been scratching out some of my own equations here in the sand, and I think I’ve probably been going about it all wrong.
All this, ‘He’s a wildman and none can tame him,’ is probably just driving you into Lachie’s evil clutches, because you think you will be the one for him, and that will make you the most special of all.
Maybe it’s the sobriety talking, but you know who your guy is? You remember Simon? Something-something-the-third’s little brother Simon? You’re going, ‘Him???’
I had a yarn with him last night. He’s a nerdy guy, but he’s going to inherit a multinational, because, as is obvious to everyone who falls into something-something-the-third’s unfortunate sphere, big brother is one incompetent drongo. (That’s how it’s used in context. You doubted!)
Simon looks fourteen, but he’s eighteen. He’s funny. He would adore you. You’re going to have to train him, but he will be a gentle and attentive lover. He would be so grateful. You’d be set up fo
r life. He’s going to get all distinguished and entrepreneurial. He’s a winner. Simon is your guy.
Tuesday 25th February 2.58pm
—Shangri La Café at Honolulu Museum of Art—
I thought a stroll through the art museum might calm my irritations and clear my head, but I was wrong. Who needs tranquil seascapes and priceless indigenous artifacts when there’s messages to be written about Simon?
Soooo. Simon Rothschild-Pinaud, second in line to the women’s fragrance
throne. Yes, I’ve seen him around.
He’s the one with the thick glasses who cringes when something-something-the-third throws tantrums at the clubhouse pool because Waikiki Yacht carries San Pellegrino exclusively, not Perrier. He’s the one who says nothing when something-something-the-third speaks slowwwwly and deliiiiberately to the apparently all-deaf Filipino-American staff. And when they’ve come back sweating buckets after having hustled down to the Hyatt to fetch big brother’s water, he doesn’t even have the balls to tip them behind something-something-the-cheapskate’s back. So, no, you’ve got it all wrong. Big brother’s going to claim the perfume throne in the end. Incompetent drongo or no, at least something-something-the-third’s not a coward.
But other than that, Simon’s great! Harmless as anything.
He’ll do well enough in life. They’ll find a job for him somewhere in the company and he’ll continue to live fashionably. Poor guy. He thought he was so cool, hanging with the surfer set. When he yelled out: Gnarly! and you slapped his back, I wanted to pinch his cheek. You made him feel right at home, Kody.
However, I did find it interesting that you had no problem exchanging a few beers with our little underage friend. Amelia Beauchamp takes one sip from Lachie’s bottle and you’re across the club like a bullet to snatch it up. Simon gets a pass, though. So very feminist of you.
But anyhowwww, let me spread all my Simon Rothschild-Pinaud cards out here and have a good study. Fawning, cowardly, sycophantic. Distinguished, possibly entrepreneurial. Our kids will be pale in that transparent blue sort of way but brilliant. They’ll go to the best East Coast schools and be able to pronounce words like béchamel and beaujolais at age two.
But it’s the gentle and attentive lover thing that’s really piqued my interest. The idea of being honored. You really think he’s capable of that? With a bit of training, I mean? Because my past experience with a nice yacht club boy didn’t quite go like that.
And again, don’t worry about me with Lachie. If I recall, he’s not the one who put a ring on a sweet girl’s finger only to take off across the planet the next day. I’m sure the future Mrs. Murdock feels so very honoured right now.
Tuesday 25th February 3.06pm
—near North Shore, Oahu—
I have never said anything hurtful to you. Ever.
Don’t be a bitch. It’s boring. Don’t be boring.
Tuesday 25th February 3.18pm
—Honolulu Museum of Art—
Okay. I was out of line. I was just frustrated with you. It felt like I was in the right but when I read the words back to myself, they looked ugly. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.
But can I ask that you stop trying to sort out what and who is best for Amelia? (I’m not saying that in a mean way, I’m asking politely....) Because you keep doing that, trying to set me on a path that you feel is a good fit for me. I may only be eighteen, but I know what I’m doing.
This friends thing is going to be harder than I thought it would be.
P.S. There’s a piece at the museum called “Surf-Riders, Honolulu.” Color woodblock print. It’s almost a hundred years old. If you haven’t seen it yet, check it out. It’s bitchin’.
P.P.S. Is the surfing invite still open?
Tuesday 25th 4.16pm
—North Shore Hostel—
Yeah, sure. If you come right now I can borrow Olaf’s car and take you round to a special surfing place. Let’s agree not to talk. OK? Just about surfing.
And I can laugh at you when you pull out all your cool surfer lingo you picked up at that other beach.
Tuesday 25th February 8.01pm
—North Shore Hostel—
It’s quiet now. Lachie’s gone next door. We’re going out soon. There is a little street vendor not far from here who does scallops in a wok. He serves them up in this little paper cone thing, which goes soggy, so you have to eat quick. Heaps of salt. Omfg they are huge and burning hot, and just the best.
