Cowabunga Christmas

by Anna Celeste Burke

  A tanned, well-muscled man was making a fire. He looked up and Brien gestured using the shaka sign, the Hawaiian ‘hang loose’ greeting.

  “Aloha, Bro, ‘tsup?” The sandy-haired man stood up. His Pendleton plaid shirt fell open, revealing a nice set of abs. Not as good as Brien’s. The shirt was worn over the long surfer shorts Brien calls ‘boardies.’ It occurred to me that we were both overdressed, not to mention disheveled from that tumble we had taken dodging Bad Santa. I wasn’t the only one wearing dirt smears and grass stains. Brien either didn’t notice or didn’t care that his clothes were stained.

  He moved forward, lowering his voice, perhaps not wanting to yell and disturb village dwellers that had appeared out of nowhere. I noticed movement in other places around us and realized, here and there, hammocks held occupants and so did the tents. As the fire-tender spoke to Brien, his eyes were on me. He gave me the once over more than once. His eyes came to rest on that tattoo on my arm.

  “Hey, Man, I’m Brien and this is Kim.”

  “Mick,” fire-tender replied. He finally took his eyes off me without any acknowledgment at all.

  “We’re staying at the resort, and I’m hoping to catch a few waves in the next few days. Who can give me the dope about surfing around here?” Brien’s face lit up with anticipation. I wondered if he had already lost track of the other reason for our visit.

  “I can, but hang on, Dude. We heard they got a dead Santa up there at the Sanctuary.” Okay, so no problem getting back on track. Perfect!

  “Don’t we know it, Bro? Owen Taylor almost dropped in on us while we were taking a moonlight swim.”

  “No way, you almost got axed by Santa?” He shook his head as he went back to setting out the wood to build a fire. “Owen Taylor, huh? I know that name,” he said, raising his eyes to meet Brien’s. I heard murmurs from the Greek chorus that surrounded us. I could have sworn they were chanting something that sounded like ‘Opie.’

  “We didn’t call him Owen. Opie, that’s what we called him. That freckle-faced kid was big on fishing but a real Barney on the boards. We let it slide, since he kept us supplied with fresh fish. Then a couple weeks ago he went all Sheriff Taylor on us.” Mick stopped talking and blinked at Brien for a moment.

  “Opie, Barney, and Sheriff Taylor,” I said, before I could stop myself. “It sounds like he brought the whole town of Mayberry with him.”

  “Uh, no Aunt Bea,” he retorted, and then laughed at his own joke. Snort, snort, big snort, the chorus closing in around us chuckled too. “Good one, huh, Bunny?” Mick asked, giving me a wink. Bunny, as in beach bunny, sounded snide as it rolled off his lips. Mick was starting to grate.

  “What happened that brought out the Sheriff Taylor in him?” I asked, fighting my urge to add ‘jerk’ to the end of that question.

  “I’m not sure—he just went dark. Got all eggy, hard to take, you know? When he tried to tell people what to do we told him to live and let live, or leave. He left.” Mick shrugged. “Man, I do miss all that good fish, um, um, um.” Shades of Mayberry! Mick was um-um-umming like Andy Griffith.

  “How did he do his fishing? In a dinghy or something?” Brien asked.

  “Nah, mostly spearfishing while he was out snorkeling. He had a favorite spot—away from the crowds at the beach. They spook the fish.”

  “Too bad he didn’t let you in on his secret fishing spot before he left.” I tried to keep the irritation out of my voice.

  “Yeah, it is too bad. Hey, Willow, where are you?” At Mick’s bellow a wafer thin young woman with her long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail stepped from the shadows near us. She wore a t-shirt and jeans with a brightly-colored shawl wrapped around her thin frame.

  “Willow, show the girl-with-the-dragon-tattoo around. I’m going to enlighten Brien, here, about our little surfing paradise, okay?” I felt like growling, it’s not a dragon, jerk! Mick essentially dismissed us without waiting for a response to that question. Brien could tell steam was about to blow out of my ears. He took a step toward me.

