Penniless Hearts

by Eve Gaal

  “Heck, bravest guy I ever met,” Darin continued to talk proudly about Mac. “He's been flying choppers for over twenty-five years.” Darin looked ahead at the beautiful mountain and saw black lava speckled with bright orange fire, flowing into the ocean and steam rising near the coastline. “Saved my ass a bunch of times. Compared to him, shit, I was a little girl wanting to go home to mommy.”

  “Can't imagine that, I've heard you're no pansy when you're paragliding.”

  The memory of paragliding brought a huge smile to Darin's previously serious face, “Yeah, who told you that?”

  “I have a couple friends who go up to Mauna Loa. Do you know a guy called Pacola?” The cowboy asked.

  “Pacola? No,” Darin paused to think. “I don't think I do, but I haven't been up to Mauna Loa. Hey, that reminds me–Mac had a passenger. She happens to be my print advertising artist, and I don't know her that well, but I'm still worried.”

  The cowboy removed the toothpick and whistled two sad little notes through his front teeth. “How did she end up with Mac?”

  “I sent her on a sightseeing trip of Kauai, but he may have brought her all the way over here. She might have wanted to see our dealership. Your channel said Mac was rescuing hikers who got too close to the rim—it's somewhat confusing. Is that the rim over there?” Darin pointed ahead to a spot where grey blue sky met black smoke.

  Banking towards the left, the pilot pointed a finger out towards some blackened steps and railings, “That's what's left of the overlook at the crater rim of Little Kilauea.” Then pointing farther ahead he said, “There, that's the big crater rim. Now that the smoke has died down a bit we can circle around.”

  “Wait, look,” Darin said pointing into a charred area full of trees and dense green vegetation.

  The pilot began hovering closer to where Darin had indicated and they both gasped when they saw the blackened remains of a tour-company helicopter lying on its side. “Bingo. I don't see any lava. The smoke must have been thicker than my wife's creamy bean soup—must have made it hard to navigate around here.” The pilot immediately radioed back to the airport with the location of the crash. Minutes later, news reports regarding the rescue helicopter were updated with details. “Let's land this puppy and find your friends.”

  They settled on a clearing almost one mile from the crash-site, due to the lush foliage, rocky crags and tropical trees. Darin's backpack had water, matches and protein bars. The weather conditions were fair, but he had a light windbreaker just in case, and he was wearing his good sturdy hiking boots. The jagged terrain had a small clearing covered with low ground cover and brush. Darin removed the headphones and opened the door.

  The cowboy-pilot started yelling after him, “I've got to stay with the chopper. Sorry.”

  “That's cool,” Darin replied, loudly. “I've hiked Whitney and the Na'Pali coast several times.” Darin stepped out, turning around and shouting, “I've got my cell phone, what's your number?”

  Laughing, the pilot said, “You won't get any reception up here, but I'll wait.” He turned off the engine and climbed out to stretch his legs. The blades of the helicopter continued rotating and spinning but some blustering gusts made it wobble to a stop.

  Giving the pilot a thumbs up sign, Darin yelled, “I'll return the way I came as soon as I find them. I sure hope they're alive.”

  * * *

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  After a strenuous and backbreaking morning cleaning up after their pre-Christmas luau, Happy and Alevina decided to take a break and watch some television.

  “You out-did yourself again,” Alevina told Happy.

  “What are you talking about? You roasted the pig, dear,” Happy stated matter-of-factly, scrolling with the remote until finally landing on a local news channel.

  Alevina smiled and took his place on the couch. “I had lots of help digging that pit, and even more help eating and drinking.” Lulu jumped up nestling onto Alevina's enormous lap.

  Noticing the volcano coverage about the Big Island, Happy quickly turned up the volume. “I'm beginning to think drinking is a specialty around here—in fact you guys have raised it to an art form,” she giggled. That reminds me, I haven't seen the boys today.”

  Alevina held up his hand, “Wait–listen. I like that Anne Randall. She always talks about stuff that matters to locals.”

