Ohana

by Dustin Stevens

  "Don't mention it," Dyson said again.

  "I mean, I had it under control. I don't know why you felt the need to get involved."

  "So it was my fault you lashed out, and not the guy's who was actually being a jerk. Got it. Thanks for the apology," Dyson deadpanned, still refraining from turning his head to face her.

  The girl started to respond, caught the sarcasm in his voice and closed her mouth. For a moment a cloud passed over her face as if she might lash out again, but instead she slid a step to her right and extended her hand. "Mahana."

  Tentatively Dyson accepted the shake. "Uh, Mahana to you as well?"

  The young woman smiled, a trace of ridicule on her face. "No, my name is Mahana."

  "Oh," Dyson said, feeling his face grow red. "Sorry. Dyson."

  "Yeah, I remember," Mahana said, casting a glance outside. In the reflection she could see the left side of Dyson's face and raised a hand to her own. "Oh my God. Who did you pick a fight with today?"

  Dyson dropped his head for a second and shook before raising it to face Mahana full on. "Not sure, but I think it was roughly half of Makaha."

  In one fluid movement Mahana slid into the seat across from him, continuing to stare at his face. "You went to Makaha? By yourself?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Why? I'm Oahu born and raised and even I don't go out there unless I have to."

  Dyson made a quizzical face in response, turning his head to the side. "Wait, what? Why not?"

  "The west side of Oahu has the largest concentration of native Hawaiians anywhere in the world. Not all of them believe in the aloha spirit."

  "Meaning?"

  Mahana sighed. "It goes back a long time. Generations even. Many locals still hold a grudge about the way the island was taken over and forced to become part of America."

  "So they go around breaking into people's cars and smashing their faces with rocks?"

  "Some do," Mahana said, nodding. "There is still an enormous militant faction here. You'll see them walking around with Defend Hawaii t-shirts or decals on their cars."

  "Seriously?"

  Mahana motioned towards his face, nodding. "What the heck were you doing out there anyway?"

  "I flew in beside a guy that's been living here for almost thirty years. He gave me a big list of stuff to do, including Kaena Point."

  "Hmm," Mahana said. "But he didn't tell you to ride out with a local or stay on the north side?"

  Dyson smirked, twisted his head to the side. "No, he most definitely did not."

  Mahana matched the smirk, the two of them sitting in silence for a moment.

  "So what else was on this list he gave you?" Mahana asked.

  "The usual stuff I guess. I have it all written down out in the car, assuming of course it wasn’t stolen earlier."

  Mahana coughed back a small laugh, but let the comment go. "And what have you hit so far?"

  "Not a lot. Pearl Harbor and Diamondhead yesterday. The Point today."

  One side of Mahana's mouth turned up as she shook her head from side to side, her ponytail swinging behind her.

  "What?" Dyson said.

  "Haole," Mahana said, smiling.

  "That's what the guys at Kaena kept saying. Who the hell is Howie?"

  This caused Mahana to break into laughter, rocking back and forth as she reached out and rested a hand across his forearm. "Not Howie. Haole. It's Hawaiian, means white boy."

  "Oh," Dyson said, scratching at the side of his face. "So as they were squaring off across from me, the only thing they could think to call me was white boy?"

  "Well, it's not quite that innocent," Mahana said. "Most of the time if it's used the way they were using, it's a derogatory comment. Damn haole."

  Dyson raised his eyebrows. "And when you use it?"

  "I just mean mainlander," Mahana said, raising her hand by her side. "Kind of like, typical tourist."

  "You've known me five minutes and you've already got me pegged as a typical tourist?"

  "Aren't you?" Mahana countered. "Pearl Harbor, Diamondhead. I mean, you're well on your way."

  Dyson opened his mouth to retort, but said nothing.

  "Alright, then what should I be doing?" Dyson said.

  The change of approach caught Mahana off guard, who had to weigh the question a moment. "Guess it depends on what you're looking for."

