The Green Room

by Deborah Turrell Atkinson

  Buster sucked in his breath. “Not all haole.” His voice was defensive.

  “Most.” Mo'o’s tone held a sneer. “They’re malihini, been here a year or two, think they fuckin’ own the place.”

  “Not. Got surfers on it, too. Guys you know.” A cup slammed to the countertop. “But I guess you already pick your side.”

  Mo'o chuckled softly, in what sounded to O’Reilly like a conciliatory attempt to reach his friend. “Not. Come on, Buster. We been friends a long time. What surfers you talking about?”

  “Ask someone else.” The door slammed.

  “Shit,” Mo'o muttered, and O’Reilly heard the coffee mugs clank together, as if Mo'o was clearing his countertop in a hurry.

  Chapter Five

  “Hi, Aunt Maile. We’re here.” Storm stood with her cell phone on the lanai of a newly-remodeled beach cottage overlooking Laniakea Beach. “Thank Cheryl and Joe for me, okay? They could rent this for a lot of money, it’s so gorgeous. It’s nice of them to let us use it.”

  Robbie shot by her, jumped down the steps to the sandy yard, and darted for the water, his feet shooting up plumes of fine white sand in his rush. Leila and Hamlin followed him. They toted beach chairs and towels, and Leila carried a canvas bag spilling over with novels, magazines, and sun block.

  Storm hung up and made her way across the front yard, a sandy expanse shaded by ironwood trees, to the beach. It was around eleven Saturday morning, and she had called Ben from the road to tell him they were on the way. When she’d mentioned eleven-year-old Robbie, Ben had said he’d try to get a couple of surfing buddies to give lessons to the youngster.

  The guys arrived soon after Storm had joined Hamlin and Leila in the shade of a cluster of palms. Ben was more cheerful than he’d been when he accompanied his mother to Storm’s office.

  “Storm, this is Goober Stevens.”

  Storm stood up and took the hand of the guy Ben had introduced. Goober grinned through slightly crooked teeth and tossed a mass of blond dreadlocks that reached his shoulders. “Hi.”

  When Goober turned to greet Robbie, Storm noticed the wide tattoo of a sea turtle across his lower back, just above board shorts slung so low Storm was afraid she’d get to see whether Goober was a natural blond. Another honu, tiny and in jade, hung on a leather thong around his neck.

  A man, bigger and broader-shouldered than Goober or Ben, split off from chatting with a couple of surfers down the beach and jogged toward them.

  “Hey, you finally get free?” Ben asked him with a grin, then turned to Storm. “You know Nahoa.”

  Nahoa threw his arms around her. “Storm, it’s been like what, decades? And now you’re a big-time lawyer.”

  Storm burst out laughing. “In my dreams. Last time I saw you was at Missy’s wedding. You were making your mother crazy.”

  “Yeah, I was supposed to be an usher, wasn’t I?” He laughed. “I never did stop making my mother crazy.”

  “Leila, Hamlin, this is Nahoa Pi'ilani, my second cousin.”

  Hamlin shook his hand warmly. “You won the Pipeline Masters last year, right?”

  “Yeah, I was lucky. Got a good wave.” Nahoa shrugged. “Right place at the right time, you know?”

  He took Leila’s hand. “Are you related, too?” He gazed at her strawberry blond hair and green eyes, still holding onto her hand.

  Leila didn’t seem to mind Nahoa’s flirtation. Few women would.

  “No, Storm and Hamlin let us tag along, get out of the city for the weekend,” Leila said.

  Robbie had moved next to his mother and stared up at Nahoa. The boy’s eyes gleamed with wonder. “You’re in the Sunset Triple Pro?” he asked.

  “Yup, I made it so far,” Nahoa grinned.

  Storm watched him, too, and marveled at seeing him again. Years ago, she’d been very close to his family, but Nahoa’s mother had taken her children and fled the Big Island when her husband died. Storm hadn’t seen Nahoa since he was seven.

  It amazed Storm that he’d tracked her down and recommended her to his friend. His face had the same fine planes, coffee-hued skin, and lively black eyes that she remembered, but she wouldn’t have recognized him if she’d passed him on the street. She might have looked twice, though. At twenty-five, he was not only six-three, he was movie-star handsome, and looked like he knew it in a good-natured way.