  A serious looking, lovely woman with dark bangs and a yellow suit stood near a volcanic viewing area. She looked like a native Hawaiian, but she could have been of Samoan or Japanese descent. Next to her, were two people wearing khaki colored cargo pants, brown hats and hiking boots. In one hand, she held her microphone, while the other hand held the hair out of her face.

  “Welcome, I'm Anne Randall, speaking to you from the Mauna Kea Observatory, high atop the mountain here, near the 13,796 ft. summit. In between Mauna Kea and Hawaii Volcanoes National Park there are clusters of craters, flowing hot lava fields and the intriguing history and traditions of Hawaiian ancestors depicted on ancient petroglyphs. Decades ago, local officials stopped trying to alter or stop the forces of nature, but the recent flow has started to cover more of the rare, ancient images.”

  “Joining us today is New Zealand petrologist, Doctor Ilona Okos and her husband Steven, to tell us about the dangerous situation threatening native culture.” Anne was holding the microphone close to the grey haired woman, who leaned in and started talking about the intricate details, the lost holes in the smooth lava and the interesting formations that differentiated these petroglyphs from others in the South Pacific. Most notably, she mentioned the rites that the Hawaiians associated with long life and the ceremony of burying their umbilical cords on the powerful mountain. Native parents believed that by placing the cord stump into the warm lava, their child would be assured a long life full of grace. The camera zoomed over the area showing the holes and spirals and also the recent activity and the approaching lava threatening to cover the ancient, historical treasures.

  The kind faced doctor pointed up and said, “We were up on the rim at the most exciting moment, when we were air-lifted and brought down by a rescue helicopter. The pilot thought we were in grave danger. I suppose, it appeared quite hazardous, but we tried to reassure the pilot our lives were not in peril, due to the shift of the winds and the calming of the magma, which corresponded perfectly with our ascent up from the valley. We have been in worse situations in New Zealand, when our entire hometown had to shut down for months, because of a volcano.” A large gust of wind made her speak faster, “We are here as researchers who can advise your government on how to save the petroglyphs, but there needs to be funding put in place, as soon as possible, for steering the lava flow towards the south.” Her pedantic tone, though educated and scholarly, irritated Alevina's down to earth practicality.

  “Do you hear this?” Alevina laughed, kicking off his flip-flops.

  “I hear it, dear. They want funding to save the 'piko' on the hill of long life.” Happy knew all about the umbilical cord stump ceremony, because her mother had taught her about the tradition. “What other stuff are these visitors going to fix on our islands? I guess they don't realize half the island has already been covered in something worse than lava–they're called timeshares.”

  “Hap, just be glad our volcanoes on Kauai are dormant.”

  “Movie stars aren't dormant,” she said, “haven't you heard about that big shot star? What's his name? Oh you know, I showed you the article–anyway, he built his home here in Kauai, right on the sacred burial ground of our ancestors.”

  The news reporter turned to face the camera, “History recorded, not on tape, DVD or book form, but carved into the soft lava since the first millennium, should be preserved. I'm standing here with researchers who share their vision about saving the legends, the fables, the chronicles and records of Hawaiian history.” Turning to the doctor's husband, Anne put the microphone close to his mouth. “I understand you are an artist, painting modern interpretations of Hawaiian li
fe, based on your wife's studies.”

  Stephen, the doctor's husband nodded, moving closer to Anne. Wind distorted the microphone's sound making it reverberate while he spoke. Squinting into the camera, he said, “Yes, I study the stories of the outrigger for example depicted on the rocks, or the dancers, the sea turtles and the legend of all legends here in the South Pacific–the ring of fire and the goddess Pele.” Looking at his wife, he smiled and said, “Her work is my inspiration.”

  Anne looked very interested. “Do you think you can show us a few examples of your work?”

  “Certainly,” Stephen said, “but I don't have my large paintings up here right now. I have a gallery in Wellington.”

  “Do you have any sketches you could share with our viewers today?” Anne asked with anticipation.