  “I’ve got this jerk,” he whispered as he pulled me into his arms. Fine minds, I thought at his use of the word jerk. His touch calmed me right down. “Thanks, Willow, for showing Kim around. I’m sure she’s going to find it really interesting and informative.” He looked directly into my eyes as he said that. I got the message. The jerk had done us another favor. I realized what a great opportunity this was to snoop around Boardertown, once I refocused on the main purpose for our visit. Brien leaned in, kissed me on the lips, and beamed that smile of his. Then he headed over to the fire circle where Mick had gone back to fire-building.

  “So, I’m sure you brought your wettie, right bro? It is frigid out there...” Willow spoke so I missed the end of that sentence. I bristled at the question. Of course Brien had brought his wet suit. Did Mick consider him an idiot? Grr! Willow must have noticed.

  “Don’t mind Mick,” Willow said. “He likes to think he’s the big Kahuna around here, but he’s not.” As she said that, she pointed to one of the larger shacks. Unlike a lot of the other makeshift structures around us, this one had walls that were actually straight and was made of wood held together with real nails. It had a tin roof and windows fitted with glass. Above the door that hung a little crooked, there was a sign with the word Kahuna written on it. Shades of Beach Blanket Bingo—or one of those old movies, I thought. As if Moondoggie and I have room to talk.

  Mick had even placed two large wooden tiki-god statues outside his door. Willow began picking out other features of the surfing hangout and describing them to me. More campground than village, I concluded as she showed me an outhouse tucked away, hidden by trees. Just in case I needed to use it.

  “We can use the restrooms and showers at the beach. They’re much nicer, but farther away. And this is where we keep supplies, canned goods, paper products, cleaning products, blankets, camping gear, and other basics like that,” Willow said, taking me a few steps closer to storage sheds in between Kahuna’s shack and two more similarly-built shacks. Several bicycles leaned up against one of the sheds.

  “Anyone can use the bikes. We all contribute what we can, and take what we need, when it comes to food and supplies. Everyone helps with chores like cleaning up around here, gathering and chopping wood, or hauling water from a fall that’s not too far from here. Wood and water is stored over there,” she said, pointing to a large metal bin full of chopped wood next to a huge water catchment container. The whole layout was way too rustic for me. When push comes to shove, I don’t think I’m the little grass shack kind of girl. I hope Brien knows that.

  “If not Mick, who is the big Kahuna around here?” I asked.

  “No one, really.” She paused, thinking about it. “People listen to you more if you’re an excellent surfer or you’ve been around here longer. That’s part of what got Owen into trouble.” Antennae up! Willow had referred to Owen by his real name, not as Opie. Hmm, I wondered.

  “You mean, because he hadn’t been here very long or was it that Barney business?”

  “Both,” she said, smiling. “The live and let live business, mostly. A lot of people come here thinking that living on the beach is wild and romantic.” She choked on the word ‘romantic.’ “It can be, at first. Time stops. They bum around for a while; feel relieved not doing whatever they were doing before they got here. You know, the pressure is off? People drift along and then all of a sudden realize they’re in a rut. A different type of a rut, but it’s still a rut. Worse than that they’re stuck, you know?” I nodded yes. For me it was the music business that had put stars in my eyes. Stuck was an understatement once I had fallen into the rut I dug for myself with Mr. P.

  “That’s especially true if you’re not here for the surfing. We get plenty of people who pass through and move on once they figure out living simply is not easy. It takes work, too. When they realize that, they start looking for a way out.” Her voice went all raspy.

  “Is that how Owen saw it?” She
nodded yes. In silence, she led me to one of the shacks and opened the door. I followed her inside. It was about as neat and tidy as you could expect a one room home to be. Four cots lined up against the wall, told me she didn’t always live here alone. A makeshift rack held clothes and other items. Willow sank down on one of the cots, patting the empty space next to her. I took it.

  “We had a thing,” she said, almost in a whisper.

  “Willow, are you saying you and Owen, um... hooked up?” Tears welled up in her eyes as she nodded yes. I gulped as it dawned on me that Brien and I had brought her very bad news on Christmas Eve.

  “I’m so sorry, it must be a shock to find out he’s dead.” Willow said nothing, but nodded again, weeping now. I searched for a box of tissues; grabbed a beach towel instead, and handed it to her. She buried her face in it sobbing louder.

