by Di Morrissey
‘Hello again,’ he said. ‘How are things with you today?’
‘Why, hello. The world’s still here, so things are good. Yes, it has been good,’ she added. ‘Two of my charges have left the hospital, not fully recovered but on the path.’
‘Have they been sent home or back to their units?’ he asked, falling into step beside her as they walked along the beach.
‘One has gone home on leave, the other to convalesce. So, you live here?’
They talked, their conversation covering the distance of Waikiki.
At the Outrigger Canoe Club he paused. ‘Would you like to have a drink here at the club?’
It was now a place frequented by wealthy locals and high-ranking military officers because the war had changed the Waikiki scene. Some of the young local surfers preferred to be on the other side of the island developing their surfing skills, but he was cautious when speaking of those who lived to surf when the rest of the world was fighting. And over time he found himself staying on the leeward side at Waikiki, spending more time with the gentle nurse.
It was an unspoken, informal arrangement – they began meeting at the beach on the evenings she was free. She talked of the dedicated people she worked with and her family and about growing up on the east coast. She quickly learned he was a reticent man, a good listener, but one who didn’t talk about himself.
But she became fascinated, intrigued, when he talked about the sea, surfing, the Islands, the people, the culture.
So he began slowly introducing her to his favourite places. At Waikiki when the beach boys were around they talked story about growing up in Hawaii. Their graciousness and humour appealed to her and she came to understand what the aloha spirit meant.
He took her out on his board, riding tandem, but she preferred to sit on the beach and watch him, hour after hour, absorbed in riding the waves. It was as though he was reading the water until he knew every shiver and surge, every wrinkle, fold and form. He understood the waves’ mood and momentum before he ventured among them.
And so they became lovers.
When they were together, they closed out the world. For them, the war, the battles happening in other places, didn’t exist.
He had never let anyone intrude into his life before. Sometimes he felt afraid and vulnerable at the immensity of his feelings. Other times he was fearful that there’d be demands, a day of reckoning and that she’d expect something he couldn’t give. But for now, with a war raging, they lived for the moment, wrapped in each other’s arms.
One day she came to him with a sad face and he knew something was very wrong.
He tried to comprehend what she was telling him: that she was leaving for the mainland because now that victory was in sight, many of the nurses were being sent home. She wouldn’t stay because she couldn’t see a future for them together.
She was sad though. She said that she loved the Islands, she loved him.
He was bewildered but in his heart he knew she was right. He couldn’t give up his life and the ocean here, even for her.
So it was over. She wanted no goodbyes.
All he could find to say was, ‘Well, you know where to find me.’
He came in from the dark and turned on a low light on the small table. He smoothed the sheet of paper several times, as if caressing it, before lifting his pen. He had thought long and hard about committing the right words to paper. He was unsure of what to say. But he knew he must try if he was to convince her of his love and his wish to be with her. If only she could understand and agree to a life together in the Islands. As he wrote he poured out his feelings, surprising himself. But when he reread the finished letter he tried to imagine how she would react, but what was he offering her? His heart, his love, a dream.
He walked around the room, came back and read the letter again and realised that while he offered her his love he was not relinquishing his love for the ocean and his way of life . . . an offer she had already rejected. He knew it was hopeless. Calmly he folded the letter, put it in the envelope and tucked it into the back of a scrapbook.
He went outside and the sound of the waves in the darkness comforted him.
15
HOW EASILY AND SWEETLY each day slipped into the next. It felt to Catherine that there had never been a time in her life like this, a time without plans or commitments, simply enjoying every minute of every day. From the moment she opened her eyes, she had no thoughts other than of PJ.
She was surrounded by beauty unlike anything she’d ever imagined, from the dramatic to the romantic, the poetic to the homespun. Kauai was a like a dream. It seemed everyone she saw gave her a special smile, tinged with a knowledge, an acknowledgment, of her joyfulness. Strangers’ smiles made her pause and wonder, do they know? Do they know how free I feel, how happy I am, how in love I am?
