No less brightened by her presence, Julian thought. Not to mention his own revitalized fantasy. He bit his lower lip as she sat on deck, tossed her wavy, blond hair back, and crossed her slim legs.
Kamehaloha coaxed the engines to life and called to Julian, “Take the head, sailor boy!”
“Are you sure I should guide us out of the harbor?”
“You gotta learn sometime, brother.”
Of course Kamehaloha was right, and Julian took the helm.
Slowly out of Lahaina Harbor they went in early morning: Julian Crosby, Kamehaloha Kong, and Tamara Sly. The water in the bay was calm, and Julian piloted the Scoundrel with the care of a new father handling his baby for the first time. Kamehaloha offered words of encouragement, as well as directions: “That’s it, brother. Take it slow and easy. Around the reef you go. Once we’re a few hundred yards offshore, you can open it up!”
The engines rumbled and coughed up dirty exhaust, while the foamy wash splashed against the ship’s hull. At the head, in the captain’s chair, Julian felt curiously at home in this less than familiar part.
Clearing the arc where the cruise ships were often moored, he pulled back on the throttle and felt the power of the twin inboards rise. His accumulated doubts and insecurities faded with the emergence of the tropical sun. And even before the deserted south shoreline of Maui was out of sight, the north shore of the Big Island, with its twin snow-capped, volcanic peaks of Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa, came into view. Sheer, windswept cliffs mantled in the delicate hues of a verdant rain forest rose majestically from the tranquil sea. Great waves thundered against the rocky outcroppings and black sand beaches, ever changing the cast of the water from steely gray at its depths to marine blue near the reef, to an intense shade of aqua in the lagoons, and finally to a foamy froth as it washed on shore. Around the northern apex of the archipelago’s youngest island they sailed, past the wild and barely accessible Pololu Valley, along Hamakua Coast. There the ghosts and artifacts of Waipio Canyon offered stories of the ancient culture through one of its descendants, Kamehaloha Kong.
“This place looks peaceful now,” related Kamehaloha, “but in ancient times there were sacrifices at the sacred heiaus. Many Hawaiians believe that along a section of Waipio Beach lies the entrance to the nether world. Ha! I suppose I believe it, too!” he laughed. “Once I was hiking at night with some friends through the canyon to the twin falls of Hiilawe, and in the long, moon-lit shadows we saw a line of Night Marchers searching for the entrance to a secret domain.” He looked provocatively at Julian. “Do you believe in spirits, brother?”
Julian drew a deep breath but said nothing. The dubious look on his face was answer enough for Kamehaloha. Tamara, on the other hand, was much more willing to accept the thread of truth derived from such blatant superstition. And while the fabric of such a tale looked a little foolish when modeled by Kamehaloha, Julian found it all the more charming when worn by the girl.
“Look! A pair of Humpbacks!” Tamara called out from the deck. She pointed to a place not more than a hundred yards off the starboard bow. Kamehaloha followed her line of vision and sighted the whales too.
“Cut the engines and come down here!” Kong called to Julian, and the novice captain immediately did as he was told. “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” he said reverently.
“Every time I get close to them it brings tears to my eyes,” said Tamara.
Julian stood wide-eyed and excited as he looked out to sea. Searching the horizon, he fervently hoped for a glimpse of the whales.
Kamehaloha searched the waterline through a pair of binoculars. He put his heavy arm around Julian’s shoulder, handed him the glasses, and tried to define the area of ocean where he thought the two whales might surface next. “Look for the spray from their blowholes,” he advised. “It’ll look like a little puff of smoke coming off the water.”
Julian put the binoculars to his eyes. At first he saw nothing accept the white crests of the waves. Since the engines had been shut down the boat was rocking with the pitch of the sea, and it was difficult to keep his vision focused upon one area of water. Then he saw the spray; and a moment later the whales breached side by side, two enormous tales following great black forms with white underbellies over the waves and back into the deep. Thrilled by the spectacle, he turned to hand the binoculars to Tamara. “Did you see that?” he exclaimed.