  “It’s my fault! I broke up with him. That’s why he started acting like such an ass and got Mick on his case.” More sobbing, before she spoke again. “It wasn’t the sheriff in him that got him in trouble with me—it was the crook. Owen was a dope—a real dope.” Willow went back to sobbing. I should have put my arm around her, and hugged or patted her. I’m just not a touchy-feely person. Instead, I tried to think of something comforting to say.

  “Listen, Willow, no way is it your fault. I’m betting it’s the crook thing that got him killed, not breaking up with you. You want to talk about it?” Boy, did she! Willow had quite the story to tell. Brien and I had found the thief burgling boats at the dock, and the guy who stole that dinghy. After Willow finished her story and quit crying I had her show me around a little more. That took us up the steep incline along the back side of the cliffs.

  8 Crafty Santa

  The sun was riding lower in the sky by the time Willow took me back to the campfire. The late afternoon rays of sunshine no longer penetrated far into the cover of trees and it was getting chilly. Here and there, lanterns had been hung that glowed in the dusky shadows. Colorfully dressed surfers and those who hung out with them stood around or sat near the fire. A much smaller number than you might find in the summer months, according to Willow. Surfing was as good or better in the winter, though, and fewer people meant less worries about having to compete for a good wave. When the hot Santa Ana winds blew in, it could truly be a surfer’s paradise.

  Only a handful of people actually lived there year round—a couple dozen, maybe. Willow wasn’t certain how many. Funny they should have made such a big deal about Owen Taylor being a newbie because even the year-rounders eventually moved on. Only two or three community members had been there for more than ten years. That included Mick. One reason he regarded himself as headman.

  I smelled fish sizzling on the fire and realized I was getting hungry. If I was hungry Brien must be starving. No need to worry about my Brien. When I joined him at the circle of people sitting around the fire I saw he had scored a small bag of Doritos. The warmth of that fire felt good to my chilly arms. I must have given that away because Willow took off the shawl she wore and placed it around my shoulders.

  “You’re going to need that for your walk home,” she said sweetly. “I’ve got others—blankets, too!” Her mood was still somber, but had lightened considerably after spilling her guts about Owen.

  “Thanks, Willow. I’ll bring it back to you. I’m sure we’ll be around again soon now that Mick’s educated Brien about the surfing scene here.” Mick liked that. Brien knew me well enough to pick up the hint of sarcasm in my tone. I bet I had learned as much about Owen, the community and surfing as Brien had learned. Once the flood gates opened, the words tumbled out with stories about Willow’s surfing experience, village life, her relationship with Owen and his troubles. She had given Owen a few surf lessons before he became more interested in his other endeavors, using his spearfishing as a cover.

  “Yeah, that’s awful nice of you, Willow. We should get going—time for some grindage, Bro.” Brien rubbed his stomach, making circular motions to go with the grindage word. Grindage? Okay, that was a new one for me. “Like Kim says, thanks for the education.”

  “Happy to oblige. You and your surfette are welcome to hang with us. We got plenty good eats, Brah,” Mick spoke that last line with a pidgin accent. I noted I had gone up a notch—from bunny to surfette. I’m not sure I deserved it. I must be a worse surfer than Opie. I’d have to remember to ask Brien if there was such a thing in surf lingo as a Barneyette. That would be me.

  “Thanks for the offer, but we made reservations for a Christmas Eve dinner.”

  “No problem. Catch you later,” Mick said as he poked at potatoes wrapped in aluminum foil that had been tucked down into the coals. Willow stood there looking so woebegone once again, I actually hugged her. It wasn’t so bad. I felt much less awkward now that I have had so much practice hugging Brien.

  “We’ll be back, promise.” That seemed to pick up her mood. I wanted to add, ‘and with information about who killed Owen,’ but that remained to be seen.

  Brien and I hustled back to the hotel. I had forgotten all about those dinner reservations. We had to shower and change our clothes before we could show up at the resort’s finest restaurant, The Abbey. Between huffs and puffs I filled Brien in on what Willow had revealed.

  “Willow is convinced Owen was a nice guy that gave in to his inner crook and got mixed up with the wrong crowd. She didn’t mention names, but Owen claimed he had stumbled across some real operators running local scams.”