  "Well I damned sure don't want to be a tourist. Or a haole," Dyson said.

  Mahana smiled again at his use of the term. "How long are you here for?"

  "I don't know," Dyson said. "My ticket out was one-way."

  The response raised her eyebrows, but she said nothing.

  With a clatter Dyson's dinner arrived, his waitress showing a bit more enthusiasm now that Mahana was with him.

  Mahana watched her unload the food and motioned with one hand in the air. "This one's on us, Angie."

  "Sure thing," Angie said, retreating before she had to interact any further.

  "You don't have to do that," Dyson said, not even looking down at the food in front of him.

  "It's the least we can do," Mahana said, sliding herself to the edge of the seat. "After all, you did help us out yesterday."

  "Thank you," Dyson said, waving a hand at the food before him. "At the risk of getting yelled at again, would you like something? There's plenty here."

  "Yeah, sorry about that," Mahana said. "And thank you, but I need to be getting home.

  "Let me think on your question about the best way to avoid being a tourist. Stop by the front desk in the morning, I'll have some suggestions for you."

  "Appreciate it," Dyson said, raising a farewell wave to his temple.

  Without another word the two sides parted, Mahana stepping away through the café and Dyson falling to the food in front of him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Loretta was half right.

  The night passed easily. Just as he had the day before, Dyson lay back on the oversized bed and began watching football. Within minutes, he drifted straight to blackness and didn't move for ten hours.

  The next morning was an entirely different creature.

  As the morning sun streamed into his bedroom, Dyson rolled onto his side to evade it. The moment his face came in contact with the pillow a fiery pain stabbed through him, jolting him upright in bed.

  The rapid movement only made matters worse, as the pressure in his head sent him to spinning. Reaching down with hands on either side, he grabbed thick handfuls of comforter and sat motionless.

  Sliding himself off the edge of the bed, Dyson walked to the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. If the reflection staring back at him wasn't his own, he might have laughed.

  The entire upper half of his body was bright pink, though better than anticipated. A clean line extended straight across his stomach where his shorts had been. Rotating, he noticed his back was several shades lighter, but still burned a bit, effectively making him two shades of pink.

  Stepping close to the mirror he angled his face to the side and examined the damage.

  A scab half the size of a dime sat just off his hairline, a web of violet tendrils extended out in all directions. A dark circle of black and purple distended over an inch from it in all directions, tugging the corner of his eye. Various shades of red and yellow sprawled out in a design from there, sprawling out in all directions.

  The entire side of his face was swollen around the wound, given him a lop-sided appearance.

  A small smirk escaped Dyson as he stepped to the counter and tore into a complimentary packet of Tylenol. He washed them down with warm tap water and hopped in for a brief shower. The hot water and pounding stream of the shower head were too much for his aching body and just thirty seconds after jumping in, he was out and rifling through his dresser.

  Unsure what Mahana had in store for him, Dyson pulled on some khaki shorts and a t-shirt. Checking himself in the mirror, he opted for a baseball cap and pulled it as low as his stinging forehead would allow.
<
br />   Choosing to skip breakfast, he went straight for the front desk to find Mahana and Connie already back at it for the day. Both seemed to be busy shuffling papers between them, but stopped as he approached.

  "Good morning Mr. Dyson," Connie said cheerily.

  "Morning Miss Connie," Dyson replied.

  Wincing and drawing in a sharp breath, she twisted her head to see under Dyson's cap. "Oh honey. Mahana told me what happened, I'm so sorry."

  Dyson waved the comment off. "Thank you, but that's alright. Not the first bruise I've ever had, won't be the last."

  "Yeah, but on your face?" Connie countered.

  Dyson considered responding, but instead turned his attention to Mahana. "Morning."

  "You ready?" Mahana asked, skipping salutations.

  "What'd you come up with?"

  "You ever been up on a board before?"

  "You mean a surf board?" Dyson asked, surprised. "Um, no. Not a lot of call for that in Montana."