Seconds later the pair surfaced again, this time frolicking on their sides, pectoral fins slapping at the swells.
“They have a language all their own,” Kamehaloha explained. “I’ve heard it myself! If you place underwater microphones about thirty feet deep, then amplify the sounds, you hear the curious cries and squeaks—in a sequence or a pattern, like code—and it’s obvious that these are not simply random noises. They have meaning beyond our understanding.”
“I think they like us,” commented Tamara.
“They’re very curious creatures,” Kamehaloha said. “If we leave the engines off and just float here awhile, perhaps they’ll come even closer.”
But the pair of Humpback whales did not approach the Scoundrel, rather they moved further and further out to sea.
“Maybe we should follow them,” Julian suggested.
“Not a good idea, brother” said Kamehaloha. “Like any wild animal, they need their space; and besides, environmental laws against encroachment are very strict.” He began moving toward the prow of the boat. “It’s getting late,” he said. “We should head for Hilo Bay or we’ll miss the arrival of Hawai’iloa.”
He tried to re-start the twin inboards, but once again the carburetors seemed to need adjustment. Without concern Kamehaloha made the minor modifications. Julian peered over his shoulder. Meanwhile, Tamara climbed up to the head and stood at the wheel, ready to pilot the cruiser the rest of the way down the Hamakua coast to Hilo. It took the Hawaiian only a few seconds to work his mechanical magic.
ON THE PIER in Hilo Harbor the three friends waited in a jubilant crowd for the triumphant arrival of Hawai’iloa; Nainoa Nainoa’s six thousand-mile journey was nearly complete.
“This is a great day for Hawaiian people,” said Kamehaloha. Pride shone on his round face and in his bright, black eyes.
At the far end of the pier rhythms were being played on traditional drums, and both male and female dancers whirled and undulated in renditions of the sacred hula. Slack-key guitars and tinkling ukuleles accompanied ancestral songs sung by burly, ring-shaped men with lilting, falsetto voices. Their attenuated diphthongs and breathy consonants defined a language that sounded simple and sweet.
Hawai’iloa came at last into Hilo Harbor, and as the crew struck its sails a cheer went up from the crowd on the dock. Friends exchanged flower leis, and colorful kahili feathers attached to helium balloons were released into the sky, marking the joyful spirit shared by all. There was a luau planned for this afternoon, and everyone was invited, local and haole alike.
Leaving the Scoundrel docked in the harbor, the three new friends moved along with the crowd up Banyan Drive. Coming from radically different backgrounds, they seemed quite comfortable together. They joked and laughed at the sight of Kamehaloha—always so carefree and casual—clutching the attaché case filled with money.
At Coconut Island Picnic Ground the luau was already beginning. There they met a lean and smiley beach boy dressed in shorts and a sloppy T-shirt. With blue eyes and sun-bleached, blond hair, a deep tropical tan, and a mature blue and yellow macaw parrot riding on top of his left shoulder, the surfer was at once friendly and familiar, and sidled up close to Tamara.
“Woody Emory! It’s been forever!” Tamara beamed. “Let me think... Not since the surfing championships at Pu’ukipu Beach. Where have you been hanging out?”
“I moved to the Big Island about a year ago,” he said. “I’ve been living in Kailua, but I gave up my house last week.”
“Why?” she wanted to know.
“I’m heading back to the Mainland,” he sa
id.
“It’s so beautiful here,” said Julian. “Why would anyone want to leave?”
Woody’s smile went on and on as he explained, “I’ve been living in Hawaii—first on Maui and then on the Big Island—ever since I finished college at Cal Poly. No way was I ready to settle down and get serious right away. And I figured surfing was a more noble occupation anyway—at least for the short term. But now I’m running out of money. It’s not the first time for that,” he laughed, “but this time I think the cosmos is trying to tell me something.”