  Though some of the details were fuzzy, it seemed that the story involved the doctor and her husband because they were up near the crater. During the evacuation of the housing development near the Lost Gardens subdivision, a twin-engine plane spotted the two hikers, reporting them lost. All tour helicopters were summoned to assist with clearing the area and that was when the downed pilot entered the picture.

  The couple he rescued insisted they were not lost, and after dropping them off at the station, he went back to see if he could find some real lost hikers. Swooping down into a canyon, he tried heading out towards the ocean, when a sudden flurry sent black, blinding smoke and steam in front of him, pushing his rotary blades into the side of a tall tree. That was when they lost his signal and all radio contact.

  “Isn't there anything better on?” Happy was getting bored of the know-it-all geologist and her eccentric looking husband.

  Alevina straightened and put Lulu on the ground. “Hand me the TV guide,” he said, still staring at the screen and watching the artist pull pictures from his sack.

  The doctor's husband presented his painting of a turtle, and explained that sea turtles were occasionally white, because they liked to camouflage into the sand when burying eggs. They were also great navigators and returned to their own birthing place to lay eggs. His painting didn't seem complete, but it showed a petroglyph type image filled-in with a background of aqua sea colors and royal blue sky. He told Anne he had many green turtle paintings, but he was working on the synergy of light and innocence in this particular study depicting a rare white turtle that lived in Hilo bay. To him it was magical and spiritual and his face showed a deep love for his subject matter.

  Happy yawned, and Alevina started flipping through the guide. “Hand me the remote, it's under your pillow,” he said, still watching Anne Randall and the news about petroglyphs.

  “The turtle is beautiful,” Anne said, letting go of her hair. Obviously entranced by the impressive depiction of the creature, she asked, “Do you have any other paintings to share with your Hawaiian audience today?”

  “I have been working for years on my interpretation of Pele, that infamous cranky goddess with mood swings, who fires up her dances scaring everyone, until she retreats, for long periods of time.” Stephen responded, looking into his bag. “Ilona has found so many stories about her carved into the rocks that I knew the more I learned, the better my paintings would be. To the uninitiated, the stories sound like old superstitions, but the rocks don't lie. They tell the story about the restlessness of her wandering feet and how she travels throughout these islands always looking for adventure.” He brought out a picture and held it up for the cameraman who focused in on the rendering.

  “Wait,” Alevina said, “Happy, look at that painting.” He stood up pointing at the screen. Stephen held up a small painting of a short woman with red hair. She wore a yellow muumuu and had a purple lei around her neck. Though the painting shook from the mountain breeze, Alevina saw twinkling eyes shining like green glass and pale skin rather than the warm tan, typical of islanders. Instead of the expected scowl, she wore a freckle-faced smile and held out her arms wanting to dance.

  Happy walked to the television and stared at the image on the screen. “Maybe she modeled for it or something,” Alevina said.

  “She just got here the other day. Besides this guy paints on the Big Island and in New Zealand,” Happy stated, waving her right hand dismissively. Lulu licked the television screen and Alevina switched to another channel.

  “Coincidence, I guess,” he shrugged, “but weird.”

  Happy picked up the dog and returned to the couch. “Lulu, let's relax and watch Oprah.”

  * * *

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Even a guy with a fading memory would remember the last time he saw Waikiki. The destroyer had docked on October 20, 1965, after slowly sailing past Diamond Head. Ens. Carl Himmel, Damage Control Assistant aboard the U.S.S. Barry enjoyed a small liberty before heading to the Mekong Delta in Vietnam. Most of his shipmates spent their time drinking with island girls and getting into all kinds of mischief, while he toured Pearl Harbor pining for his new wife. Being a newlywed, he hated spending too much time away from his lovely bride.

  What started out as an exciting undertaking from Newport, Rhode Island, through the Panama Canal however, soon became a tension-filled assignment of gunfire duty, plane guard bombings and fire missions in enemy entrenched waters. By the time the ship returned to Rhode Island, Carl had seen Japan, the Philippines, India, Italy, Spain and the Azores. The Barry had sailed over fifty thousand miles and had fired over two thousand five inch rounds of ammunition during combat.