PJ occupied all of her. She missed him when he was away from her, she felt so close to him, not only during their entwined nights, but in the things they did together. As well as surfing they’d taken to hiking through the damp, lush valleys, swimming in waterfall pools, fishing, taking Molo’s little boat out to skim along the calmer parts of the coast. In the evenings they sat on the small balcony of The Joss House or occasionally called into Molo’s for an inexpensive dinner.
If they were surfing on the north shore they hung out at Nirvana for several hours and while PJ worked on his boards, Catherine played with Pink and Ziggy and helped Summer and Ginger in the garden or joined them all on a picnic and a swim in the goddess pool. She took lots of photos depicting their idyllic, if unusual, life where they lived as much as they could in rhythm with nature.
At Nirvana everyone talked about new ways of doing things co-operatively, living on communal land, sharing the work of growing their food and raising and teaching their children, bringing in money to share with the group and allowing everyone’s creative talents to blossom. There was always time to sit and make music, play with the children, bake bread and never a day went by without a surf.
Fleetingly, thoughts of Bradley would flutter across the sunshine of Catherine’s day like a small dark cloud. But she pushed these moments of sadness to one side. The thought of what her life might have been with Bradley in Washington seemed a world away. She felt an occasional pang that perhaps she should write to his family, but knew very well there would be no warmth or understanding from them. They were probably angry about what she’d done to their son. It crossed her mind that the only person who might have some awareness of why she couldn’t remain married to Bradley would be Aunt Meredith.
Instead, Catherine wrote chatty, happy letters to her parents enclosing pictures of Kauai and copies of what she was writing for the paper. She did not mention PJ, only that she had a group of supportive, fun and caring friends to spend time with. Her mother had stopped asking about her plans and when was she coming home.
One morning PJ asked Catherine to come and stay on the other side of the island as he’d heard the waves were running. Steve, another surfer friend, lived there in a small farm house. Steve sold a few boards but also, between the rows of sugar cane in his small field, he grew healthy marijuana plants. He asked PJ to shape some boards for him, offering him the use of his beach shack in return.
The shack was a cottage once used by field workers and it was filthy as well as decrepit. Catherine and PJ cooked outside over an open fire and she likened the experience to roughing it on a camping trip. The few times they went to Steve’s farm house Catherine was uncomfortable, disliking the heavy drug use and strange people who drifted in and out. It didn’t have the happy, casual, creative feel of Nirvana. The music was wild heavy metal, there was cocaine and heroin being used as well as marijuana and there was an aggression and unfriendliness she didn’t care for. The people were using surfing as an excuse to drop out and Catherine knew they were not serious soul surfers.
Catherine was glad when they returned to Miranda’s little gallery. PJ told Catherine that he had made money on the boards and
he’d done a deal with Steve to shape more, but he seemed in no hurry to do so. Catherine was pleased as she had no desire ever to see Steve and his cohorts again. She was comfortable with their life on this side of the island.
One afternoon as she pottered around the gallery after a couple had left with a small painting, the phone rang and Miranda’s laughter bounced down the phone line.
‘Everything is great,’ Catherine assured her. ‘Just sold a small oil of hibiscus and shells. Your work is selling really well.’
‘Fantastic. Can you stay on a while longer?’
‘Of course. You having a good time in Venice?’
‘Am I what! I’ve met the most glorious guy. We are having a ball. So . . . figured I might as well play as long as I can.’
‘That’s fine by me,’ said Catherine. ‘Is he Italian?’
‘Venetian, sweetie. He’s a gondolier!’
‘Really! He must be handsome. Does he wear a striped T-shirt and sing love songs?’ laughed Catherine.
‘He does for me. Actually he owns a fleet of gondolas . . . quite the little tourist operator. A touch younger than me, but that’s how I like it. If you can stay on, that’s great, if you have to leave, ask Molo to get someone to help in the gallery a few hours.’
‘I’m not going anywhere. Have fun, Miranda.’
‘Ciao, bella!’