“Where will you be going?” Tamara wanted to know.
“Silicon Valley,” he said. “High tech America awaits!”
“You’re not serious, brother,” said Kamehaloha.
“I’m afraid so,” said Woody. “As a matter of fact, I’m flying to San Francisco tomorrow. The only thing left for me to do is find a good home for Buenaventura,” Woody lamented. “I can’t take him with me—some idiotic restriction by USDA.”
“You mean the bird?” said Julian.
“Right. He’s nine years old. I’ve had him eight years. But I’m afraid we have to part company. It’s really a shame. He’s a special friend.”
“Maybe I could take him,” Julian offered.
“What do you think, BV?” Woody addressed the bird.
“I’ll take excellent care of him,” Julian promised. “You’ll have to give me a few instructions. Tell me what he likes to eat and drink—all the particulars. But he’ll have a good home.”
“You live over on Maui?” Woody inquired.
“I’ve been staying at a friend’s condo in Lahaina,” he told the surfer, “but I just bought Kamehaloha’s cruiser, so I guess I’ll be living on the boat from now on.”
“So you bought the Scoundrel,” said Woody. “What do you know about that?” He looked inconclusively at Kamehaloha, then at Tamara Sly. Then back at Julian. “Well, Buenaventura won’t fly off. At least I don’t think he will…”
“Does he talk?” Julian asked.
Woody laughed as he stroked the bird’s colorful comb. “I’ll say he talks! But not always on cue. Sometimes he says the strangest things. He’s quite an original thinker, Julian. But I guess you’ll just have to see for yourself.”
In late afternoon, with the parrot now riding on Julian’s shoulder, they made their way across the park to the circular barbecue pit where a whole, young kalua pig was about to be unearthed. Roasting over smoldering coals and steaming lava rock, the succulent pig had baked the entire day, and as the two young chefs, each naked to the waist and attired below in flower-print sarongs, began to unwrap the multiple layers of ti leaves, the pig’s head came off into the ashes. A bevy of onlookers surrounding the pit drew a startled breath at the sight, and then laughed, as the two cooks lifted the roasted carcass in a sling. The celebrants applauded the feast they were about to eat.
Served with the roasted pork were several traditional Hawaiian dishes. There was lomi salmon paté, sweet bread, poi spread, coconut pudding, mahi mahi or grilled ono fish, wild rice, and plenty of rum drinks. As they feasted, darkness fell. Julian and Kamehaloha became absorbed in the pageantry of a torch-lit, theatrical re-enactment of the original Polynesian landing on the Hawaiian Islands.
Tamara Sly, conversely, seemed totally engrossed in her long lost friend, Woody Emory. Privately embarrassed, Julian felt disappointed at this turn of events. As she emerged from an all-too-obvious intimacy, Tamara announced, “Woody and I are going for a walk down by the lava tube. Don’t wait up for me, Julian; I’ll meet you back at the Scoundrel—later!” Her dismissal took the proverbial wind right out of Julian’s sails.
That night Julian slept on the deck of the Scoundrel, as did Kamehaloha. When morning came it was obvious that Tamara had not returned. Julian expressed his concern, but Kamehaloha shrugged off her absence. “She’s with Woody,” he yawned. “No big deal.”
“Right,” said Julian.
“No big deal,” repeated Buenaventura, the first words he’d uttered since his adoption.
“I gotta get a taxi to Hilo Airport,” said Kamehaloha. “You think you can handle the Scoundrel?”
“I think so,” said Julian, though he was still not totally confident.
“You’ll be okay,” Kamehaloha reassured. “Just remember how I showed you to adjust those carburetors. And make sure you always have spare gas and extra food. I wouldn’t want to read in the paper about some haole sailor stranded at sea. Not that I care about you, Julian,” he joked, “but the Scoundrel deserves a better fate!”