  Storm stifled a grin and wondered if Rochelle still worried about him like she used to. Probably. Nahoa had been seven and his sister twelve when their father died. Storm had heard that Rochelle Pi'ilani never remarried. Instead, she’d poured her energy into her children, especially her son, whom she adored and spoiled. The day he was supposed to be in Missy’s wedding, he’d run off to go surfing with a handful of other grommets and showed up fifteen minutes late to the church—barefoot and with sand still in his hair. Rochelle often wrung her hands at her son’s nature, which was irreverent from day one, but she was a “boys will be boys” kind of mom.

  Robbie still gazed at Nahoa, and the young man smiled at him. “Wanna go out and help me practice?”

  Leila’s head swiveled to the shore break in front of them, where the waves crashed onto the sand and sent a foaming sheet of water up the beach. Her smile shrank.

  “We’ll go out and down a bit.” Nahoa pointed to set of gentler, curving waves about a hundred yards to their left. “Storm and I won’t let him out of our sight.”

  Storm’s mouth dropped open and she promptly clamped it closed. She hadn’t planned on this. She wasn’t at all comfortable in big waves. Laniakea wasn’t breaking big today, especially in terms of North Shore winter surf, but some of the waves were taller than she was, though she’d bet the surf report would place them at three to five feet. Still, if she showed Leila that she was frightened by the water, Leila wouldn’t let Robbie go. And Robbie would be bummed. More accurately, judging by his worshipful expression, he’d be devastated.

  “Me either,” said Goober. “We all watch out for each other.”

  “I brought a tandem board,” announced Nahoa. He turned to Ben. “I’ll take Robbie and you can use my new Lanipuni.”

  “Is that the seven-footer Mo'o was bragging about?” Ben asked. “The thruster with his special skegs? Thanks, man.”

  Hamlin had sidled up to Storm and draped his arm over her shoulders. “You okay?” he asked softly.

  Some of the tension in Storm’s shoulders abated and she gave a tiny nod. The tandem board was good news. Robbie would share it with Nahoa, who would paddle out, catch the wave, and keep the boy out of the danger zone. And she’d stay as close to them on her own board as she safely could.

  Robbie didn’t allow any delays in getting into the water. He barely let Leila apply sunscreen to his face and shoulders. Storm stayed quiet and ignored Leila’s questioning glances. It was all she could do to keep from revealing her nervousness when she picked up her board.

  Trundling down the beach behind the frolicking Robbie and tall men, Storm took deep breaths and told herself that the waves at Laniakea weren’t that much bigger than what she normally surfed. She hoped. When she leaned over to fasten her surfboard leash around her ankle, she noticed that her fingers trembled a bit.

  “Hey, you’re goofy footed,” Nahoa said. “So am I.”

  Nahoa’s gestured to his left leg, where he’d attached his own leash. “It’s good luck.” He grinned at her and Storm knew he’d seen her trepidation. Being goofy only meant that they surfed with their right foot forward, as opposed to their left, like the majority of surfers. It didn’t really bring luck, but the comment made Storm feel better.

  “We’re just going out to play.” He squinted out at the water. “And be part of the ocean and her power.”

  “That’s what I like,” Storm said. “Being in the water, feeling that clean purity.”

  Nahoa’s dimples deepened. “That’s what it’s all about.”

  With the first cooling splash, she began to relax
. Soon her mind and body were occupied with the mechanics of paddling and watching the currents and waves, and much of the apprehension she’d felt washed away.

  Nahoa and Robbie were about ten feet in front of her, while Ben and Goober flanked the little group. Getting out past the breaking water wasn’t difficult, in large part because the experienced surfers knew where the shoulder of the wave would be easiest to swim over. Plus, they were patient with her and didn’t make her feel as if she couldn’t keep up. That was a relief, especially on the North Shore, where catching and riding waves can be aggressive and competitive.

  “Hey, Nahoa. That how you’re surfing Sunday?” someone yelled from the water.

  “I’ll still beat you,” Nahoa shouted back.

  The surfer swam over and gave Nahoa the local handshake, butting fists together before clasping. He then did it to Robbie.