‘Miranda rang from Venice. You’ll never guess what she’s up to!’ exclaimed Catherine to PJ later.
‘Sock it to me,’ he grinned.
‘She’s madly in love with a gondolier and is staying on a while longer.’
He shrugged. ‘She sounds quite a gal.’
‘But it means we can stay on here longer too,’ said Catherine.
‘Makes life easy. I was talking to some of the boys and they’re thinking of heading to the Mentawai Islands off Sumatra which has unreal breaks. Be a good test for the new boards. It’s totally rugged,’ he added. ‘Just sleeping on the beach. Nothing there apparently. I thought I might take off with them for a while.’
‘Sounds kind of exciting,’ said Catherine carefully, wondering how long he’d known about this. ‘When are you leaving? Will you be gone long?’
‘No idea. One of the guys, Stewart, a New Zealander, has a movie camera and he’s been making a surfing film. Been chasing waves for six months. He gets the word and he’s off. Wants Damo and me to be in it.’
‘Sounds . . . expensive. Well, time-consuming. But very interesting. Is there a big audience for a film about waves and surfing?’ asked Catherine.
‘Sure is. The surfing world is getting bigger. Far bigger than when Lester was in his prime. He’ll get a kick out of seeing places he’ll never get to surf.’
‘Me too,’ said Catherine. ‘I’d better lock up the gallery.’ She went downstairs knowing that she was excluded from this part of PJ’s world. He would never ask her on this adventure. It was clearly just for serious male surfers.
The subject wasn’t mentioned again. But suddenly a dozen surfers moved into Nirvana.
‘The sea is up. Big sets coming in. Bring your camera. Damien wanted you to get shots of him and his Aussie mates,’ said PJ. ‘They’ll be heading to Oahu to Waimea, Sunset, Pipeline in a few weeks.’
Catherine was at the beach before sunrise and spent hours focusing her lens on the specks riding the enormous, spectacular waves, often disappearing into the snarling white lip that doubled over on itself. Capturing the moment, the essence of the ferocious yet glorious surge of translucent water was, she felt, a bit like grasping at rainbows. She had to divide her attention between photographing the surfers and trying to capture the ephemeral and dynamic moods and movement of the ocean. Now, with some surfing experience, she tried to imagine what it must feel like out there, to be picked up, to be part of that explosion of water, to be in its heart, to experience the exhilaration, the sensuous pleasure as well as the fear and respect, and to know, as one surfer said to her, what it was like to be ‘in the eye of god’.
She took it upon herself to drive to the nearest hamburger joint on the coast road and pack a box with sandwiches, fruit, drinks, cakes and snacks and take it back to the beach for the hungry surfers. They’d leave the water, flop on the sand, eat, discuss their rides, talk about where to surf next and either return to the water or head to a further point to check how the waves were breaking there. Catherine was always repaid and the boys were keen to know what she might have captured in her shots, especially if one was considered an epic ride.
Catherine learnt the capriciousness of waves from the solid reliable reef rollers to the here-today-gone-tomorrow sandbank breaks and the brightly lit, cathedral-like iridescent underwater ‘green room’ of a tube. She captured some frightening wipe outs, which, though dangerous, never dented a surfer’s keenness.
Days like this just dissolved, time was fluid. Suddenly sunset loomed. The waves had diminished, but when the last stragglers came in from the surf, PJ was still out there, looking for a last wave. The sea was gilded, waves the colour of melting gold, he and his board a dark silhouette until the final wave that carried him towards her. She waited for him at the water’s edge with his towel.
‘Almost too dark for any more pictures. But you got one more ride in before night came,’ she said. ‘You were a long way out.’
‘Magic time. Even out there the offshore wind carries the scent of flowers, cries of birds and somewhere an engine rumbling. A tractor in a field maybe.’ He kissed her. ‘And I imagined I could smell your perfume, your hair.’
That night he made tender love to her. His sweetness, his endearments brought tears to her eyes. Yet in his gentle lovemaking she experienced the most powerful sensations her body had known. Like waves sweeping over her, great rolling, quivering, surging explosions rocked through her. She was drowning in his body. He wrapped his arms around her and held her as he drifted to sleep.