He’s pretty shitty that we snuck off without him. It was fun though. Like a heist. Him running down the street after us, swearing. Olaf’s pathetic VW puttering along so slow, he nearly caught up with us. He punched me when I got back.
Ahh Lachie. King of Subtle Cues.
You asked me a serious question, and I kind of grunted because I didn’t want to talk about it, and then you got all prickly with me. But it was beautiful and still sitting out there with the water all glassy, just soaking in the sun and not talking. Wasn’t it?
It was ‘rad’. Lol! I almost fell off my board.
The answer is yes. I talk to Fiona every day. She sends me wedding invitation samples and menus and pictures of silver shoes. She wants to talk about who my groomsmen will be. Flowers. Horse-drawn carriages. It’s all wedding all the time.
I know that I have to break it off. I know that, but can’t you see that it also means I can never go back there? It’s my home town. It’s where I’m from. I know every street. I know generations of people there. I think there is genuine affection for me.
And now, for the rest of my life I will be the guy who left Fifi at the altar.
Or I can marry her now and save her embarrassment, then divorce her two years from now. Because I already know she’s not my wife.
It’s like looking at an old dog. You know you’ve got to make the appointment to put it down. It’s just a matter of picking up the phone. Every minute you can find a dozen reasons not to put your old dog down.
Except it’s even more complicated, because one, dogs get old, but the proposal wasn’t an inevitable thing. I made a mistake. I’m impulsive and stupid, and I don’t think ahead about how something I might fleetingly feel at this moment is going to change everything for someone else.
And two, I’ve got to go there to do it. You can’t call off a marriage by Skype. Well maybe some people can, but I can’t. Every day I can find reasons not to book a ticket to Sydney. Like, in about five minutes from now, when I have finished this message, I’m going to be super, super busy playing hacky sack on the lawn with Lachie, and teasing him about his lats, which he will love.
She hasn’t spent any big money yet. I have to do it before then.
I half expect her to turn up here. I have since Christmas. She hints at it. I have this other job I mentioned to you before, and they give me money in a lump sum. I’ve stopped telling her about it, because she always suggests I could use it to buy her a ticket to Honolulu.
I know that makes me a bastard. I can see you thinking I’m a bastard, and part of me really wants to be the guy who really wants to marry Fifi. I don’t know who he is. We crossed paths at one time.
I’m not not doing it because I have any plans of going through with the wedding to Fiona, I’m not doing it because I am kind of murdering someone I used to be. It’s difficult. Everybody liked him.
OK. There’s my pain. You show me yours.
Wednesday 26th February 11.03pm
—Waikiki Yacht Club—
I had a good time today, too. A great time. It was nice not talking. We click at the beach, you and me.
Calling off a wedding is huge. Awful. I can’t imagine. Even though I’m glad you’re not going through with it, I feel sorry for Fiona. She’s going to be humiliated and devastated. You’re definitely impulsive and stupid sometimes (*back-scrolls through Kody messages...*) but you’re not a bastard. You made a terrible mistake. It doesn’t mean you don’t love her or meant to be cruel. Even if it’s just in that familiar way—li
ke the childhood sweetheart thing—you still love her. It’s still a meaningful kind of love. You’re going to lose that forever. You’re going to lose a lot soon, and it’s going to hurt badly for everyone involved.
My pain. Well. I guess you’re referring to my experience with love?
I wouldn’t call it love. I wasn’t affected by it in any life-altering way. Just kind of let down when it ended. It was eleventh grade. He was new, didn’t know anyone yet. His dad took a position with my step-dad’s company and their family came over for dinner. It was Christmas break and we weren’t back to school yet so he hadn’t gotten his bearings about the whole Who’s Who thing of the Mission Hills country club set. He came over to the house on his own for a couple of weeks. We horsed around in the game room, played foosball and darts and whatever. Nobody ever goes down there anymore so we had “the place to ourselves,” so to speak. And then…well. Egh.
Then school started back. :/
He was nice, called me his girlfriend, brought me to a couple of the cooler parties. Then someone made a comment about my mother being a gold-digging second wife with no education and he looked at his shoes, looked around the room, pretended not to hear. After that, when he’d touch me, I’d feel a little sick inside. I just felt like he should have said something, stuck up for me. I stopped taking his calls. I think he was relieved.
We never gelled anyway. When we talked, he’d cut me off when I got on a hot streak about something. He’d interrupt and then never circle back to me. To be fair, I did the same to him. I thought about other things when we were together. You can’t get very far with someone when that’s how you feel about them. It’s not something I ever think about. But you mentioned dating Simon and then seemed like you were asking about it, so there it is. Amelia’s not-so-painful romantic history. Bleh.
All At Sea Page 4