  “This is Robbie, a friend of mine,” Nahoa said. He looked over his shoulder. “And my cousin, Storm.”

  Storm caught up and the man gave her a nod. He looked part Hawaiian, part haole, with maybe an Asian ancestor in the mix somewhere. His skin was tanned to a deep chestnut, and his short, bleached hair had dark roots. Wide tattoos of tribal designs encircled his biceps, wrists, and ankles.

  “I’m Gabe,” he said, and ran his eyes first down her, then her board.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Keep your eye on Gabe. He can teach you a thing or two,” Nahoa said.

  She noticed that Ben and Goober had gone past them and joined the lineup for the next set of waves. “I will.”

  Gabe gave her another nod. “See you around, dude,” he said to Nahoa, and paddled off.

  Nahoa waited a minute, then spoke in a low voice. “Watch out for him. Some people get huhū, you don’t get out of the way or wait your turn in the lineup. Not only does he do that, he’ll snake you. You know, drop in on the wave. It’s dangerous.”

  Storm watched Gabe’s broad back paddling away. She knew some of the unwritten etiquette of surfing, but what she didn’t know worried her. This was a different scene than the mellower South Shore breaks. She’d had the feeling that Gabe hadn’t come over just to razz Nahoa, but also to check out who was with him. “Are people territorial out here?”

  Nahoa made a snorting noise. “Yeah.”

  An understatement. “No sharing a wave then, eh?”

  “You can with Ben or me.”

  There was a lull in the sets, so it was a good time to get through the break zone, where the next waves would curl. Nahoa struck out for the outside of the break. Robbie lay in front of him and grinned back at Storm from time to time.

  Goober appeared beside Storm, and Ben sat on his board about twenty feet away. They didn’t want to get too close to one another, because banging into one another’s fiberglass boards was not only one of those bad etiquette mistakes, it was dangerous to both people and equipment.

  Goober sat up on his board and narrowed his eyes as he assessed the oncoming waves. “When a set comes in, don’t catch the first wave. A lot of the regulars will be going for it.”

  Storm saw Ben nod in agreement, though his eyes never left the horizon. Goober’s didn’t, either. Storm looked out to sea, too, and remembered the warning every child in Hawai'i grows up with: Never turn your back on the sea. She knew the warning was even more critical out here.

  “I usually find the second or third wave is better. Maybe bigger, with better form,” Ben said. “Find a couple of points on the shore and make sure you stay within them. There’s often a pretty good rip current out here and you don’t know you’re in it until you’re farther out than you meant to be.”

  Goober lay down on his board and paddled a few strokes to the right. “Set coming in.” He turned back to Storm. “Stay on the shoulder, you’ll have less of a drop.”

  Drop? She didn’t do drops—that took too big of a wave. She could see the water building now, and she dug in to get off to the side. She’d follow Goober’s advice, wait and see how this one went. It was probably the first in a set of four or five.

  The swell reached the surfers quickly. A number of them paddled to catch the wave, vying for the best place in the lineup. Storm watched Nahoa, probably a hundred yards in front of her and facing the rising wave, move toward the outside, and she followed his direction. She flew over the top and down the other side with a swoop that made her stomach soar. God, this was fun. And God, it was scary.

  Nahoa and Robbie were both sitting on the big tandem board now, and she could see Nahoa rotating it to face shore. They were going for the next wave. Nahoa kept the board perpendicular to the line of the rising line of water, out on the shoulder. He shouted something to Robbie, then gave two or three strong strokes and got to his feet as easily as if he’d been lying on the living room floor. Robbie got to his knees and stayed there, his arms out like a tightrope walker. The two of them soared by. Robbie’s eyes were as round as quarters and his mouth stretched, with delight edging out the fear. When they plummeted with the rush of cascading water behind them, Storm heard Robbie’s squeal of exhilaration. She dropped down the ocean side of the wave, out of sight, but she heard them both laugh out loud.

  Ben paddled up to within about ten feet of her. “Next one’s ours. You’re in the right position, on the outside. It’s going to break right, so anticipate that and go with it. I’ll be nearby, just relax and have fun.” He looked over his shoulder, then back at her.

  “Start paddling.”