Catherine watched him sleep, breathing deeply and slowly, in the pale light shining through the window. She hadn’t asked when he was heading off on his surfing safari. Soul surfers like PJ surfed from the heart, not for money, not for the adrenalin hit, not for kudos, not for recognition. It met some primeval need, it was a drug, an addiction.
The departure came suddenly, when Stewart the filmmaker finally decided that it was time to head out. Catherine found herself driving PJ, Damien and Leif in Miranda’s car, while their bags, boards, Stewart and his camera and tripod and the other surfers crammed into two kombi vans. At tiny Lihue Airport there was a lot of laughter as the boys cracked jokes and farewelled friends.
Catherine’s goodbye to PJ was not very private, nor very emotional. They hugged tightly, he stroked her hair and as the final boarding call was shouted by a flight attendant in the little terminal, they kissed fiercely. They drew apart and PJ hoisted his small bag onto his shoulder. His blue eyes were shining.
‘You’re excited about this trip, aren’t you?’ she said.
PJ nodded. ‘Hardly anyone’s surfed this spot. If it’s as good as Stewart says and the film comes out, then everyone will know about it. But I think he has a few more places up his sleeve. He’s been doing some heavy research. He’s quite the adventurer.’
‘All very Robinson Crusoe. Unspoiled paradises,’ she said lightly. ‘So I suppose getting word back to me will be tricky.’
‘Yeah, don’t count on it. No mail or phones out there on deserted islands, remote coastlines. But listen, even though you don’t hear, you know I’ll be okay. I’ll think of you, Catherine.’ He kissed her quickly. ‘Gotta go. Want to make sure those boards aren’t damaged when they load ’em. See ya. Take care!’ He waved and hurried through the departure door.
Catherine watched him walk across the tarmac, dressed in sandals, cotton chinos and a blue shirt hanging loosely over a white T-shirt. It was the most formally dressed she’d ever seen him. His sunglasses were pushed up on his head over his cloud of long blond curls. At the plane’s hold he talked to the handlers and watched the s
urfboards being loaded. He then raced up the steps to the plane without a backward glance to reassure the boys that the boards were safely stowed.
She was the last to leave the terminal building, standing alone at the window watching the small plane disappearing into blue sky until her eyes burned and she could only see spots. As she walked outside she passed a woman in a bright muu-muu threading leis at a low table covered in flowers. Her young daughter squatting beside her was sorting blossoms for her mother. Lengths of fragrant leis hung behind them. The woman smiled at Catherine.
‘Aloha. Here, take one lei. Please, no look so sad.’
Catherine stopped and fumbled for her purse but the woman waved her hand away. ‘Come.’ She held up a lei and Catherine bent down as the woman slipped the flowers over her head. ‘You throw dis one into the sea at sunset and your love will return.’
‘Mahalo,’ murmured Catherine, tears spilling from her eyes.
She didn’t want to go to Nirvana, nor to Miranda’s. She wanted a distraction. So she drove to see Beatrice as she’d been meaning to do for several weeks.
Beatrice welcomed her with a large embrace. ‘Dear child. How are you? You have not decided to return to your husband?’ She lifted her shoulders, her dark eyes were warm and her slight smile was philosophical. ‘These things happen, okay? Far better you do this now than suffer in silence believing things will right themselves. All that means is your being a doormat longer and bearing the guilt and burden of domestic duties and children. It’s much harder to leave when there are children.’
‘Eleanor said much the same.’
‘Yes. Well, she knows what she’s talking about.’ Beatrice turned inside the house. ‘Come along, Verna is here. Tea and cakes time. We’re throwing around a few ideas for the next meeting.’ She slipped her feet from her zori at the door and Catherine followed suit. It was a local custom she’d adopted as a matter of course and supposed it had come from the Japanese influence in the Islands. Barefoot they padded down the polished-wood hallway. ‘So what have you been up to?’