  Connie laughed and swatted a hand at him. "You're going to have so much fun. China is a great guy. You'll love it."

  "China is a great guy?" Dyson asked.

  "China is his name," Mahana inserted. "We called him this morning, he's expecting you."

  "To...surf?" Dyson asked. "I'll be honest, I don't know how good my balance is right now."

  "Stand-up paddle," Connie corrected. "Much easier than surfing, allow you to get your sea legs under you first."

  Dyson drew his mouth in tight, weighing the information as both women eyed him. "Okay," he finally said, pushing his breath out in a single puff. "Sounds fun."

  Mahana took a white index card from a drawer and slid it across the counter. "Walk across the street to Ala Moana Beach Park and follow it down almost to the opposite end. You'll see a large shaved ice stand with an old blue van parked out front. There'll be a white tent there, just go in there and ask for China. Tell him we sent you."

  Dyson picked up the card, which had China's and the front desk's numbers both scrawled across it. "Just so I have this straight, you want me to go to the far end of the beach, look for a rickety old van, then go digging around inside a tent for an old guy I've never met?"

  Connie began laughing as Mahana arched an eyebrow at him.

  "Just go," she said.

  "Yes ma'am," Dyson said, picking up the card and heading for the stairwell. "And thank you both."

  Both women smiled and offered small waves to him as he disappeared upstairs to change his clothes.

  Chapter Fourteen

  "Hi, I'm looking for China?" Dyson said. Before him was a three-sided white tent, a blue van and a shaved ice stand, just as Mahana had described.

  Inside the tent were four elderly Asian men, all dark tanned and staring back at Dyson as if he had a third arm growing from his forehead.

  "Did he say he's looking for China?" the man on the right asked, his long grey hair falling on bare shoulders.

  "Yes, he sure did," the man on the middle-left replied, a bushy silver handlebar mustache moving up and down with each word he said.

  "Well, he missed it by five thousand miles!" Long Hair replied, the entire table bursting into laughter.

  Dyson stared at the men howling with laughter a moment before realizing he'd been had, his own face twisting into a smile.

  The man on the far left rose from the table, extending a hand towards Dyson. Instead of a traditional handshake he grasped it by hooking thumbs and pumped it once. "I'm China. These boys have been playing that joke on folks for twenty years. Still gets a laugh every time."

  He was a short man, standing just five and a half feet tall with a thick paunch and wiry extremities. A ring of graying hair adorned the bottom of his scalp, pulled back into a short ponytail. A thin goatee encased his mouth.

  Dyson smiled, tipping his hat to the men seated inside the tent. All of them returned the gesture, continuing to laugh as China walked him down the powdery tan sand of Ala Moana Beach towards the water's edge.

  "Mahana called and said you'd be coming by this morning. Said you were looking to see how the natives live."

  "Yes, sir," Dyson said, hurrying to keep up with him as the heels of his running shoes filled with sand.

  "I can see by that shiner there you already met some of them," China said, pointing towards his own temple.

  Dyson raised a hand to his face, stopping just before touching the wound. "I'll know better than to take a rental car out there again, that's for sure."

  "Good plan," China said, peeling his tank top off and walking straight into the ocean. He went out several steps before diving head long into the water, emerging and striding back up onto the beach.

  Four surfboards of varying lengths, widths and colors were lined up just beyond the water's edge, all of them resting fin down in the sand. Long paddles lay across their midsections, waiting to be used.

  A handful of trenches were dug in the sand around them, the obvious signs that there were more boards in the arsenal that were currently being used.

  "Have you ever been on a board before?" China asked, shaking water droplets from his smooth brown head.

  "No, sir."

  "That's okay. It's easy, you'll see." With practiced hands he grabbed the nearest board up from the ground, gripping an indented handhold in the center of it and setting it down on the water. He took two quick steps before shifting onto the board, his knees resting on either side of the handhold.