  Storm’s stomach felt like it had risen to her throat. She dug into the water, hands stiff, shoulders and triceps flexing with effort. She felt like she wasn’t moving. Instead, the ocean seemed to suck her back into a rising wall of water. The roar drowned out all other sound, any concept of anyone near her; it eradicated any thought in her mind but how to keep from tumbling down the face of the wave.

  If she fell now, she’d go over the falls. And then she’d be in the washing machine, with no idea which way was up. If that happened, all she could do would be to hold her breath and hope that the greater density of salt water would push her to the surface before her air ran out.

  She wanted to turn back, but it was too late. Instead, she plunged down the face of the wave, still lying down, afraid to rise, terrified she’d fall and be engulfed in that liquid green wall. Somewhere off to her left, she heard Ben shout. “Stand up!”

  And she did. She scrambled up, knowing as she did that she had to, or she’d bury the nose of the board and be launched like a cannonball, held to the razor-finned slab of fiberglass by the rubber leash around her ankle, only to land in the exact spot where the leading edge of the curl would crash to the ocean. She’d have as much free will as a piece of driftwood.

  On her feet, she found that her petrified brain started to function once again. She was up. In this position, she had control. She could shift her weight back on the board to avoid pearling, or she could move forward and adjust for a lull in the water’s force. And once in control, she was no longer as frightened.

  The ride was perfect. She sailed past Nahoa and Robbie, who shouted and gave her a thumbs-up. Twenty yards beyond them, the wave petered out, and Storm let herself fall, laughing, into the ocean.

  “Way to go.” Ben had appeared nearby, and calmly sat on his board as if he’d driven up and parked.

  “That was great.” Storm was breathless with exertion and a roaring adrenaline buzz.

  “Wanna do it again?”

  “Yeah.”

  ***

  A couple of hours later, the surfers traipsed back to where Leila and Hamlin had set down beach chairs. They’d had a hard time staying in them, though, and met the wet and sandy group halfway down the beach.

  “That looks really fun,” Hamlin said.

  “You could do it,” Storm assured him. “Let’s start on smaller waves, though.”

  “They look pretty big,” Leila said. “Lots of white water.”

  Robbie was carrying
the tandem board with Ben. “It was so fun, Mom. I want to do it again.”

  Leila had laid an old bedspread in the sand next to the beach chairs. Robbie and Storm sat down on it, but the guys insisted on sitting in the sand. “We’re going back out again pretty soon,” Goober said.

  “Speak for yourself,” Ben said. “I’ve got to get some work done.”

  “Gotta check in with your mom, you mean?”

  Ben glared at Goober. “Maybe. So what?”

  Nahoa interrupted them. “Waves will be better later this afternoon, when the wind dies down.”

  Goober shrugged. “Whatever.”

  Storm was seated on the blanket so that she faced the arguers. Consequently, she gazed down the beach in an effort to ignore the friction. Nahoa reacted as if he’d heard the sniping before, and he turned to Leila to discuss Brian’s work as a police officer.

  A small group of surfers walked along the beach, boards under their arms. One of them pointed toward Storm, Hamlin, and their little group. A sunburned, tow-headed kid of nine or ten in a brand-new Matsumoto Shave Ice T-shirt ran up to them. Someone had coated his peeling nose with zinc oxide.

  “Some guy asked me to give you this.” The boy handed Nahoa a package, wrapped in brown paper and twine. He then dug in his pocket and pulled out a Subway napkin, complete with calorie counts and a couple of oily spots. “Can I have your autograph, too?” He handed the napkin to Nahoa. “I heard you’re gonna win the surf contest tomorrow.”

  “We’ll see,” Nahoa said. “Anyone got a pen?”

  Leila dug around in her beach tote and came up with an old ballpoint, which Nahoa used to sign the napkin.

  “What’s in the package?” he asked.

  “I dunno.” The kid stood on one foot in the hot sand, then the other. “You prob’ly should open it.”

  “Okay.” Nahoa untied the twine and peeled back the layers of paper. For a moment, he didn’t move.

  “Who gave this to you?”

  “A man.” The boy pointed down the beach in the direction he’d come.

  Everyone looked toward the layers of brown paper. All that was visible was a heavy dark, carved wood handle. By the size and heft of the package, Storm guessed the item was about eighteen inches long and weighed several pounds.