  “Like what?” Brien asked.

  “Like picking up packages from boats that come into the cove at night.” Brien stopped walking for a second.

  “So, we’re talking about drugs after all?”

  “No, not that, I’m talking about piracy, twenty-first century style.”

  “As in knock-offs?”

  “Yes, counterfeit goods. Willow says Owen wasn’t sure where the goods came from—Mexico or China via Mexico. Mr. P used to rant about the thievery’s impact on sales of CDs for his stable of rock stars. Can you believe that, given all the scummy sidelines that little weasel had going? Anyway, the goods mostly came in on small vessels, privately owned and used for recreation, touring or sport fishing. They don’t get inspected like the big container ships.”

  “That couldn’t be a very big operation, could it?”

  “It started off small—as a way for someone at the resort to make money by substituting counterfeit items to snooty guests, putting cheaper stuff into the gift shops and skimming off the difference in costs. Then it got bigger and they began selling the knock-offs to stores and right off the back of the truck. Not in San Albinus, mind you, but in Monterey and Salinas, bigger cities not too far away.”

  “Okay, they pick this stuff up in boats, and then unload it at the dock?”

  “That’s right, Brien. There’s an access road that leads to a boat launch where they parked a truck, late at night, and transported the goods from the dock. Owen figured out what was going on by eavesdropping on a couple of regulars at the Hideaway where he worked. One night, he heard them talking about leaving a few items behind. A helicopter patrol spooked them and they let the stuff float away. When they gave up on the idea of retrieving the lost goods, Owen decided to cut himself in on the action. The spearfishing became a cover. At first, he hauled back the leftovers those guys were talking about—cases of counterfeit games. Packed to keep water out, they had drifted into a shallow area near the caves in the cliffs. Willow took me up to an overlook and pointed out the spot Owen showed her.”

  “Wow, Owen was a crafty Santa, wasn’t he?”

  “Oh, yeah. Ambitious too, as it turned out. Owen stole that dinghy and GPS so he could track where those guys were picking up the loot and cut in on them. He spied on the runners at night, picked up their leftovers, and sometimes helped himself before they got there.”

  “Stealing right out from under their noses had to be risky. That must be what got him killed.”

  “It’s a good possibility. Willow
says she warned Owen, but he argued that he wasn’t taking much—a pilot fish swimming along with the sharks. Willow got more and more upset as he kept bringing stuff to her, perfume and cosmetics, designer bags and boxes of shoes—Jimmy Choos, no less.”

  “Oh no, Jessica won’t like that,” Brien said.

  “You are so right!” That was the first thought that had come into my mind when I saw those shoes. Jessica would be so ticked, given how much she pays for a pair. “Willow showed me sandals Owen had given her. They looked like the real deal to me. Anyway, this is where Owen really becomes crafty Santa. Stuff’s piling up and Owen’s got a new problem: how to get rid of his pirate booty. That’s when he got the idea to buy the Santa suit—so he could haul his loot up through the resort in a sack like the resort Santas carry. That suit showed up next. Willow said by then their shack was starting to look like Santa’s workshop.”

  “What did he do with it once he got to town?”

  “Willow’s not sure, Brien. I wonder if that’s why he was in the bar after hours. Not stealing, but stashing his goods until he could unload them.”

  “There’s one way to find that out, Kim—go talk to the owners of the bar.”

  “We could, but surely they would have noticed strange goods stashed away in a store room or shed they own, wouldn’t they? If they did, then why not contact the police? Why isn’t this already a matter of public record?”

  “I see where you’re going with this, Kim. Maybe they found his stash and that’s why they decided not to file charges against Owen. If they took it, that would not have made Owen happy. That’s a lot of work—picking up the knock-offs and hauling them into the village. If Owen objected, it could have gotten complicated, real quick. Owen probably wasn’t very good at complicated was he? I mean, there’s no way he could have used the Santa routine much longer. Then what? It also doesn’t sound like he put much thought into how to move the goods if they were piling up in Willow’s shack like that. If he was hiding his loot at the bar where he worked, I’ll bet he didn’t do that too well, either. Poor Owen, not very bright, was he?” Brien said, as he shook his head.