  Carl turned to look at the water glistening in the sun. White waves rolled onto the sand. He thought about the first time he put his foot on this sand, and the pain in his heart caused by missing Penny's mother. Now that he had returned to this emotion-laden place, he realized he still missed his wife.

  He remembered her joy at seeing him disembark. The happy, salty tears he licked off her cheeks before kissing her. The smell of Ivory soap on her neck mixed with rosewater perfume. Vivid memories of holding her and promising never to leave again floated into his mind like the seaweed into the undertow. He kept his promise.

  A little girl in a red bathing suit ran screaming by him, sending sand into his face. Wiping his eyes, now moist with the lingering thoughts of his past, he looked down onto the sand where something sparkled in the afternoon sun. A penny, with Lincoln's image brought him out of his melancholic stupor. Nineteen-seventy-five, it said, and now, Carl had to smile when he thought of the year his Penny was born.

  * * *

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  A dusty trail led out of Dillingham Airfield to a small coffee shop facing the main highway. Dan watched the small planes taxiing onto the runway, while walking over to get breakfast. The day-to-day tourist operations involving parachuting, hang gliding and paragliding began to resume their business. A group of men were laughing next to a small Piper Cub. Darin owed him some lessons, he thought, pulling open the door and taking his place at the counter.

  “Loco Moco,” Dan told the buxom waitress, “and a small coffee.” He didn't look her in the eye and he didn't even look up from the menu when ordering. Bacon fat permeated the air, and hazy sunshine streamed through old, graying curtains. Three customers sat next to him at the counter, watching a small television bolted to the wall.

  “Anything else, pretty boy?” The waitress asked, scrawling on her pad. She turned and placed the slip on the fry cook's wheel, before coming back to retrieve the menu. When she turned around, Dan took the brief opportunity to check out her ample hips, smooth skin and the snug-fitting bra showing through the flimsy, pink uniform. Aware of leering eyes burning into her back, she turned around and asked, “Will there be anything else?”

  “No,” he managed to answer, acting oblivious and in a daze.

  The waitress had a lot of experience with rich, lecherous dogs coming off the highway and looking for love in all the wrong places. This one pissed her off the minute he sat down. Acting like everyone owed him a favor, he didn't even have the decency to look at her front side when pla
cing his order. To make matters worse, he disrespected her in front of customers by ogling her ass with his eyes. Sure, he was damn good looking, but she didn't need to put up with this shit.

  Trying to provoke a smile she quietly asked, “You staring at my butt?” Then, after placing a coffee mug down in front of him and not getting a response, “Cause if you're staring at my butt, my big Kahuna boyfriend is going to throw you into a volcano. You understand?” Her raw sense of humor seemed to be falling on deaf ears, because this guy was tired and zoning in and out, like radio reception in a monsoon. His sad looking face reminded the waitress of a country music video, where the dog runs away and the truck breaks down. “They have active volcanoes around these islands, you know?” Filling his coffee mug, she asked, “You hear me?”

  Taking a sip from the warm coffee and looking above her to the television, he replied, “Yeah, I got it, could you turn the sound up on the TV?”

  “Oh, that's what you want, the remote? You looked at me like I was hiding it in my panties.” She didn't smile because she thought about all the other egotistical bastards who did nothing but bark orders while expecting good service. “You good looking perverts come here from the mainland and think you own us island women,” she mumbled to no one in particular, opening a drawer, digging out the remote and turning up the volume. “Well I'm sorry Hon, I'm just your waitress and that's all.” After returning the remote back to the drawer, she felt his leer again, zeroing in on her posterior.

  The skinny old timer sitting next to Dan immediately bowed his head into his chili. His worn baseball cap and stubble were hiding his grin, and a few diners snickered at the waitress's outburst. Dan didn't like the woman's attitude, but she looked like a dream of comfort–a warm overweight heating pad, a luscious embrace with folds of womanhood that could temporarily boost his ego and repair his injured libido. Staring at her soft fleshy arms, he imagined being pinned underneath her bulky thighs.