Julian smiled. “Thanks for selling me the Scoundrel, Kamehaloha. And thanks for the scuba lesson, too. Strange as it seems, I think you’ve made a difference in my life.”
“Hey, brother, maybe I’ll see you back on Maui.”
They shook hands, and then embraced, as the Hawaiian took up his valise full of money and stepped onto the pier.
CHAPTER 5
Vestigial Longing
LOOKING FORLORN and a little displaced, BV watched as his new keeper constructed a permanent living arrangement aboard ship for him.
“I wonder what happened to Tamara,” Julian commented as he finished tying the bird’s tether.
“Tomorrow’s lie!” croaked BV.
Awash in morning sunlight, Julian sat on deck dressed down to his swimming suit. With pencil and paper in hand, he began a shopping list. If he meant to live on board the Scoundrel with Buenaventura, there were several articles he was going to need: 1) Several containers for storing fresh drinking water; 2) Dry goods like cereal, nuts, pasta, crackers, and canned foods; 3) Seeds and dried fruits for the parrot.
“How do you like your new perch, BV?” Julian asked his new companion.
“Where’s Woody?” the parrot wanted to know. “Surf’s up!”
“Woody’s headed for oblivion in California,” Julian observed. “I guess it’s just you and me now.”
He turned to admire the macaw’s striking plumage: blue on the back and wings; yellow on the cockscomb, breast, and tail feathers. Julian assessed the startling intelligence that gleamed in the bird’s mocking glance; surely Buenaventura did not really understand what he was saying?
Julian had also decided to outfit the boat with fishing supplies: rods, nets, lures, tackle, knives, and two or three buckets. He thought a first aid kit was a good idea, too, as well as a basic tool kit. A large tarpaulin might come in handy, and he wanted a woolen navy blanket for damp nights. He would also need cookware and kitchen utensils, as well as extra rope, a winch and pulley, a flashlight, and a hatchet.
“Don’t bite through the string and fly away,” Julian instructed the parrot. “And if Tamara returns while I’m in town, tell her we sail for Maui at three o’clock!”
“Oblivion in California,” croaked Buenaventura. He cackled at the top of his voice and rocked from side to side on his new perch. Bobbing his head up and down, he inquired, “Will that be Visa or MasterCard?”
At Yakomoto’s General Store Julian bought all the items on his list, as well as several others, including twenty-five feet of chain, some nails and screws, half a dozen emergency flares, a folder full of nautical maps, and a full set of mechanic’s wrenches. When he returned to the wharf, BV was sitting upon his perch underneath the ship’s head, one eye closed and his head tucked underneath his wing. Hearing Julian step on board, he ruffled up his feathers and cocked his head.
“Tamara Sly!” the bird screamed. “We sail at three!”
“Maybe not,” said Julian. “If she doesn’t show up soon, we’ll be here overnight. I can’t imagine anything’s happened to her.”
“Where’s Woody? Surf’s up!”
“Apparently, they’re old friends,” said Julian of Tamara Sly and Woody Emory. “I guess they believe in extended good-byes.”
As evening came and the golden sun fell behind towering Mauna Kea, Tamara Sly still had not returned, so Julian resolved to remain docked at Hilo Harbor. If she were not back by morning he
would sail without her, and Tamara would have to find her own way back to Maui.
On his two-burner propane stove he cooked a supper of Campbell’s vegetable soup and Rice-a-roni. He drank fresh pineapple juice and ate a chocolate-covered doughnut for dessert. He examined the tools he’d bought at Yokomoto’s and arranged them to his liking in the cabinets underneath the head. He put out his toiletry articles—comb, toothbrush, razor, and soap—near the tiny sink, and then loaded his new flashlight with fresh batteries. On the pier he busied himself mixing forty-five gallons of extra gasoline with thirty weight oil for the two-cycle engines, then stored it in three separate fifteen-gallon containers—not that he figured to run low between ports, but as a safety precaution.
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