  Rising to his feet he took three quick strokes to turn himself parallel to the beach. "Very simple. First, find the center of the board. On all of mine, just look for the handle and put your feet on either side. Second, don't look down, always watch the horizon."

  Dyson followed along the water's edge as China began to paddle.

  "After that, it’s easy. Just take five strokes on one side, five on the other. When you want to turn, take two backward strokes on the same side followed by two forward strokes on the opposite side."

  As he spoke, he whipped a fast one-hundred-eighty degree turn and headed back towards where he'd started. He paddled straight up on to the sand, nimbly jumped off and pulled the board alongside the others.

  "You're a pretty big guy so we'll start you off on the twelve-footer," China said, pointing to a canary yellow board on the far side.

  Dyson followed his finger and walked over to inspect the board. "Why's it say 'sidewalk' down the edge of it?"

  "Because riding that board is like walking on the sidewalk. It's impossible to fall off!" China said, his face folding into a toothy grin.

  Dyson matched the smile and drug the board to the water's edge, doing just as he'd seen China do a few minutes before.

  "Only rule is stay here in the lagoon," China said as he watched Dyson drift away. "I don't like for people to take my board out past the coral or catch waves."

  Dyson gave an exaggerated nod to show his understanding. "Not a problem. This will be more than enough to keep me busy all morning."

  Rising to his feet he stood perched on the board with his knees locked, bent slightly at the waist with the paddle in front of him. After a moment he found his equilibrium and dipped his paddle in the water, rotating at the waist and propelling the board forward.

  "And remember, swimmers always get the right-away!" China called from behind him.

  Holding the paddle in his right hand, Dyson lifted his left overhead and gave a wave of understanding.

  A slight ripple rolled across the water as Dyson pushed his paddle into the water, the wind lifting across his body. Careful to make sure nobody was around, he cast a glance back at the shore, looking up over Honolulu at the Manoa Valley in the distance.

  Looming above it were dark thunderclouds, heavy and moving fast.

  Shifting his paddle to the opposite side, Dyson counted out five strokes as the water sped by beneath him. The movements did his sore body good as he pushed the board forward, the wind rising with each passing second.

  It took almost ten minutes for him to r
each the end of the beach and a couple more to make the turn. His wasn't near as tight or composed as China's, but with effort he did eventually get where he was going.

  Turning to face back the length of the beach he could see the old man standing at the water's edge, waving both hands high above his head. On either side of him his friends were pulling boards back away from the water and carrying them towards the tent.

  Once China saw he had Dyson's attention, he pointed towards the sky behind him and waved his arm in an exaggerated loop.

  Dyson's eyes bulged as he looked up into the sky to see the thunderheads had multiplied in just a few minutes time, now stretching the entire length of Honolulu. Dark and ominous, they could be seen dumping a heavy rain that hung like a sheer cloak over the city.

  Heeding the warning, Dyson leaned forward and paddled hard, the board lurching forward beneath him with each stroke. Fat droplets of rain began to slap down on the board as he went, matting his hair and spattering against his shirt.

  Breathing hard, he paddled out the last few yards to China and hopped off, the cold ocean water rising to his knees. "Where did that come from?"

  "Wet season," China said, reaching for the board and wrenching it dripping from the sea. "They show up fast and they hit hard. All you can do is wait them out."

  Grabbing his shoes from the sand, Dyson jogged alongside the old man as he loaded the board into the back of his van and took shelter inside the tent.

  He stood by as the four men all peered out at the impending storm.

  "Thank you guys so much," he said briefly. "If it's okay, I might come back another morning when I can stay a little longer."

  "Any friend of Mahana's is welcome here," China said.

  "You better stay a little longer now," Long Hair said, motioning outside. "This storm's going to be here before you know it."

  Dyson had spent years judging storms in Montana. He knew how long one took to arrive and how hard they hit when it did. "That's okay, I should be alright."

  The four men said nothing as he turned and jogged out into the darkening morning.

  Chapter Fifteen